A Priest. The messenger was in great haste.
Xaira. Probably the king wished to talk with him about the sentence,—perhaps to consult with him on the possibility of mitigating the punishment. Ah, my friends, I fear that this Inca is not eager in promoting the vengeance due to our offended gods. Didn’t you remark with what reluctance he consented to Zorai’s being put in irons?—with what compassion he looked upon the stranger?—nay, that he even degraded his dignity, so far as to speak to him?—His father was a very different sort of man!
A Priest. He was indeed.
Another. He never omitted attendance at any sacrifice.
A Third. And trembled whenever he entered the Temple.
Xaira. Nor ever failed in shewing due respect to our sacred office.
A Priest. Of reverencing our near intercourse with the gods.
Xaira. He cast down his eyes with awe, where his son looks up and smiles with thoughtless levity—exacted the strictest justice, where his son would shew mercy. But who are we to condemn?—who, but his tutor?—the man to whom his education was entrusted?—in short, the High-Priest. I will not say more now, this is neither the place nor the time for long harangues; however I know his principles. Take heed!—be on your guard!—
A Priest. (Interrupting him) He comes.
Xaira. At last.