Procida, Raimond, Montalba.
Mon. And know you not my story?
Pro. In the lands
Where I have been a wanderer, your deep wrongs
Were number’d with our country’s; but their tale
Came only in faint echoes to mine ear.
I would fain hear it now.
Mon. Hark! while you spoke,
There was a voice-like murmur in the breeze,
Which even like death came o’er me. ’Twas a night