Brooding in sullen masses o’er my spirit,
Weighs like an omen! Wherefore should this be?
Is not our task achieved—the mighty work
Of our deliverance! Yes; I should be joyous:
But this our feeble nature, with its quick
Instinctive superstitions, will drag down
Th’ ascending soul. And I have fearful bodings
That treachery lurks amongst us.—Raimond! Raimond!
Oh, guilt ne’er made a mien like his its garb!
It cannot be!