He is a traitor, and a traitor’s death
Will be his meed.
Con. (coming forward.) Oh, heaven!—his name, his name!
Is it—it cannot be!
Vit. (starting.) Thou here, pale girl!
I deem’d thee with the dead! How hast thou ’scaped
The snare! Who saved thee, last of all thy race!
Was it not he of whom I spake e’en now,
Raimond di Procida?
Con. It is enough: