And thus he slumbers! “Why, this mien doth seem
As if its soul were but one lofty thought
Of an immortal destiny!”—his brow
Is calm as waves whereon the midnight heavens
Are imaged silently. Wake, Raimond! wake!
Thy rest is deep.
Raim. (starting up.) My father! Wherefore here?
I am prepared to die, yet would I not
Fall by thy hand.
Pro. ’Twas not for this I came.