Montalba enters wounded, and supported by Raimond, whose face is concealed by his helmet.
Raim. Here rest thee, warrior.
Mon. Rest! ay, death is rest,
And such will soon be mine. But, thanks to thee,
I shall not die a captive. Brave Sicilian!
These lips are all unused to soothing words,
Or I should bless the valour which hath won,
For my last hour, the proud free solitude
Wherewith my soul would gird itself. Thy name?
Raim. ’Twill be no music to thine ear, Montalba.