[The music ceases.
Pro. (after a pause.) Is this dust
I look on—Raimond? ’Tis but a sleep!—a smile
On his pale cheek sits proudly. Raimond, wake!
Oh, God! and this was his triumphant day!
My son, my injured son!
Con. (starting.) Art thou his father!
I know thee now.—Hence! with thy dark stern eye
And thy cold heart! Thou canst not wake him now!
Away! he will not answer but to me—