Adel. I know not;—but I cried,
Who tears a freeman from his mountain-home?
Who rends the child his country cannot spare
From her spread arms? The answer was,—Fredolfo!
Uril. (shrieking with amazement.) Impossible!
Adel. I cried, ‘impossible.’
Years, mournful years, in a strange land were wasted,
Wasted to me—the land was beautiful—
Fair rose the spires, and gay the buildings were,
And rich the plains, like dreams of blessed isles;