On the hills above Monreale. Brigands fantastically dressed and armed are seated about on the rocks, with drinking-cups and remains of feast. PALICIO, in a black suit, his right arm in a sling. Much talking and singing, or the scene may open with the following song—
SONG.
I would not change the hills that I range
For a house in the city street:
Nor the price on my head for a tax on my bread.
Liberty, lads, is sweet.
(Palicio getting up on a rock waves them to silence.)
SQUARCIALUPU.
Long live Lord Palicio!
All.Huzzah! Huzzah!