Hardly had the last words floated away on the air than the window, behind which was the taper, opened on to the broad terrace. The next moment the Lady Leonora was softly coming down the broad steps to the green lawn.
As she reached the foot of the marble stairs, she saw a manly figure. Guessing it to be that of the singer, she ran and put her arms about the new comer’s neck.
“Thou art late. I have counted the moments for thy coming.”
But the voice of her lover sounded many steps away, crying, “Faithless one!”
And then, by the light of the moon, which had seemed darkness to her, coming from the illuminated chamber, she perceived how terrible had been her mistake.
“Manrico, thy Leonora thought this man to be thyself; he hath not yet spoken; by his voice I should have learnt my fault.”
The count, in a whirl of rage, cried, “He is but a coward or a sinner who wears a mask—remove that mask.”
The troubadour took off his mask.
“Thou, Maurico,” said the count. “Thou!—proscribed—condemned to death—a rebel.”
“Defeat thy rival, count, by calling here thy guards.”