Choir heard chaunting within.
Enter Firmilian.
How darkly hangs yon cloud above the spire!
There’s thunder in the air—
What if the flash
Should rend the solid walls, and reach the vault
Where my terrestrial thunder lies prepared,
And so, without the action of my hand,
Whirl up those thousand bigots in its blaze,
And leave me guiltless, save in the intent?