Oth. (c.). There spoke the queen.—But, as thou lov'st thy freedom,
Touch not on Selim's death. Thy soul will kindle,
And passion mount in flames that will consume thee.
Zap. (r.). My murder'd son!—Yes, to revenge thy death,
I'll speak a language which my heart disdains.
Oth. Peace, peace,!—the tyrant comes. Now, injur'd Queen,
Plead for thy freedom, hope for just revenge,
And check each rising passion. [Exit Othman, r.
Enter Barbarossa, l.
Bar. (l.). Hail sovereign fair! in whom