Camilla. 
          
                                        ’Men! 
               ’Tis Reason, but beyond your ken. 
               There lives a light that none can view
               Whose thoughts are brutish:—­seen by few,
               The few have therefore light divine
               Their visions are God’s legions!—­sign,
               I give you; for we stand alone,
               And you are frozen to the bone. 
               Your palsied hands refuse their swords. 
               A sharper edge is in my words,
               A deadlier wound is in my cry. 
               Yea, tho’ you slay us, do we die? 
               In forcing us to bear the worst,
               You made of us Immortals first. 
               Away! and trouble not my sight.’

Chorus of Cavaliers:  Rudolfo, Romualdo, Arnoldo, and others.

’She moves us with an angel’s might. 
What if his host outnumber ours! 
‘Tis heaven that gives victorious powers.’

[They draw their steel.  Orso, simulating gratitude for their
devotion to him, addresses them as to pacify their friendly ardour.]

Michiellato Leonardo (supplicating). 
’Ever my friend I shall I appeal
In vain to see thy flashing steel?’

Leonardo (finally resolved). 
’Traitress! pray, rather, it may rest,
Or its first home will be thy breast.’

     Chorus of Bridal Company. 

’The flowers from bright Aurora’s head
We pluck’d to strew a happy bed,
Shall they be dipp’d in blood ere night? 
Woe to the nuptials! woe the sight!’

Rudolfo, Romualdo, Arnoldo, and the others, advance toward Camillo.  Michiella calls to them encouragingly that it were well for the deed to be done by their hands.  They bid Camillo to direct their lifted swords upon his enemies.  Leonardo joins them.  Count Orso, after a burst of upbraidings, accepts Camillo’s offer of peace, and gives his bond to quit the castle.  Michiella, gazing savagely at Camilla, entreats her for an utterance of her triumphant scorn.  She assures Camilla that she knows her feelings accurately.

’Now you think that I am overwhelmed; that I shall have a restless night, and lie, after all my crying’s over, with my hair spread out on my pillow, on either side my face, like green moss of a withered waterfall:  you think you will bestow a little serpent of a gift from my stolen treasures to comfort me.  You will comfort me with a lock of Camillo’s hair, that I may have it on my breast to-night, and dream, and wail, and writhe, and curse the air I breathe, and clasp the abominable emptiness like a thousand Camillos.  Speak!’

The dagger is seen gleaming up Michiella’s wrist; she steps on in a bony triangle, faced for mischief:  a savage Hunnish woman, with the hair of a Goddess—­the figure of a cat taking to its forepaws.  Close upon Camilla she towers in her whole height, and crying thrice, swift as the assassin trebles his blow, ‘Speak,’ to Camilla, who is fronting her mildly, she raises her arm, and the stilet flashes into Camilla’s bosom.