In the midst of the chorus there is one veiled figure and one voice distinguishable.  This voice outlives the rest at every strophe, and contrives to add a supplemental antiphonic phrase that recalls in turn the favourite melodies of the opera.  Camillo hears it, but takes it as a delusion of impassioned memory and a mere theme for the recurring melodious utterance of his regrets.  Michiella hears it.  She chimes with the third notes of Camillo’s solo to inform us of her suspicions that they have a serpent among them.  Leonardo hears it.  The trio is formed.  Count Orso, without hearing it, makes a quatuor by inviting the bridal couple to go through the necessary formalities.  The chorus changes its measure to one of hymeneals.  The unknown voice closes it ominously with three bars in the minor key.  Michiella stalks close around the rank singers like an enraged daughter of Attila.  Stopping in front of the veiled figure, she says:  ’Why is it thou wearest the black veil at my nuptials?’

‘Because my time of mourning is not yet ended.’

‘Thou standest the shadow in my happiness.’

‘The bright sun will have its shadow.’

‘I desire that all rejoice this day.’

‘My hour of rejoicing approaches.’

‘Wilt thou unveil?’

‘Dost thou ask to look the storm in the face?’

‘Wilt thou unveil?’

‘Art thou hungry for the lightning?’

‘I bid thee unveil, woman!’

Michiella’s ringing shriek of command produces no response.

‘It is she!’ cries Michiella, from a contracted bosom; smiting it with clenched hands.

’Swift to the signatures.  O rival! what bitterness hast thou come hither to taste.’

Camilla sings aside:  ‘If yet my husband loves me and is true.’

Count Orso exclaims:  ’Let trumpets sound for the commencement of the festivities.  The lord of his country may slumber while his people dance and drink!’

Trumpets flourish.  Witnesses are called about the table.  Camillo, pen in hand, prepares for the supreme act.  Leonardo at one wing watches the eagerness of Michiella.  The chorus chants to a muted measure of suspense, while Camillo dips pen in ink.

’She is away from me:  she scorns me:  she is lost to me.  Life without honour is the life of swine.  Union without love is the yoke of savage beasts.  O me miserable!  Can the heavens themselves plumb the depth of my degradation?’

Count Orso permits a half-tone of paternal severity to point his kindly hint that time is passing.  When he was young, he says, in the broad and benevolently frisky manner, he would have signed ere the eye of the maiden twinkled her affirmative, or the goose had shed its quill.

Camillo still trifles.  Then he dashes the pen to earth.

’Never!  I have but one wife.  Our marriage is irrevocable.  The dishonoured man is the everlasting outcast.  What are earthly possessions to me, if within myself shame faces me?  Let all go.  Though I have lost Camilla, I will be worthy of her.  Not a pen no pen; it is the sword that I must write with.  Strike, O count!  I am here:  I stand alone.  By the edge of this sword, I swear that never deed of mine shall rob Camilla of her heritage; though I die the death, she shall not weep for a craven!’