(_He thrusts a paper into Bernardo's hand,_)

And it shall gain thee speedy entrance at
Th' infernal gate!

(_Bernardo reads, reels and falls._)

_Gia._ (_Looking on the body._) Poor miserable dust!
This body now is honest as the best,
The very best of earth, lie where it may.
This mantle must conceal the thing from sight,
For soon Rosalia, as I bade her, shall
Be here. Oh, Heaven! vouchsafe to me the power
To do this last stern act of justice. Thou
Who called the child of Jairus from the dead,
Assist a stricken father now to raise
His sinless daughter from the bier of shame.
And may her soul, unconscious of the deed,
Forever walk the azure fields of heaven.

(_Enter Rosalia, dressed in simple white, bearing a
small golden crucifix in her hand._)

_Ros._ Dear father, in obedience, I have come--
But where's Bernardo?

_Gia._ Gone to watch the stars;
To see old solitary Saturn whirl
Like poor Ixion on his burning wheel--
He is our patron orb to-night, my child.

_Ros._ I do not know what strange experiment
Thou'dst have me see, but in my heart I feel
That He, in whose remembrance this was made

(_looking at the cross_)

Should be chief patron of our thoughts and acts.
Since vesper time--I know not how it was--
I could do naught but kneel and tell my prayers.

_Gia._ Ye blessed angels, hymn the word to heaven.
Come, daughter, let me hold thy hand in mine,
And gaze upon the emblem which thou bearest.

(_He looks upon the crucifix awhile and presses it
to his lips._)

_Ros._ Pray tell me, father, what is in the air?

_Gia._ See'st thou the crucibles, my child? Now mark,
I'll drop a simple essence into each.

_Ros._ My sense is flooded with perfume!

_Gia._ Again.

_Ros._ My soul, asudden, thrills with such delight
It seems as it had won a birth of wings!

_Gia._ Behold, now when I throw these jewels in,
The glories of our art!

_Ros._ A cloud of hues
As beautiful as morning fills the air;
And every breath I draw comes freighted with
Elysian sweets! An iris-tinted mist,
In perfumed wreaths, is rolling round the room.
The very walls are melting from my sight,
And surely, father, there's the sky o'erhead!
And on that gentle breeze did we not hear
The song of birds and silvery waterfalls?
And walk we not on green and flowery ground?
Ferrara, father, hath no ground like this,
The ducal gardens