_On the hills above Monreale. Brigands fantastically dressed and armed are seated about on the rocks, with drinking-cups and remains of feast. PALICIO, in a black suit, his right arm in a sling. Much talking and singing, or the scene may open with the following song_—
_I would not change the hills that I range For a house in the city street:_ 1280 _Nor the price on my head for a tax on my bread. Liberty, lads, is sweet._
(_Palicio getting up on a rock waves them to silence._)
Thank you, my men. Now silence; I must tell you The feast is o’er, our meeting at an end. We have laid our plans: but their success depends On zealous preparation. Ye must to work.
_A brigand._ We have another song yet, captain.
_Pal._ See ye the sun is on this side of the city.
_A brigand._ May’t please your honour, If Squarcia sing we’ll be content.
_Sq._ Nay, that lies with the chorus. Who hath the lute?
_If you’d hear me sing, Why give me a skin of wine. Creatures have their several ways, Edod! and I have mine,_ CHOR. _And I have mine._ (_ad lib._) _Edod! and I have mine._ 1300 _If you’d see me fight, Why let me taste good cheer. Was not I as good as my word? Edod! am I not here?_
_Sq._ Enough, enough! silence! Now were ye not A set of loons ... make silence for the captain.
_Pal._ Hark, men: I bid you leave, each silently And separately to his allotted task. Gather your companies at tryst to-night; 1310 Acquaint them of our plans. Once, ere ye go, Look on those tyrannous towers, and swear revenge. Revenge on them that grind the people down! That tax our bread and wine! To-morrow night Hugo shall need no candles.
_Brigands._ Revenge, revenge. Huzzah! Death to Hugo! Burn him!
_Pal._ Not him, the palace: ’tis to burn the palace. Him we must take alive.
_Brigands._ Not kill him, no. Treat him as he would us.
_Pal._ If ye love colour, 1320 His gold is ruddier than his coward blood.
_Brigands._ Ay, ay, his gold—a ransom. Bleed his bags.
_Pal._ Above all, none forget good Manuel’s kindness, And what I have told you. If any meet with him And hurt a hair of his head, ’tis ...
_Pal._ ’Tis death. Swear all, ’tis death.
_Pal._ Secretly, then. Farewell! To-morrow night I’ll meet you all. God grant us a good meeting. Farewell. [_Exit._