"Ah, I shall have a fine revenge on that scamp," Ceprano muttered, looking toward Rigoletto through the dark.
"Sh! Be silent," Borsa whispered. "They will bring the girl out muffled so he can't hear her scream. Rigoletto will never hear a sound. No joke of his ever matched the one we are preparing for him." At that moment, Gilda was brought out, her mouth tied with her scarf; but as they were bearing her away, she got the scarf loose and uttered a piercing shriek, and the scarf fell near Rigoletto.
"Father, help, help!" she cried, but the voice seemed to come from afar off. Rigoletto only just heard. He could not collect his senses.
"Here, what does this mean? Aren't you nearly through?" he cried, angrily tearing off the mask and also the handkerchief that bound his ears. "What cry was that? I thought I heard a cry!" He was becoming mad with fear. All the conditions seemed so strange.
"Hello there!" But no one answered; all the men were gone. Then he snatched a lantern one of the men had left near, and suddenly he saw Gilda's scarf. He stared at it, rushed like a madman into the house and dragged out the nurse, tried to shriek "Gilda," but overcome with horror he fell senseless.
ACT II
Now if the Duke of Mantua was ever angry in his life, he was angry when the curtain rose on the second act. There he was, pacing about a sumptuous apartment, fuming with rage.
"If ever I loved any one in my life, it was that girl!" he cried. "And heaven knows what can have become of her." As a matter of fact, the Duke had some misgiving after he had left Gilda in the garden, and, later, he had returned. But he had found the place deserted and could get no news of her from that hour.
"Oh, but I would defend thee, if thou art in trouble," he cried; and in the midst of his excitement Marullo, Borsa, and Ceprano and other courtiers rushed into the room. All were fairly bursting with news of the escapade of the night before.
"Oh, Duke! Oh, Lord! What do you think? We have carried off the jester's sweetheart!"
"What?" The Duke stared and then gave a great cry. "Speak, speak. What have you done?"
"The jester's sweetheart."
"Where is she?" the Duke asked, hardly daring to trust his voice.
"Here, in this house."
"What do you say?"
"Yes, we brought her here."
"Oh, joy!" the Duke exclaimed; then aside: "She is near me," and forgetting all about his friends he went out excitedly.
"Why did he turn away from us?" the men asked each other. "He has enjoyed our adventures before now." They were a little uneasy and were conferring together when Rigoletto came in. He was a pitiful-looking fellow, worn with a night of horror and weeping, but he came singing:
"La, la, la, la, la," – pretending not to be agitated. "Pray what is the news?" he asked off-hand, seeking not to betray his agony of mind, till he should have learned something about his daughter.
"Pleasant morning, Rigoletto!" the men answered, mockingly, and glancing with grins at each other. "Pray what is the news?" Rigoletto, half dead with anxiety, moved about the room looking for some sign of Gilda.
"Lord! See him fishing about in every corner for her? He thinks to find her under the table," one of them whispered, and the men burst out laughing.
Then Rigoletto discovered a handkerchief on the floor and snatched it, hoping to find a clue, but it was not hers. Just then a page ran in to say that the Duchess was asking for the Duke.
"He is still in bed," one of the men answered, watching the effect of that upon Rigoletto, who was listening to every word.
"He cannot be," the page persisted. "Didn't he just pass me on the stairs?"
"All right, then! He has gone a-hunting," and they laughed.
"With no escort? Hardly. Come, don't think me a fool. Where's the Duke? The Duchess wishes to speak with him."
"It is you who are a dull fool," the men exclaimed, seeming to carry on the conversation aside, but taking good care that Rigoletto should hear. "The Duke cannot be disturbed – do you understand? He is with a lady."
"Ah! Villains!" Rigoletto shrieked, turning upon them like a tiger. "My daughter! You have my daughter – here in this palace. Give me my daughter!" The men all rushed after him as he made for the door.
"Your daughter? My God! Your daughter?" They were horrified at their own doings, hearing it was Rigoletto's daughter.
"Stand back! Don't think to keep me from my daughter." As they still held him tight, hardly knowing what then to do, he sank down in despair. He entreated help of the different courtiers whom he had so often and maliciously misused. Then he wept.
"Oh, have pity on me, my lords! Let me go to my daughter." While everybody was hesitating in consternation, Gilda, having got free, rushed from the next room, and into his arms. She screamed hysterically that she had been carried off by the Duke. Rigoletto nearly foamed at the mouth with rage, and at last the men became truly afraid of him.
"Go, all of you!" he stammered, no longer able to speak plainly. "And if the Duke comes into this room I will kill him." So the courtiers withdrew. The palace was in an uproar.
"It is a mistake to jest with a madman," Marullo whispered to Borsa as they went out. Father and daughter were left alone. After looking at Gilda a moment, trying to recover himself, Rigoletto whispered.
"Now, my child; they have gone. Speak!" Gilda throwing herself into her father's arms, told of her meetings with the Duke, and of how she had grown to love him, and finally of how in the night she had been carried away.
As they were in each other's arms the guard entered with old Count Monterone, who was being taken to his cell. As he was being led across the room, Rigoletto's wild eyes fixed themselves in horror upon the man whose curse had cursed him. The Count paused before the Duke's picture and cursed it.
"I shall be the instrument to fulfill thy curse, old man," Rigoletto whispered as the Count passed out, and he made a frightful oath of vengeance against the Duke of Mantua. His words frightened Gilda, because she dearly loved the Duke even though she believed he had caused her to be carried off. As the jester raised his hand to take the dreadful oath to kill, Gilda fell upon her knees beside him.
ACT III
Rigoletto and Gilda had fled from the palace, for the dwarf meant to hide his daughter away forever; and in the darkness they were hurrying on their way to an old inn, which could be seen near at hand. A swift, rushing river ran back of the inn, and the innkeeper could be seen inside his house sitting at a table polishing an old belt. It was the villainous old cut-throat, Sparafucile, who had stopped Rigoletto on his way home two nights before, offering to kill whomever Rigoletto would for a sum of money.
Gilda was very weary and she and her father were about to stop at the inn for the night. They were speaking in the road:
"Do you still love the Duke, my child?"
"Alas, father! I cannot help it. I think I shall always love him." At that moment Rigoletto espied a man, dressed as a cavalry officer, approaching the inn by another road. Instantly he recognized the Duke in disguise. He peeped through an opening in the wall which surrounded the house and could see the Duke greeting Sparafucile and ordering a bottle of wine, after which he gaily sang, while waiting:
[Listen]
Plume in the summer wind,
Waywardly playing,
Ne'er one way swaying,
Each whim obeying, etc.
The song was gay and thoughtless, and when it should be last heard by Rigoletto it was to have a fearful meaning.
"Ah, ha?" Rigoletto murmured to himself. "This rat of a noble is seeking some new adventure! Let us see if Gilda will continue to love him when she knows the true wickedness of the wretch! when she knows that he is false to all that he has said to her: because there is of course another woman in the case!" While Rigoletto was observing him, the wine was brought to the Duke, who raised his sword and rapped upon the ceiling with its hilt. At that signal a pretty girl ran down the ladder and Mantua embraced her.
That freed Sparafucile and he ran out of the inn to look for Rigoletto, whose coming was expected. In fact, Rigoletto had at last made a bargain with the coupe-jarret to kill the Duke.
"Your man's inside. Shall I do the job at once, or wait a bit?"
"Wait a bit," said Rigoletto, glancing at Gilda, who heard nothing, "I'll give the signal," whereupon Sparafucile went off, toward the river. Then while the father and daughter stood outside the inn they could see all that was taking place within it. The Duke began to make love to the gipsy girl, and she laughed at him.
"You have told fifty girls what you tell me," she declared.
"Well, I'll admit all that. I am an unfaithful fellow – but you don't mind that! Just at this moment I love no one in the world but you," he returned.
"Father, do you hear that traitor?" Gilda whispered, tearfully, and Rigoletto nodded. He was indeed glad; maybe it would cure her of her infatuation.
"I must laugh to think how many girls you have made believe you," the gipsy said again, mocking the Duke. But he only protested the more, and Gilda threw her arms about her father in despair.
"Now, my child, since this traitor is here, you cannot well go in; so return to Mantua, change thy dress for that of a youth; get a horse and fly to Verona. There I will meet thee and see thee safe. You can see that this man is no longer to be trusted."
"Alas, I know that is true; – yet, if I must go – come with me, father," she entreated, feeling very lonely and heartbroken, there in the dark night.
"Not at once. I cannot go at once; but I will soon join thee"; and in spite of her pleading he started her back to the city alone. Then he and Sparafucile stood together in the middle of the road while the dwarf counted out the half of the money to the cut-throat.
"Here is thy money, and I am going away. But at midnight I shall return and help thee throw him into the river. It will make a great noise, – this killing of a man of the Duke of Mantua's fame," he muttered.
"Never mind about coming back. I can dump him into the river, without help. It is going to be a bad night," the fellow said, uneasily looking up at the storm clouds that were gathering. As the lightning began to flash and the thunder to roll distantly, Rigoletto turned toward Mantua, while Sparafucile went into the inn.
"A fine night! Black as thunder and going to storm like Satan," he said as he entered.
"So much the better," the Duke answered, "I'll stay here all night, and you clear out," to Sparafucile; – "go to the devil, will you? I don't want you about."
"You're a nice, soft spoken gentlemen – if a man doesn't care what he says," Sparafucile returned.
"You mustn't stay here," Maddalena said hastily to the Duke. She well knew the tricks her brother was up to when a stranger with money stopped at the house; and after the Duke had made himself so agreeable she didn't care to see him killed under her nose.
"You mind your business," her brother said to her, shortly, seeing his plans interfered with. Then speaking to her aside: "It's worth a pot-full of gold to us. Mind your own business, I say." Then to the Duke: "Sir, I am delighted to have you sleep at my inn. Pray take shelter in my own chamber. Come, I will show you the way." Sparafucile took the candle and went toward the ladder that led to the rooms above.
The Duke then whispered to the gipsy girl, and went laughing up the ladder. Maddalena looked thoughtfully after him. She liked money as well as her brother did. Should she let her brother kill him or not?
"Heavens! That thunder is loud," she exclaimed, as the storm struck the dreadful house. Up in the loft, the Duke was laughing with Sparafucile about the airiness of the chamber.
"Well, well, I'm tired," he said, after the cut-throat had gone down the ladder. "I'll take off my sword and have an hour's sleep, anyway." He removed his protecting sword, and began to hum to himself while he was waiting for more wine. The storm, the gay song, the murder which was about to be committed! – it was a fearful hour.
Down below Sparafucile was saying to his sister: "Go and get my dagger. This affair will give us a tidy sum of money." Maddalena listened to the Duke singing above and hesitated.
"He – he is young and – no – we shall not do this thing, Sparafucile," she declared.
"Come! No foolishness, now," he growled. "Get my dagger and be quick." She reluctantly ascended the staircase again to where the Duke was sleeping. It was not very light. The flickering candle made but a wavering shadow over all, and as Maddalena went up the ladder, Gilda, who had returned, softly stole up to the inn door and began to listen to what went on within, but not daring to enter. She had returned because for some reason unknown to herself she was oppressed with a sense of danger to the Duke who had so ill-treated her. Through the chink of the door she could see the innkeeper at the table drinking. Gilda had already changed her girl's clothing for that of a youth with spurs and boots.
Now she saw Maddalena come back down the stairs with the Duke's sword which she had stolen from his side.
"Oh, it is a horrible night," Gilda whispered to herself, shuddering and cold and frightened there in the dark, with only Sparafucile's wicked face before her.
"Brother," Maddalena began, "I am not going to let you kill that young man up there. I have taken a fancy to him and I won't let you do it."
"You mind your own affairs and get away from here. I'll attend to my business," he snarled. Upon hearing there was a plan to kill the Duke whom after all she truly loved, unworthy as he was, Gilda nearly fainted.
"You just take this sack and mend it," Sparafucile said, throwing an old sack toward his sister.
"What for?" she asked suspiciously.
"It is to hold your fine young man, up there – when I shall throw him in the river." Upon hearing that, Gilda sank down upon the stone step.
"See here! If it were not for the money you are to get, you would let him go, I know," Maddalena urged.
"Well, no – because you see already I have received half my pay, and the fellow I am doing the job for is a nasty customer, and, to tell the truth, I shouldn't dare let the Duke go.
"Then listen to my plan: The hunchback will presently return with the rest of the money." Gilda learned then to her horror that it was her father who had bargained for the Duke's assassination. "When the jester comes, kill him instead and take his money – all of it – and throw him into the river, and let this young man above go." At that Gilda could not longer support herself and she fell down upon the ground.
"No, I won't do it," the fellow said doggedly. "I agreed to kill the man upstairs – and there must be honour among rogues. It wouldn't be right to kill the one I hadn't bargained for. I make it a rule never to kill my employer," the rascal returned piously.
"I'll call him, then, and tell him to defend himself," the girl cried, running toward the stairs.
"Hold on there," Sparafucile cried; "I'll tell you – I agree to kill the first man who enters this house between now and midnight, in the Duke's stead, if that will suit you. Then we shall put him in the sack, and the hunchback will not know the difference. Will that suit you?" he repeated.
"That will do, and see that you keep your word or I will arouse the young man, I promise you."
At that moment the clock struck half past eleven, and Gilda was frantic with fear. Maddalena was in tears, fearing that no one would come along, in that storm, so late at night.
"If no one comes!" Gilda thinks shudderingly. "Oh, how shall I save him?" But no sooner had she that thought than a desperate plan entered her mind. She would go into the inn! She was dressed like a young man and no one would ever know the difference in the darkness and the storm. She would go in and the Duke would be spared. Then she waited a moment, overcome with the fear of death; finally, summoning all her courage, she knocked against the door.
"Who's there?" Both Maddalena and Sparafucile exclaimed, looking in terror at each other. The knock was sudden and ominous. Then another knock.
"Who's there?" again he called.
"A stranger, caught in the storm. Will you give me shelter?" Gilda could hardly speak, with terror. Maddalena and the murderer looked at each other significantly. They knew well what they would do the moment the door was opened. The lightning flashed, the thunder rolled and broke above them, and the scene became terrifying. Sparafucile placed himself behind the door and motioned to Maddalena to open it.
"Thou art welcome," she said, throwing the door back suddenly; and as Gilda stumbled in, Maddalena ran out and closed the gateway. The candle went out in the gust of wind, and all was dark. Gilda stood an instant in the blackness of the room. With one blow of the knife, which could not be seen for the darkness, Sparafucile killed her, and then all was silent. After a moment the storm broke away, the moon came forth, and Rigoletto could be seen coming up the river bank.
"It is the time of my vengeance, now," he muttered to himself. He tried the inn door and found it locked. "He cannot have done the deed yet," he muttered. After waiting a little he knocked.
"Who's there?"
"I am known to thee," he whispered back; at this Sparafucile came out, dragging behind him a sack.
"Bring a light," Rigoletto called, "that I may see him."
"That's all right – but you pay my money first," the cut-throat insisted. Rigoletto impatiently paid him.
"I'll throw him into the river, myself," Rigoletto said triumphantly.
"The tide is shallow here – go farther on – and be sure no one surprises you," Sparafucile advised. "Good night," he said shortly, and went inside the inn. Then Rigoletto stood in the dripping road looking gloatingly at the sack.
"I've got you at last," he chuckled, diabolically, "I have revenge for your treatment of my daughter. My dear daughter! The child of my heart!" At the very thought of what she had suffered the dwarf sobbed. "I'll put my foot upon you, you noble vermin," he cried, kicking the body in the sack. At that moment he heard a song —La Donna è Mobile– The voice! Was he going mad? He knew the voice. He had heard it only a few hours ago, in the inn – he had heard it daily at court —La Donna è Mobile! He looked toward the windows of the inn. La Donna è Mobile! As he looked he saw the Duke and Maddalena step from the window to the terrace that ran by the river bank. "La Donna è Mobile," the Duke sang gaily. With a frightful cry, Rigoletto dragged the sack open and the body of his murdered daughter rolled out upon the road. She moved ever so little.
"Father?" and she gasped out the truth, with a dying breath, while the dwarf shrieked and tore his hair.
"The curse, the curse! Monterone's curse!" he screamed, and went raving mad.
IL TROVATORE
CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA, WITH THE ORIGINAL CAST AS PRESENTED AT THE FIRST PERFORMANCE
The story belongs to the fifteenth century in Spain, and tells of the border wars of northern Spain, carried on in the provinces of Arragon and Biscay.
Composer: Giuseppe Verdi.
Author: Cammarano.
First sung in Rome, Teatro Apollo, January, 19, 1853; Paris, Théâtre des Italiens, December 23, 1854 (in Italian); at the Opéra, January 12, 1857 (in French); London, Covent Garden, May 17, 1855; New York, Academy of Music, April 30, 1855.
ACT I
[Listen]
There you are, prepared for almost anything in the way of battle, murder, or sudden death, to the accompaniment of beautiful music; opera in true Italian style, at its second best.
Soldiers and servants were gathered about the beautiful columns of a porch of the Aliaferia palace just before midnight awaiting the return of the Count di Luna. Among them was Ferrando, the captain of the Count's guard. All were lounging in the vestibule of the palace gossiping till it was time to go on duty within.
"Hey, wake up! You'll be caught napping," Ferrando called to his comrades. "It is time for the Count to come. I suppose he has been under the Lady Leonora's windows. Ah, he is madly in love with her – and so jealous of that troubadour who sings beneath her windows that some day they will meet and kill each other."
This was an old story to the men, and in their effort to keep awake they clamoured for the story of the Count di Luna's brother, which all had heard told with more or less of truth; but Ferrando knew the whole horrible tale better than any one else; besides, it was a good story to keep awake on.
"Ah, that was a great tragedy for the House of Luna," Ferrando began with a shiver. "I remember it as if it were but yesterday:"
When the good Count di Luna here resided,
Two children fair he numbered;
One to a faithful nurse was once confided,
By the cradle she slumbered.
At morning when she woke and gazed about her,
Sorely stricken was she,
And what sight do ye think did so confound her?
Cho. … What, oh tell us did she see?
[Listen]
Ferrando
Swarthy and threatening, a gipsy woman,
Bearing of fiendish art, symbols inhuman
Upon the infant fiercely she gazes,
As if to seize him her arm she raises!
Spellbound the nurse watch'd at first the beldame hoary
But soon her shrieking was answer'd in the distance,
And quicker than now I can tell you the story,
The servants of the
The frightful story was sung in a deep bass voice, by Ferrando. He sang of how the cry of the nurse on that morning years before had brought the servants running and they had put the gipsy out; but almost at once the baby grew ill, and the Count and his people believed the old hag had put a spell upon it, so that it would die. They sought wildly for her, and, when they finally found her, they burned her alive.
While that frightful scene was being enacted, the baby was stolen, outright, and the di Luna family saw it thrown upon the fire which had consumed the gipsy.
This deed was done by the daughter of the gipsy whom they had burned alive. There were those who believed that the child burned had not been the Count's, but a young gipsy baby – which was quite as horrible. The name of the young woman who had done this fiendish thing was Azucena, and the di Lunas searched for her year after year without success.
It was believed that the spirit of the hag they had burned had entered into the younger woman's body. The gossiping soldiers and servants sang:
Anon on the eaves of the house-tops you'll see her,
In form of a vampire; 'tis then you must flee her;
A crow of ill-omen she often is roaming,
Or else as an owl that flits by in the gloaming.
While they were talking of this tragedy for the hundredth time, it approached the hour of midnight. The servants, through fear, drew closer together, and the soldiers formed a rank across the plaza at the back.
Each recalled some frightful happening in relation to witches; how one man who had given a witch a blow, had died, shrieking and in awful agony. He had been haunted. It was at the midnight hour that he had died! As they spoke of this, the castle bell tolled the midnight hour. The men, wrought up with fright, yelled sharply, and the face of the moon was hidden for a moment.
Scene II
When the cloud which had hidden the moon's rays cleared away, a beautiful garden belonging to the palace was revealed. The place was very silent, the soldiers and servants, excepting those on guard, having gone within.
The Lady Leonora, whom the Count di Luna loved, was one of the suite of the Princess of Arragon, and when all in the palace were sleeping it was her custom to steal into the lovely gardens with her friend, Inez. Of late, when she came there, she had hoped, secretly, to find a mysterious young troubadour, who sang almost nightly beneath her windows. She loved this troubadour and not the Count.
The first time she had met the handsome youth was at a tournament. There he had come, dressed in a suit of black, and all unknown; wearing a sweeping sable plume in his helmet; and when the jousting took place, he had vanquished all the nobles. It was Leonora, herself, who had placed the wreath of the victor upon his brow. From that very moment they had loved. He had worn no device upon his shield by which he could be known, but she had loved him for a gallant knight.
He belonged to the retinue of a neighbouring prince, who was an enemy of the Princess of Arragon, and he risked his life each time he came to sing in the gardens to Leonora.
"Ah, I fear some harm will come of this love of yours!" Inez said to her friend and mistress. "The Princess awaits thee, dear Countess, and we must go within. I hope your trust will never be betrayed by this unknown knight and singer." The women mounted the gleaming marble staircase, and then Leonora paused for a moment looking down into the garden again.
She had no sooner gone than a man peered out from the shadow of the trees. It was the Count di Luna, jealously watching for the knight who sang beneath the lady's window. Also, he hoped to see Leonora, herself, but all was still, and after watching the balcony a moment, he started toward the marble steps. At that instant a beautiful voice stole through the moonlight.
[Listen]
Manrico
Naught upon earth is left me,
Fate of all joy hath bereft me.
It was Manrico the troubadour!
The Count paused upon the stair and looked down; but Leonora, too, had heard, and ran out upon the balcony, then down the steps, throwing herself into the Count's arms, mistaking him for Manrico. Manrico, still hidden by the shadows, witnessed this, and becoming enraged at the sight, believing Leonora faithless, he rushed upon them just as the moon again shone forth and revealed to Leonora that she was in the Count's arms, instead of the troubadour's.
"Traitress!" Manrico cried.
"Manrico, the light blinded me," she implored, throwing herself at the troubadour's feet.
For thee alone the words were meant,
If those words to him were spoken,
she sang.
"I believe thee," Manrico answered; while the Count, enraged in his turn, cried:
"You shall fight with me, Sir Knight!"
"Aye, behold me!" Manrico answered, lifting his visor and standing in the bright light of the moon. At the sight of him di Luna started back:
"Manrico! The brigand! Thou darest – "
"To fight thee? Aye, have at it!" and Manrico stood en garde. Leonora implored them not to fight, but too late. They would fight to the death.
"Follow me," di Luna called, drawing his sword, which he had half sheathed when he had seen that his antagonist was not of noble birth like himself. "Follow me," and he hurried off among the trees, followed by Manrico.
"I follow, and I shall kill thee," the handsome troubadour cried, as he too rushed off after the Count. Whereupon the Countess Leonora fell senseless.
ACT II
This opera of shadows and darkness began again in a ghostly ruin in the mountains of Biscay. A forge fire blazed through a yawning doorway of tumbled-down stones. It was not yet day, but very soon it would be; and Manrico, the handsome knight, brigand, troubadour, lover of Leonora, lay wounded upon a low couch near the forge fire. Azucena, his gipsy mother, sat beside him, tenderly watching. Many months had passed since the night of the duel in the palace garden, when Manrico had had di Luna at his mercy, but had spared him. Since that time there had been war between the factions of Arragon and Biscay, and Manrico had been sorely wounded in his prince's service. Here he had lain ever since, in the gipsy rendezvous, cared for by his mother.
All night the gipsy band had been at work, forging weapons with which to fight, and just before the early dawn they were discovered singing a fine chorus, which they accompanied by a rhythmic pounding upon their anvils.
There, beside him, through the long nights, Azucena had sat, conjuring back memories of her fierce past, and soon she broke into a wild song describing the death of her mother, years before, when Manrico was a baby. She sang how that old mother had been burned at the stake by the di Lunas – by the father of the living Count.
"Di Luna, mother?" Manrico questioned.
"Aye, it was di Luna. Why did ye not kill the young Count when ye fought?" she asked, fiercely.
"I do not know," he murmured, rising upon his elbow. "Mother, do you know when I had disarmed him, something seemed to hold me back, to paralyze my arm. I hated him, but I could not strike the death-blow."
"His father burned my mother at the stake, Manrico. Ye must avenge me." And at that moment a gipsy interrupted the talk between mother and son by crying:
"The sun rises! we must be off!" Thereupon the gipsy band threw their tools into bags, gathered up their cloaks and hats, and one by one and in groups they disappeared down the mountain-side, leaving Azucena and her wounded son alone in the ruined hut. He remained wrapped in his mantle, sword and horn beside him, while the old hag continued to croon about the horrors of the past. In her ever-increasing rage she called again and again upon Manrico to avenge her.
"Again those vengeful words, mother! There is something in thy voice which I do not understand."
"Listen! I will tell thee! I have told thee how my mother was accused, arrested by the old Count and burned alive. Well, in that fearful moment, crazed with grief I crept into the palace, snatched the Count's child, and rushed out, thinking only of my revenge. With maddened mind I tossed the babe into the flames that were consuming my mother – or so I thought! But when I looked around there was the child of noble birth, and my own was gone. It was you who were left to me. My own child had gone into the flames. I snatched thee up and fled."
"What is this that ye tell me?" Manrico cried, his eyes strained, his body stiffened with horror. "Thou who art so tender of me – " and he fell back upon his couch overcome with the frightful deed.
"I was mad! but now you must avenge me. You must ruin my enemy. Have I not tended thee as my own, and loved thee?"
"Oh, tale of woe! Mother, speak no more." Frightful as the deed had been, he tried to soothe the demented old woman who had truly cared for him with a mother's care. He had known no other mother, but the tale had distracted him. The knowledge that the Count di Luna, whose life he had spared, was his own brother, explained much to him. No wonder something had stayed his hand when he might have killed him. Yet, he also recalled that his unsuspecting brother loved Leonora. In all their encounters, di Luna had shown only a hard, unyielding heart, and Manrico had no reason to love him. After all, Manrico was but a wild young brigand, living in a lawless time, when nobles themselves were highwaymen and without violating custom. Such a one had little self-control.