Olla Podrida

The monastery.—Procession of monks, choristers, &c., returning from performing service in the chapel.—The organ still playing in the chapel within, Anselmo at the head of the choristers.—They pass on bowing to the Superior, who, with Manuel, remain.—The organ ceases.

Sup. (looking round). Anselmo hath pass'd on. I do observe,
Of late he shuns communion. 'Tis most strange.
Say, Manuel, hast thou discover'd aught?
Doth he continue steadfast and devout?
Or, borne away by youthful phantasies,
Neglect the duties of our sacred order?

Man. He bears himself correctly, and e'er since
His last offence, when self-inflicted pain
Proved his contrition, he hath ever seem'd
To be absorb'd in holy meditation.

Sup. May this continue, he's of great import
To the well doing of our monastery——
Yet he hath not of late confess'd his sins.

Man. Perchance he hath not err'd. Forgive me, Heav'n,
Rash words like these when all are born to sin!
I deem'd that he had nothing to confess
Except the warring of his youthful passions,
O'er which he strives to hold dominion.

Sup. I would it were so; but, too frequently,
I do perceive a furtive glance of fire
From 'neath his fringed eyelash wildly start,
As does the lightning from a heavy cloud:
It doth denote strong passion—much too strong
For youthful resolution to control.

Man. Why then permit him to behold the world
And all its vanities? 'Tis true, our coffers
Are somewhat help'd by that he brings to them,
Instructing music, a gift from nature
In him most perfect. Were it not better
That he within our cloister'd gates should stay?

Sup. Then would he pine; for our monastic vows
Are much too harsh, too rigid save for those
Who, having proved the world, at length retire
When they have lost the appetite to sin.
There's much depending on the boy Anselmo;
He is a prize whose worth I little knew
When first into our brotherhood he came.

Man. I comprehend you not.

Sup. Thou canst not, Manuel, but I will confide
What has been reveal'd to me alone.
Well thou know'st for years I have confess'd
The Donna Inez. From her I late have learn'd
She bore a child in wedlock, which she lost;
And, by the notices which she has given,
I find him in Anselmo.

Man. In Anselmo! Then he's the rightful heir
To all the Guzman wealth.

Sup. 'Tis even so.

Man. Father, how long since you discover'd this?

Sup. But a few months before he took his vows.

Man. Why did you then permit them?

Sup. To serve our holy church; which either way
Must gain by his belonging to our order.
The lady mourns her son. If I restore him,
She must be grateful. Thus our convent will
Become endow'd with acres of broad land.
And should he choose still to retain his vows,
When he has learnt the story of his birth,
Then will our monast'ry no doubt receive
The wealth he values not, but we require.

Man. I do perceive—'twas prudently arranged—
What wait you for?

Sup. To see if he will turn his thoughts to Heav'n;
But, look, he moves this way. Leave me with him.
[Exit Manuel, and enter Anselmo.
Where hast thou been, my child?

Ans. Lending mine ear to those who would unload
A conscience heavy with repeated sin—
Giving advice and absolution free
To those who riot in a sinful world.

Sup. Yet still be lenient. We in holy bonds
Expect not men exposed, to be so perfect.
Tell me, for lately thou hast not confess'd,
How throbs thy heart? Do holy thoughts prevail?
Art thou at peace within, or does thy youth
Regret its vow, and yield to vain repinings?

Ans. I am, most holy father, as Heav'n made me—
Content, and not content, as in their turns
The good or evil thoughts will be ascendant.
When that the evil thoughts the mastery gain,
I try to curb them. Man can do no more.

Sup. At thy rebelling age, 'tis doing much.
Now put my question to thy inmost soul
And answer me:—could'st thou rejoin the world
And all its pleasures, now so bright in fancy
To youth's all ardent mind, tell me sincerely,
Would'st thou reject them?

Ans. Why call in question that which ne'er can be?
My vows are ta'en, therefore no choice is mine.

Sup. Most things are possible to mother church,
As would this be—a dispensation sought
Might be obtain'd.

Ans. (at first with joy in his countenance, then assuming a
mournful expression). It would not be a kindness. Who, my father,
In this wide glorious world is kindred to Anselmo?
I will confess, I sometimes have indulged
Half dreaming thoughts (O say not they are sinful!)
Of the sweet hours of those, who, lapp'd in bliss,
See brothers, sisters, offspring, clust'ring round,
Loving and loved; then have I wept to think
That I have none, and sadly felt convinced
'Tis for my happiness that I am here.

Sup. True, my Anselmo, 'tis a dreary world,
And still more dreary when we've nought to cling to,
But say, if thou hadst found a doting mother,
One that was nobly born and rich, who hail'd
In thee the foundling heir to large estates,
What then?

Ans. (starts, and after a pause).
I cannot say—my thoughts ne'er stray'd so far.
Father, you oft the dangers have set forth
Of dreaming fancies which may lead astray;
Yet do you try to tempt me, by supposing that
Which shakes my firmness, yet can never be.

Sup. We are but mortal. I did wish to know
Thy secret thoughts, and thou withhold'st them still.
At night come to me, then shalt thou confess,
For I would learn the workings of thy soul.

Ans. First let me strive to calm my troubled mind:
I will confess to-morrow.

Sup. Then, be it so. [Exit Superior.

Ans. 'Tis strange. He ne'er before essay'd me thus.
A doting mother, wealthy too, and noble!
O! if 'twere true, and I could gain my freedom!
But these are very dreamings. Hold, my brain!
For he has conjured up a vision wild,
And beautiful as wild! Wealth, ancestry,
A mother's love! But what are these to thee,
Thou monk Anselmo? go—go and hang thy head
Within the cowl, droop'd humbly on thy breast—
For know, thou art a monk, and vow'd to Heav'n!
Oh parents stern! to fling me thus on fate!
But vows more stern that thus debar me from
The common rights of man! Why were we made
With passions strong, that even Nature laughs
When we would fain control them? Lone to live
And die are rebel acts, to Heav'n unpleasing.
Say I were humbly born of peasant race,
I should have glided on the silent brook;
Or highly bred and nobly father'd,
Dash'd proudly like the rapid flowing river.
But in these confines against Nature pent,
I must remain a stagnant torpid lake;
Or else marking my wild course with ruin,
Till my force is spent and all is over,
Burst forth a mad, ungovernable torrent.

Enter Jacobo.

Jac. What Anselmo! not outside the convent gates, and service over this half hour! By St Dominic, it is as I expected—thou hast fallen in with the Superior, and hast been ordered home with penance.

Ans. Not so, Jacobo. The Superior and I roll on in different orbits. Saturn and Venus are as like to jostle as we upon our travels.

Jac. Well, I've an idea that there's something wrong, and my news will not be very agreeable to you: the key is, in future, to be delivered to the Superior at nine o'clock, and, if required, it must be sent for.

Ans. Indeed! then he must suspect that we are not so regular. Still, I must out to-night, Jacobo—I must indeed!

Jac. Impossible!

Ans. (giving him money). I must, Jacobo. Here's for thy wine, much watching needs it.

Jac. The Superior calls me, brother; I only wish there was brotherhood in our drinking. The noble juice which mantles in his cup would cheer me in my vigils.

Ans. And that will purchase it. I must be out to-night. Let the Superior have the key, but do not lock the door. You understand, Jacobo?

Jac. I do; but there's danger in it. Holy Virgin! the Superior comes this way. Anselmo, you had better to your cell.

Ans. I detest it. Now must I play the hypocrite.

Enter Superior followed by Jacobo.

Sup. (observing Anselmo). Thou here, my son! I thought thee at thy cell.

Ans. I wish'd to seek it; but till vesper chimes
I must employ in teaching melody;
But that the coffers of our holy church
Receive the thrift, my mind were ill at ease
Thus mixing with the world; for holy vigils
Are better suited to my early years.
(Kneeling.) O bless, my father, my untoward youth
And teach my thoughts to find the path to Heav'n.

Sup. (bending over Anselmo).

[Exit Superior, after blessing Anselmo.—Anselmo, still kneeling, watches the departure of the Superior.

Ans. (rising.) He's safe.

Jac. Hah, hah! do you edify?

Ans. Peace, peace, Jacobo! 'Tis time that I were gone.

Jac. You will return before the door is lock'd?

Ans. Because you will not lock it. I shall be home at midnight: it must be so, Jacobo. If not, expect no further gifts from me; and what is more, a full confession of the many times you have been bribed to secrecy. [Exit Anselmo.

Jac. Why, what a penance if this should be discovered! They know how much I love my wine, and always punish me with water. I should have to drink the Guadalquiver dry before the Superior would give me absolution. Well, we all have our besetting sin; and a pot of good wine will put my soul in more jeopardy than all the temptations that the world contains. I suppose I must forget to lock the door. I'll only bolt it; that will satisfy my conscience as a porter. [Exit Jacobo.

Scene II.

Street before Don Gaspar's lodgings.—Enter Antonio.

Ant. I wonder where my master is! I expected him sooner. He may be in his chamber, but 'tis impossible to say. Why, here comes Beppa, and that knave Garcias with her. I've often thought they are too intimate; I will retire and watch them.

Enter Beppa, followed by Garcias.—Antonio advances behind.

Bep. But, Garcias, is this true?

Gar. It is, upon my faith! Sancho revealed it in his cups. Don Perez, afraid to encounter with Don Gaspar, has hired bravos to dispatch him.

Bep. I rejoice at it. A wretch like him deserves no better fate, and my poor mistress will be well revenged. Indeed, his servant is no better.

Gar. What! your dear husband?

Bep. My scoundrel husband! Unhappy day I married him! It was but yesterday that I found him kissing another.

Gar. Indeed!—You can revenge yourself.

Bep. I almost wish I could.

Gar. (kissing her hand). Then kiss again.

Bep. Pshaw! that's but poor revenge.

Gar. I'll join the bravos, and strike him down, if you will marry me.

Bep. Not so, good sir: it were indeed to make a better choice, to take a murderer in second wedlock. I ask but to be free; and leave the time to Heaven.

Gar. Then fare ye well. [Exit Garcias.

Ant. A very pretty proposal, and a very pretty plot have I discovered! yet will I conceal my knowledge. (Shows himself.) Good day, again, my Beppa! Who is that friend of yours? (smacking lips in imitation of kissing).

Bep. (after a pause). Well, good husband, how could I help it?

Ant. How could you help it!

Bep. My mistress ordered me.

Ant. Oh, I understand!

Bep. Yes, only a little by-play, you know.

Ant. Or else you must quit your service. Pray who is the gentleman to whom your mistress is making love?

Bep. That's a secret.

Ant. Of course she gave you ten moidores for me.

Bep. Really I don't remember.

Ant. Indeed! why, thou—thou—

Bep. Good morning. I must to my mistress. Adieu, Antonio. [Exit Beppa.

Ant. Well; I like thee better than usual. Thou hast refused him for me, and would not have him murder me; that's something in a wife now-a-days. I have obtained a key which fits my master's door; and now I feel assured he'll not come back, I'll find his secret out. I must be quick. Suppose he should be there. Impossible! he would have summoned me. At all events I'll risk it. [Exit Antonio.

Scene III.

Interior of Don Gaspar's room.—Enter Antonio.

Ant. Pugh! what a heat I'm in! I really tremble with delight or fear—I can't tell which. If he should come, what shall I say? Oh, the news I gained from Beppa. That will do. (Looking round.) Well, I see nothing after all. Why should he keep his chamber locked? But, then, there's that chest; let me try—locked fast;—nothing to be gained from that. Still, he comes in by some other way than the door, that's clear; we must have a search for a trap door. (He looks round, and then under the bed. While he is on his knees, feeling the boards, Don Gaspar enters by the secret sliding panel, and observing him, draws his sword, and, as Antonio rises, he points it to his breast.)

Gasp. Villain! how cam'st thou hither?

Ant. (much alarmed). Sir, sir, I came—came (recovers himself)—I came to save your life, unless it please you to take mine before I can speak to you.

Gasp. To save my life!

Ant. Yes, sir; I knew not where to find you; I thought you might be here, and so I forced the lock with a rusty key. I meant to say, that I knew you had another way out from your chamber, and I have been looking for it, that I might hasten to you, to save your life.

Gasp. Well, sirrah, first prove to me that you can save my life, and then, perhaps, I may overlook this impertinent intrusion.

Ant. Sir, I overheard a conversation between the valet of Don Felix and a woman, in which they stated that bravos were hired by Don Perez to waylay and murder you, Don Perez not caring to meet you with his sword. This night they wait for you.

Gasp. Is Don Perez then so basely treacherous?

Ant. Indeed he is, sir! You must not out to-night.

Gasp. I must, and fear them not. For this I overlook your prying—nay, more, I will in confidence explain the secret of this chamber; but, mark you! keep it, or I shall soil my rapier with thy knavish blood. This private entrance hath much served me (showing the sliding panel).

Ant. May I be so bold as to ask how?

Gasp. It oft has saved my life. It is about a year since, and about three months before you entered my service, that I gained the love of one named Julia; she was too fond, and urged me to marry her, which I refused. Her brothers, who were at home at the time, wrested from her the cause of those tears which she could not control. I met them both, and with ease disarmed them; I did not wish to slay them, I had already done them injury. These officers, who were more annoyed by my conquest than even their sister's shame, hired bravos, as Perez now has done, who sought to murder me. Each night that I went home I found them near my door: twice I fought an entrance to my own house; a friend, who was aware of the inveteracy of those who toiled to procure my assassination, hired me this chamber. For months they watched the door with disappointment, until the brothers being recalled to join their troops in Murcia, the bravos ceased their persecutions.

Ant. How did you escape them in the city, senor?

Gasp. In daylight I was safe; at night I wore the garb of a holy monk, that lies upon that chair. You'll keep my secret?

Ant. Yes, sir, when I know it.

Gasp. Have I not told it you?

Ant. You have told me that at times you are a monk, and at times a cavalier. Which is the real character, him of the rosary, or him of the rapier?

Gasp. (aside). The knave is deep. (Aloud.) I am a monk but when it suits me.

Ant. But, sir, is there not danger in thus assuming a holy character, if it were known—the Inquisition?

Gasp. I grant it: but we do many things which, if known, would subject us to something unpleasant. I serve two mistresses; but, should I marry them both——

Ant. (starting back). Then would you to the galleys, at east.

Gasp. Exactly so. I merely put the case, for I was told by Donna Isadora's maid, you are her husband; and this I also know, from your own mouth, you are married to Beppa.

Ant. There's some mistake, sir; for Nina is married to one whose name is Lopez. I cannot, sure, be he!

Gasp. If I can be both monk and cavalier, as you assert, why may not you be Lopez and Antonio? A name is changed as easily as a garment. But in your face I read conviction; I'm certain you have two wives!

Ant. It must be as you please, sir. Perhaps I may have confessed as much to you as a holy monk.

Gasp. (Laughs.) When did you ever meet me in a church?

Ant. I do not say I have, sir; but then your knowledge is so certain.

Gasp. Suppose, then, that I know your secrets, thou wilt surely not reveal mine. There's for thine intelligence. (Throws him a purse.)

Ant. May Heaven preserve my gracious master!

Gasp. This night must I to Donna Serafina's.

Ant. Will you, then, venture forth?

Gasp. Yes, I'll robe myself as holy monk. They dare not strike, even though they have suspicion. You may go. I shall not return to-night. [Exit Antonio.

Scoundrel!—he is too cunning to believe me—
Yet still I have the secret of his wives.
(Muses.) This night I have discover'd the base Perez
Again essays his most inconstant fair,
Blind as inconstant. She rejected me
When, as Friar Anselmo teaching music,
I offer'd her—'tis true, unholy love;
And I by Perez was thrust out with shame,
Spurn'd with contumely as the door was closed,
With threats if ever I appear'd again,
To blazon forth my impious attempt, and—
Yet did she cozen me with melting eyes,
And first roused up the demon in my breast,
Then laugh'd in malice.——I hate her for it!
Now as Don Gaspar, I've supplanted him,
Pride and revenge, not love, impelling me;
These gratified, I would shake off a chain
Which now, in amorous violence, she'd rivet.
Further, Don Perez, in his jealous mood,
Has as Don Gaspar braved me. They shall find,
I hold life cheap when I would have revenge!
[Exit.

Scene IV.

A garden near the house of Donna Serafina, which is in the back of the scene.—A balcony.—Enter Gaspar in a friar's dress, over that of a cavalier.

I pass'd them, and they bow'd unto my blessing.
Why, what a world of treachery is this!
Who would imagine that this holy robe,
Professing but humility and love,
Conceal'd the cavalier, swelling in pride,
Seeking revenge, and thirsting for hot blood?
Off with this first disguise! (Throws off friar's gown.)
What then appears?
A fair proportion, more deceiving still.
——In holy garb I fret within my cell,
Sigh for the joyous world I have renounced,
And spurn the creed which hath immured me there.
When like the chrysalis I 'scape my prison,
And range a free and garish butterfly,
I find the world so hollow, base, and vile,
That, in my mood, I hasten back once more,
With thoughts of never wand'ring forth again,
But, see,—Don Perez comes. I will retire.

[Gaspar withdraws.

Enter Perez.

Perez. Fool that I am! like some robb'd bird to hover
About the nest that's void. Her heart's not mine.
'Tis now three moons that I have sued in vain;
Her casement closed by night, her door by day.
O woman, woman! thy mysterious power
Chains the whole world, and men are nought but slaves
Unto the potent talisman—
If man prove false and treach'rous, he is spurn'd,
Contemn'd, and punish'd with resentment just.
To woman faithless still we kneel and sue,
For that return our reason holds as worthless.
Well! this shall be my last—for, by yon moon,
So oft a witness to my fervent vows,
So true an emblem of inconstant beauty,
This night I woo her back, or woo no more.

[Retires; sings to his guitar, unseen; or beckons on chorus.

Perez, coming forward, looking up at the window after pause.

She will not hear, nor bless me with her sight!

Enter Gaspar in cavalier's dress.

Gasp. Well met, Don Perez. Thus I keep my word.
And "when you least do wish it," I am here.
Was it well done to send out hired stilettos
When you had challenged me to measure swords?

Perez (aside). The scoundrels then have miss'd him!
(Aloud.) Know, Don Gaspar,
I do not deem thee worthy of my steel.
But, as we meet—'tis well—defend thyself! (Draws.)

Gasp. Defend thyself, Don Perez! Thy best might
And skill befriend thee,—else thy life is nought!
(They fight round. Don Perez falls.)

Perez. I'm slain! Don Gaspar, or whoe'er thou art,
If thou have Christian charity, seek out
Some holy man. (Gaspar retires.) He's gone!

[Gaspar, with friar's gown and hood on, returns to Don Perez.

Gasp. Look up, Don Perez! Knowest thou this form?
Thou dost require some holy man to shrive thee,
Ere thou pass away.——Don Perez, answer!
Know'st thou this form,—these features?

Perez. Thou art the Friar Anselmo. I have wrong'd thee,
And ask forgiveness. O then pardon me!
And, as thou hop'st t' enjoy eternal life,
Feel no resentment 'gainst a dying man!
(Faintly.) Shrive me, good father, for I'm sinking fast.
Yon stream of blood will not creep on its course
Another foot, ere I shall be no more.

Gasp. Thou saw'st Anselmo. Now raise up thine eyes,
(Throws off his disguise.)
And see Don Gaspar! who has just reveng'd
The wrongs inflicted on the spurn'd at monk.

Perez. Whoe'er thou art, mysterious, awful being!
At least be satisfied with thy revenge.
If thou art holy, shrive me!

Gasp. I am a monk, and yet not holy (putting on gown,
and folding his arms).

Perez. If thou art a monk by vows, thou'rt holy.
'Tis not my blood that's now upon thy hand,
And shall hereafter be upon thy soul,
Which makes thee less so: thou'rt but an instrument.
I pray thee, shrive me, that my guilty soul
May quit in peace this tenement of clay.

Gasp. Does he not speak the truth? Tell me, my heart,
I think—I feel——I can forgive him now!

[Gaspar takes out his crucifix, returns to Don Perez,
and, kneeling, presents it to him. Perez kisses
the crucifix, and falls back dead. Gaspar remains
hanging over him.

Don Felix (without). What hoa!

Enter Don Felix with servants bearing torches.

Gasp. (still kneeling by the body). Who calls?

Felix. We seek Don Perez, who this way did bend
His steps some hours ago; and not returning
At th' appointed time, we fear some mischief
Hath befallen him.

Gasp. Behold then here the body of some gallant,
Whose face I know not. As I pass'd this way
I heard the clash of high and fierce contention,
And when I came, this most unhappy man
Lay breathing here his last. I shrived him,
And he since has died.

Felix. It is Don Perez. Holy father, saw you
The other party in the contest?

Gasp. Save that a manly figure flitted by,
And vanish'd in the shadow of yon trees.

Felix. Raise up the corpse, and bear it to my house.
This bloody work, Don Gaspar, must be thine!
Perez, thou hear'st me not! but, by this sword,
I will revenge thy death!
[Exit Don Felix and servants carrying body.

Gasp. Thus far have I escaped suspicion—
Now will I to the monastery.

[Casement opens, and Donna Serafina appears at window.]

Ser. Who's there?

Gasp. (aside). I had forgotten her.

Ser. Who's there?

Gasp. A father of the neighbouring monastery,
Attracted hither by the clash of swords,
And but in time to shrive a dying man.

Ser. Good father, didst thou hear the names of those
Who were engaged?

Gasp. Not of the murderer, who has escaped.
The one whose body has been borne away,
Was call'd——Don Gaspar.

Ser. Don Gaspar! Father, surely thou mistak'st?
It was the other cavalier who fell.

Gasp. The words of dying men are those of truth;
He call'd himself Don Gaspar, and he begg'd
I would take off his scarf, and, with his love,
Bear it to Donna Serafina.

Ser. Then it is true—and I am lost for ever!
Father, recall those words, those dreadful words!
Say 'twas not Don Gaspar, and I'll load
Thy monastery with the wealth of India.
Its shrines shall blaze with gold and precious gems,
And holy relics shall be purchased thee,
To draw all faithful Christians to thy gates!

Gasp. I cannot change the name, and, if I could,
'Twere no less a murder. Lady, good-night.

Ser. Good father, stop—thou hast a scarf
For Donna Serafina. I am she—
Where is it? give it me.

Gasp. Are you that woe-struck lady, Serafina?
Alas! indeed you have much cause to grieve.
He loved you well.

Ser. Give me the scarf.

Gasp. I cannot, lady; 'tis not fit to offer,
For it is tinged with blood.

Ser. Give me the scarf! I'll kiss away the blood,
Or wash it off with tears!

Gasp. That I cannot, the casement is too high;
Nor can I tarry longer. The last message,
Together with the scarf, I will deliver
Before to-morrow's sun shall gild these trees.

Ser. Then be it so. O Gaspar! Gaspar!
[Exit from window, and closes it.

Gasp. One hour of misery, like hers, exceeds
An age of common earthly suffering;
And when at last she hears the unvarnish'd truth,
'Twill but perplex her more. Oh destiny!
Why am I thus a blood-stain'd guilty man
In early years? still yearning towards virtue,
Yet ever falling in the snares of vice!
Now do I loathe the amorous Serafina,
Who sacrifices all—her fame—her honour,
At Passion's shrine. How do I adore
The chaste, the innocent, sweet Isidora!
Yet in my love, so ardent and so pure,
There's guilt—deep damning guilt—and more,
There's cruelty and baseness! I plant a dagger
In the fond breast that cherishes the wound;
Nor will she feel the pain until withdrawn,
And happiness—nay, life—will issue with it.
How inconsistent, selfish, treacherous!
Heav'n pardon me—how can I pardon ask
For that I never can forgive myself! [Exit Gaspar.

Act IV. Scene I.

Street before Anselmo's lodgings.

Enter Antonio.

Ant. At last I have his secret, and one of moment too. A monk, and yet a cavalier! A friar's gown and a gala suit! vowing to heaven and vowing to the ladies! Abjuring the world, and roaming through it with a vengeance! Telling his beads, and telling me lies! But I am not so easily to be deceived. I thought very often that there was a similarity of voice between his and my confessor's, but when I saw the friar's gown, and he accused me of having two wives, it all flashed upon me at once. A pretty fool has he made of me! No wonder that he knew my rogueries when I confessed them to him. What's the having two wives to this? Mine is a paltry secret of a poor lacquey, but his is one which will obtain a price, and it is well to be first in the market. Whom shall I sell it to? let me see—Don Felix——?

Enter Beppa.

Bep. What of Don Felix, husband? Do you wish to serve him?

Ant. Yes, if he'll pay me well.

Bep. I presume Don Gaspar has not paid you: then must you help yourself.

Ant. Why so I do, whenever I can. But he takes care of that.

Bep. He might have done, but hardly will do so now.

Ant. Why not?

Bep. Because he's dead.

Ant. Dead! Are you sure of that?

Bep. Quite sure, for I myself beheld the contest. Such fierce exchange of hate I ne'er imagined, or that you men were such incarnate devils.

Ant. Pray tell me where this happened.

Bep. 'Twas in the garden near our house, under the chestnut trees, deep in the shade. The full moon could not pierce the closely woven foliage. All her beams were caught on the topmost boughs which waved in silver. A lovely night to stain with murder! Oh me! I see them now.

Ant. Proceed, good Beppa, I'm eager to know all.

Bep. Their forms were not distinct, yet could we perceive their gleaming swords darting like fiery serpents; 'twas horrible. At last one fell; it proved to be Don Gaspar.

Ant. Indeed! you're sure there's no mistake?

Bep. I saw the body borne away. My mistress weeps and tears her hair, nor deems that he was false. I must to the church, but will return again immediately. [Exit.

Ant. Now could I weep, and tear my hair, like Donna Serafina. My secret is worth nothing. 'Tis strange, too, that he should be o'ermatched by Don Perez, whose sword he so despised; I cannot yet believe it; and yet, she saw the body, and her mistress weeps. What can she gain by this, if 'twere deceit? Nothing. Why, then, 'tis plain Don Gaspar's dead. His foot slipped, I suppose, and thus the vaunted skill of years will often fail through accident. What's to be done now? I'm executor of course. Here comes Don Felix.

Enter Don Felix.

Felix. Art thou the lacquey of Don Gaspar?

Ant. (pulling out his handkerchief, and putting it to his eyes). I was, most noble sir.

Felix. You've left him then?

Ant. He hath left me. Last night he fell, in combat with Don Perez.

Felix. 'Tis false. He hath slain my friend, whose body now lies in my house.

Ant. Indeed, sir! may I credit this?

Felix. I tell you it is true. Where can a message find your master?

Ant. Wherever he may be, sir.

Felix. And where is that? Trifle not with me, knave, or you'll repent it sorely.

Ant. I do not trifle, sir. Don Gaspar's motions are unknown to me. Give me your message; when he re-appears I will deliver it.

Felix. Then tell him he's a villain of no parentage; a vile impostor whom I mean to punish;—that if there's manhood in him he will appoint a time and place where we may meet.

Ant. You seek his life then?

Felix. You may so construe by the message.

Ant. Pardon me, sir; but will you risk your noble person against one but too well practised in the sword? Excuse me, sir, you're hasty: there are other means more fitting for your purpose. I have his secret; one that will administer to your revenge, and win a triumph far greater than your sword.

Felix. Tell me this secret.

Ant. Why should I sacrifice a liberal master, whom, just now, you saw me weep for? and that to one to whom I have no obligation?

Felix. I understand thee, knave! Thou'lt sell it me? (Takes out a purse.)

Ant. Softly, Don Felix! it bears no common price, nor can I tell it here. I've paid most dearly for it, and from distress alone am now obliged to sell it.

Felix. And I will buy it dearly. In half an hour come to my house; there will I exchange a heavy purse for what you may confide to me, if, as you say, it leads to his perdition. [Exit Felix.

Ant. So, this works well; and yet my conscience smites me! Why does it smite me? Because 'tis heavily laden. With what? This secret. Then must I unburthen myself of it; and as, till lately, I have confessed to one Don Gaspar, I will now confess to one Don Felix. The former refused me absolution—the latter offers me a purse. I was right when I gave warning to my old confessor; the new one is more suited to me. Here come my ten plagues of Egypt in one.

Enter Beppa.

Bep. Well, Antonio, you have lost no time, I hope. What have you collected? You often quote the proverb, "Service is no inheritance."

Ant. Service is no inheritance; yet you would that I constituted myself my master's heir. I cannot do it, Beppa—I dare not! There's something tells me it is wrong to rob so good a master; I am more honest than you take me to be.

Bep. Then is the devil turned saint! Think not that you deceive me. There's nought but cowardice that will prevent your knavery. Now tell me, how long have you been thus scrupulous?

Ant. Ever since I found out that my master was not dead.

Bep. Not dead?

Ant. Don Perez 'twas who fell.

Bep. A holy friar who shrived the dying man told me the name of him who fell was Gaspar.

Ant. He was a holy friar, said you? I see it all (aside).

Bep. He said he had a scarf to give to Donna Serafina, at the request of him who died.

Ant. Hath he delivered it?

Bep. No; and Donna Serafina in frantic grief awaits his coming.

Ant. (aside). She'll wait till doomsday; I understand it all. (Aloud.) Beppa! Don Gaspar now will soon be here; go and console your mistress.

Bep. Then it must have been a plan of Don Gaspar's to rid himself of my mistress. I do not understand it, but believe you do. When master and man are so much alike, they cannot deceive each other. I'll to Donna Serafina, and tell her of this base stratagem, which, with his wooing of another, will make her cease to grieve for the treacherous villain, and turn her ardent love to deadly hate. [Exit Beppa.

Ant. As I have mine for you, I was about to say; only I do not recollect that I ever loved you. I think I married her to keep myself from starving: but I forget why exactly, 'tis so long ago. What a fool is a man who marries—but a double fool is he who, like me, am doubly——I can't bear to mention it. [Exit Antonio.

Scene II.

Donna Serafina's Chamber.—Donna Serafina discovered.

Ser. They tell me I am fair: yet what avails
This gift of nature?
Could those who envy me but see my heart—
My bleeding, lacerated, breaking heart!
How would their bitter nature change to pity!
I did require but him in this wide world;
My beauty valued, but to gain his love!
My wealth rejoiced in, but to share with him!
He was my all! and every other 'vantage
Was but of value as subservient to him.
As is the gold of costly workmanship
Round the fair gem imbedded in the centre.
Oh! Gaspar, were I sure I could o'ertake
Thy spirit, soaring up in its young flight,
This little steel should free my anxious soul,
To join thine in the high empyrean,
And, fondly link'd, in joy ascend to Heaven.
Why waits the friar? Some idle mummery,
To him more sacred than my Gaspar's relic,
From his dull memory hath chased his promise.
Why waits my woman, whom I have despatch'd
To learn the history of my Gaspar's death?
Alas! alas! they know not love.

Enter Beppa.

Bep. Madam, I've news for you; but news so strange
That I can scarce impart it. Dry your tears,
Nor more lament Don Gaspar,—for he lives!

Ser. He lives? say that again! You said he lived—
Did you not, Beppa? Then may Heav'n reward you
For those blissful words!—He lives!—support me—
(Faints in Beppa's arms.)

Bep. I should have first inform'd her he was false.
Now will the shock be greater.—Dear lady—(Serafina
recovering gradually).

Ser. (faintly). Now do I feel like some poor criminal,
Who, having closed his eyes, to look no more
Upon the world he is about to leave,
With curdling blood, and faint and flutt'ring pulse,
Waits for the last terrific moment
When the sharp axe shall free his trembling soul.
So wakes he at the distant shouts of men,
Rolling the waves of sound until they dash
Against his worn-out sense the glad reprieve.
Don Gaspar lives! Oh Heav'n, I thank thee!

Bep. At the cup's brim the sweets have kiss'd your lips.
But, madam, like some weak, distemper'd child,
You've yet to taste the nauseous dreaded draught
Which is to cure you.

Ser. What mean you? Cure me!

Bep. 'Tis true Don Gaspar lives—as true he's false.

Ser. False! Beppa—false?

Bep. Most false and treacherous!
He loves another.

Ser. (after a pause). Did I hear rightly?
Impossible! It was but three days gone,
He swore such oaths, if true, as Heav'n would register—
Should they prove false, as hell might chuckle at.

Bep. And yet it is so, I am most assured.

Ser. If it be true, then everything is false.
It cannot, cannot be. Have I not lavish'd
All I could bestow, myself and mine,
Rejected all, to live within his arms,
To breathe one breath with him, and dwell in ecstasy
Upon his words. Oh no! he is not false
You must belie him.

Bep. Nay, I would I did:
I wonder not your doting heart rejects
Such monstrous treachery. Yet it is true,
And true as curs'd. The Donna Isidora
By her charms has won him; and his feign'd death
Was but a stratagem to shake you off.
As you last night asserted, Perez fell;
Don Felix, swearing vengeance, seeks Don Gaspar.

Ser. (after a pause). Who is this Isidora?

Bep. A lovely creature in her early bloom,
The noble blood of Guzman in her veins,
A rival worthy of your beauty, madam,
And therefore one most dangerous.

Ser. Would that I had her here. My heart is now
So full of anger, malice, and fierce hate,
With all those direful and envenom'd passions
By which the breasts of demons are infected;
If I but even look'd upon her face,
My scorching breath would wither up her charms
Like adder's poison. Would I had her here!

Bep. Yet blame her not. She's good and beautiful:
Report doth much commend her early worth
And ever active charity.

Ser. Were she not so, I yet might have retain'd
My truant love. Each virtue that she hath
With me's a vice—each charm, deformity.
They are my foes, array'd against my power,
And I must hate them, as they've vanquish'd me.

Bep. But my hate should fall on Gaspar, lady.

Ser. That's not so easy; the strong tide of love,
Though check'd, still flows against the adverse hate.
In their opposing strife, my troubled breast
Heaves as the elements in wild commotion.

Bep. It must not last. I've much to tell you yet
Of this base man. When you have heard it all,
A rapid flood of rage shall sweep its course,
Lash'd by the storm raised in your much-wrong'd soul,
O'erwhelming all remorse, to Gaspar's ruin.

Ser. Direct me, Heav'n! Come to my chamber, Beppa,
I must unrobe me. When my swollen heart
Can throb more freely, I will hear your tale.
Come on, good Beppa. [Exeunt.

Scene III.

Street in Seville.

Enter Antonio.

Ant. This is a strange world! What a simpleton is this Don Felix! First he buys my secret at a heavy price, and then, after two minutes' deliberation, declares that he will make no use of it, but that I must deliver the message that he gave me. I've no objection. I like to see my betters dismiss each other to the next world;—the more room for those who remain behind, and poor rogues like me are not so much jostled. This world is certainly much too full for comfort. Ah! here comes one that stands a chance of going out of it.

Enter Don Gaspar.

Gasp. Antonio, I must for a time remain concealed. Don Perez is no more, and in this friar's gown, which I put on to elude the bravos, I have convinced the Donna Serafina of my death. Thus do I rid myself of her unwelcome love. Remember, should you meet your wife, I don't know which of them, you will keep my secret. You will remain here in charge till I return.

Ant. Most certainly, sir. But I had almost forgotten; I have a message which may interfere with your departure.

Gasp. From whom?

Ant. Don Felix, sir. The friend of him you slew last night.

Gasp. Well, what is this message?

Ant. One, sir, that will demand a life—or yours or his. It is so coarsely worded that I dare not give it. It will too much provoke you.

Gasp. Give it me straight, and let me have it word for word.

Ant. He told me first, sir, that you were—a villain.

Gasp. (catching Antonio by the throat). How, sirrah?

Ant. It was not I who said so—'twas Don Felix.

Gasp. True. I was hasty. Now proceed.

Ant. A villain—of no parentage.

Gasp. What? scoundrel!

Ant. I have said too much, sir.—You'll excuse the rest.

Gasp. (much irritated). No, no, no—go on; leave out a word and I will murder you.

Ant. (aside). Then I stand a bad chance either way, not so amusing as I thought. (Aloud.) He did say something else, but 'twas of no moment—

Gasp. (putting his hand to his sword). Your message, to the letter.

Ant. A vile impostor.

Gasp. (striking him). How?

Ant. Oh, mercy, sir! you take me for Don Felix.

Gasp. I am wrong. (Throws his purse to Antonio.) You said a villain—of no parentage—a vile impostor—ha! was there any more?

Ant. Yes, sir; and which I think I may deliver without farther danger to myself. He added, "If there's manhood in him, he will appoint a time and place, when and where I may meet him."

Gasp. I ask no better. Tell him, this evening, at the copse of trees where Perez fell, he may expect me. Take my answer straight.

Ant. Shall I go now?

Gasp. Yes; fly to his house. Tell him from me—no, no—tell him no more than I have said already, I'll wait for your return. Haste, haste. [Exit Antonio.

A villain of no parentage!—Impostor!
A vile impostor!—He but states the truth,
Yet will I crush him, that he hath stumbled
On that truth. Yes! of no parentage!—Why—
Why is this constant pining of the heart,
As if it felt itself defrauded still
Of rights inherent? If I'm basely born
Why do I spurn the common herd of men?
The eaglet that regains its liberty,
Soars to the sun at once—it is its nature:
While meaner birds would hop from spray to spray.
Oh! would I had ne'er been born.—
To-morrow I intend to leave for ever
Her whom I love—the sacred walls I hate,
In some far distant land to die unheeded.
My Isidora has desired my presence,
And strange, admits me in the open day.
Within an hour of this she will receive me,
Then must I falter out my last adieu.
This evening also I must meet Don Felix.—

Re-enter Antonio.

So soon return'd! Hast thou then seen him?

Ant. I have, sir; I met him as I gained the door, and your message was duly delivered. He answered, that he would not fail, and that he trusted his sword would not fail either.

Gasp. Should his sword fail, I must not return for many days; should it not fail, I return no more.

But having balanced thus my brief account
Of love and hate, I'll quit fair Spain for ever. [Exit.

Ant. (taking out a purse). This purse is a heavy one, but not so heavy as the one I received from Don Felix. I hardly dared deliver the message, but there's seldom profit without danger. I will say this for my master, that he knows the salve for every wound. Let me see—one purse for my intelligence, or rather for keeping my master's secret, and another from Don Felix for betraying it—and a third for a blow. Ah! here comes Beppa. (Puts up purse hastily.)

Enter Beppa.

Bep. What's that you've put into your pocket?

Ant. Only an empty purse.

Bep. It appeared to me well filled.

Ant. Appearances are very deceitful. How is your mistress?

Bep. Alas! she has watched all night—now the tears pouring down her cheeks, whilst heavy sobs hindered all utterance, and then would she turn to rage, and pace her chamber with frantic gestures. Oh! what a wretch is this Don Gaspar!

Ant. He fights this evening.

Bep. With whom?

Ant. Don Felix—a better match for him than Perez.

Bep. They say the former's skilled in fence. Heaven grant his sword may prove the master! Where do they meet?

Ant. Nay, that's a secret.

Bep. Tell me, Antonio. Should Don Felix not prevail, a woman's vengeance yet may reach Don Gaspar. Antonio, do tell me where they meet.

Ant. It is a secret.

Bep. But I must know. There is nothing I would not give to win this secret from you. Antonio, you must tell me.

Ant. That I cannot, I made a promise. (Puts his hand to his heart.)

Bep. (scornfully). You made a promise. I know your promises too well. What will you sell this secret for?

Ant. My purse of ten moidores!

Bep. Then you shall have it. But will you tell it truly?

Ant. Honour! when I have the money.

Bep. (Takes out purse and throws it at him.) Then, there it is. I believe that you will keep a roguish contract, although no other.

Ant. You're right. They meet at sunset under the copse of trees where Perez fell.

Bep. The copse of trees where Perez fell! Does he not fear his ghost? No, he fears nothing. Breaking the hearts of women, and piercing those of men, is all the same to this fell Gaspar. Well, I have bought your secret, and will make good use of it.

Ant. Had you not known that it was a marketable commodity, you never had purchased it. You'll turn a penny, never fear. I must unto my master's lodgings. [Exit.

Bep. Yes, to follow thy old trade of pilfering. I must unto my lady, and bear her this intelligence. Thus will I rouse the woman in her, and urge her to revenge. [Exit.

Scene IV.

A Room in the Guzman Palace.

Enter Nina, ushering in Don Gaspar.

Stay here, senor. You'll not be long alone. [Exit Nina.

Gasp. Thus am I hurried, by resistless love,
To follow that I never can obtain.
I love thee, Isidora, dote upon thee,
There's not a boiling drop within these veins
I'd not pour out, could it but make thee happy.
And yet I 'gainst my better reason plunge,
Dragging thee with me deep into perdition.
A monk, and marry! 'Tis impossible!
Each time I quit her, then do I resolve
Never to see her more; yet one hour's absence
Kills my resolution, and each moment
Seems an eternity, till in her presence
Vows I repeat, that vows alone make false.
'Tis not in human nature to withstand
Against such strong temptation,—
To fold her in my arms—inhale her breath,
Kiss tears away, neither of grief nor joy,
But from both fountains equally o'erflowing—
Oh! 'tis a bliss indeed, to gain which
Angels might leave their bright cerulean home,
And barter their eternal heaven of joy.

Enter Donna Inez. Gaspar advances quickly to her, thinking it is Isidora, but finding his mistake stops abruptly, and bows to Donna Inez.

Inez. Don Gaspar—for 'tis so I hear you're styled—
Hither you came in ardent expectation
Of meeting one more suited to your age,
My beauteous niece, the Donna Isidora.
Now would I have some conference with one
Who by insidious means hath gain'd her heart,
Yet shrouds himself in mystery: she has placed
Her fortunes in my hands—she resigns her all,
To me confiding to unlock your secret.
When once you're manifest and fully known,
A task which must precede, senor, it will decide
Whether I join your hands and bless your union,
Or curse the fatal day she first beheld you!

Gasp. Madam, I thank you much, I'll speak directly.
But I'm so overcome with wretchedness,
Your kindness must bear with me.
You ask me who I am—a question fair,
As fairly answer'd now—I cannot tell.

Inez. Is it you know not, or you will not tell?

Gasp. I do not know—and therefore cannot tell—
Though from this hour I date my misery,
I am resign'd. You may dismiss me
With stern remonstrance at my daring love—
Yet it is better. I am of those forsaken—
Who have no parents—owing to the state
A nurture most unkind—a foundling child.

Inez. A foundling child? (Aside.) His voice—his presence—
And those words make my heart leap in agony.

Gasp. Yes, and must live to curse the hearts of those
Unnatural parents, who could thus renounce me.
Love conquer'd shame, and brought me into being,
But in her turn shame triumph'd over love,
And I was left to destiny.—
The bloody tigress parts not with her young:—
Her cruel nature, never known to pity,
Is by maternal feeling changed to tenderness.
The eyes which fiercely gleam on all creation,
Beam softly, as she views her snarling cubs.
But cruel man, unruly passion sated,
Leaves to neglect the offspring of his guilt.
I have no more to say. Dismiss me now,
And when, henceforth, you rail at my presumption,
Consider the perfection that has caused it.
I oft have made the healthy resolution
To quit for ever her whom I adore.
Take my farewell to her—your lovely niece,
Although I'm friendless, she will pity me.

Inez. (aside). How strange it is
I feel not anger'd! Strange indeed, there is a pulse
Which makes me lean to his presumptuous love.
[Gaspar is going.
(Aloud.) Yet stay awhile, for I would know your age?

Gasp. 'Twas at nine years I left the hospital,
And now have been for ten a wanderer.

Inez. (aside). The age exact. O Heav'n! let not these hopes
For ever springing, be for ever wither'd!
(Aloud.) Youth, have you any mark, should you be sought,
Might lend a clue to your discovery?

Gasp. I have; they who deserted me, if ever
Their intention to reclaim my person,
May safely challenge me among ten thousand.
(Baring his wrist.) 'Tis here—a ruby band upon my wrist.

[Inez goes towards him, catches his hand, and gazes
on the wrist intently without speaking.

What can this mean? oh, speak, dear lady, speak!

Inez. (throwing herself into his arms). My child, my child!

Gasp. I, I your child! almighty Heaven, I thank thee!
My heart is bursting in its wild emotion,
Till all be understood. Oh, speak again!

Inez. Thou art my son—he whom I've mourn'd so long,
So long have sought. Features thou hast, my boy,
Which in the memory of all save her,
Who fondly loved, long, long have pass'd away.

Gasp. Who was my father?

Inez. One of most ancient name, Don Felipo.

Gasp. Then I am noble?

Inez. And by each descent.

Gasp. Pardon me, lady, if I seem more eager
To know this fact, than render unto you
My love and duty.—From the world's scorn
I've suffer'd much; and my unbending pride
Would rather that my birth remain'd in doubt,
Than find a parentage which was obscure.
Now all is perfect, and to you I tender
(Kneeling) My truth and love, still in their infancy,
And therefore may they seem to you but feeble.
(Rises.) Yet blame me not: this sudden change of state
Hath left me so bewilder'd I scarce know
Myself, or what I feel; like to the eyes
Of one long plunged in gloom, on whom the sun,
At length admitted, pours at once a flood
Of glorious light—so are my senses dazzled.

Inez. And I am faint with gratitude and love.
Come in with me. Then shall you learn
The cruel cause that cast you out a foundling,
And I, the bounteous, blessed providence,
That led you to my arms. [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene I.

A chamber in the Guzman Palace.

Enter Donna Inez, meeting Superior.

Sup. Save thee, good lady! I have stolen an hour
From holy prayer, for which may I be pardon'd,
To weigh the merits of a mother's virtue
Against the errors of an impious son;
To put in counterpoise the deep disgrace,
The insult offer'd to our brotherhood,
With the atonement you would make to Heav'n.

Inez. And you are merciful!

Sup. Lady, there is nought
Which Heav'n detests so much as sacrilege;
'Tis the most damn'd of all the damning sins.
The fire of hell can purge away all crimes,
Howe'er atrocious, save this deed of death,
To life eternal, if not here atoned for
By a surrender of all earthly goods.

Inez. All, father!

Sup. All!

Inez. Father, this cannot be.
Surely there is
In our extensive wealth enough for both—
To satisfy the holy church, yet leave
Withal to grace his rank and dignity.

Sup. He that hath mock'd high Heav'n with sacrilege
Should live for nought except to make his peace.
Your son must straight renew his broken vows,
With tears and penance must wash out his sin—
His life, however long, too short to plead
For mercy and forgiveness, and his wealth,
However great, too small to make atonement.

Inez. Father, this cannot be.

Sup. It shall be so.

Inez. Then I'll appeal elsewhere. I'll to the king,
And tell him this sad story. The Guzmans
Have too well served him, not to gain his help
In this their need. If we must pay a price,
The bargain shall be made with Rome herself,
Who will be less exacting.

Sup. (aside). I must not grasp too much, or I lose all.
(Aloud) Lady, I know your thoughts, and do not blame you.
You are divided, as frail mortals are
In this imperfect state, 'twixt heaven and earth,
Your holy wishes check'd by love maternal;
Now would I know the course that you would steer
Between the two. We can arrange this point.
The church is generous, and she oft resigns
That she might claim in justice. Tell me, lady,
What do you proffer?

Inez. There is a fair domain of great extent
Water'd by the Guadalquiver's wave,
Whose blushing harvests each returning autumn
Yield the best vintage in our favour'd land.
Six hamlets tenanted by peaceful swains,
And dark-eyed maidens, portion'd to the soil,
Foster its increase. The fairest part of Spain
Which Heav'n hath made, I render back to Heav'n.

Sup. I know the land, and will accept the gift:—
But to it must be added sums of gold
To pay for holy rites to be perform'd
For years, to purify our monastery
Which has been desecrated.

Inez. That will I give, and freely. Now, good father,
Remember, in exchange for these you promise
To pardon all, and to obtain from Rome
A dispensation to my truant child.

Sup. I do!

Inez. Father, I'll send him to you. You'll
Rebuke him, but not harshly, for his soul
Is with his new found prospects all on fire.
[Exit Inez.

Sup. Now will our convent be the best endow'd
Of any in the land. This wild young hypocrite,
Who fears nor Heaven nor man, hath well assisted
My pious longing. More by the sins of men
Than their free gifts, our holy church doth prosper.
[Enter Anselmo in cavalier's dress.
What do I see? One, that's in sanctity,
Who vow'd his service and his life to Heav'n,
In this attire. Heaven is most patient!

Ans. It is, good father, or this world of guilt
Had long been wither'd with the threaten'd fire.
My sins are monstrous, yet I am but one
Of many millions, erring as myself.
'Tis not for us to judge. He, who reads all
Our hearts, and knows how we've been tempted,
Alone can poise the even scale of justice.
If I'm to blame, good father, are not you?

Sup. How?

Ans. I had it from my mother, she reveal'd
To you her history, and did make known
The mark by which I might be recognised—
That mark, so oft the theme of idle wonder
In the convent. Before I took my vows
You therefore must have known my station,
The rank I held by birthright, and the name
Which I inherited. Why did you press me then
To take those vows? It was a rank injustice.

Sup. (aside). He argues boldly. (Aloud) 'Twere as well to say,
It were unjust to help you unto Heav'n—
I put you in the right path.

Ans. One too slippery. Father, I've stumbled.

Sup. You have. But that your fond and virtuous mother
Stretch'd forth her hand to save you, it had been
To your perdition.

Ans. I am so full of gratitude to Heaven,
I cannot cavil at the deeds of men.
Yet are we blind alike. You did intend
To serve me, and I thank you.

Sup. I'll serve you yet, my son. This very night
A message shall be forwarded to Rome.
Before a month is past you'll be absolved.
Till then return unto the monastery,
Resume your cowl, and bear yourself correctly.
A month will soon be o'er.

Ans. To one who is imprison'd, 'tis an age;
Yet is your counsel wise, and I obey you
With all humility.

Sup. 'Tis well, my son.
Your follies are unknown but to ourselves.
I shall expect you ere the night be past.
[Exit Superior.

Ans. "Stretch'd forth her hand to save me!" Well I trow,
Had it been stretch'd forth empty I had perish'd.
I've bought my freedom at no trifling price.
Most potent gold! all that the earth can offer,
Are at thy bidding. Nay, more powerful still—
Since it appears that holy men for thee
Will barter Heav'n. Still his advice is good.
Yet must I first behold my Isidora:
Whose startled innocence, like to a rose
When charged with dew and rudely shaken,
Relieves itself in sweet and sudden showers
From its oppressive load. My heavy guilt
Hath shock'd her purity—now, she rejects
The love of one who has been false to Heav'n.
She refused to see me; but I have gain'd,
By intercession of my doting mother,
One meeting, to decide if my estate
Shall be more wretched than it was before.
If she, unheard, condemns me, mine will be
A wild career most perilous to the soul,—
That of a lion's whelp, breaking his chain
And prowling through the world in search of prey.
[Exit.

Scene II.

Isidora's Room in the Guzman Palace.

Isidora alone on her knees at a small oratory. Rises.

Isid. Yes, I would pray, but the o'erwhelming thought
Of vows made light—nay, mock'd by him, the guide,
Th' elected star of my too trusting soul,
Stops in my breast the heavenly aspiration.
And nought I utter but th' unconscious wail
Of broken-hearted love. Love—and for whom!—
How have I waken'd from a dream of bliss
To utter misery. Fond, foolish maid,
Thus to embark my heart, my happiness,
So inconsiderate—now the barque sinks,
And, with its freight, is left to widely toss
In seas of doubt, of horror, and despair.
Oh! Isidora, is thy virgin heart
Thus mated to a wild apostate monk?
The midnight reveller, and morning priest,
At e'en the gay guitar, at noon the cowl;
The holy mummer, tonsure and the missal,
The world, our blessed Church, and Heav'n defied.
To love this man, I surely have become
That which a Guzman ought to scorn to be.
Is he not, too, a Guzman, and my cousin?
Yet must he be renounced. Here let me kneel,
Nor rise till I be freed of love and him.

(Isidora kneels a short time in silence, and proceeds.)

Anselmo—Virgin holy, will no name
But his rise from my wretched heart in pray'r?
Then let me bind myself by sacred vows:
Record it, Heav'n!—Thus do I renounce——

Enter Anselmo.

Ans.——All sorrow, my beloved; for grief no more
Shall worm its canker in our budding bliss.

(Anselmo approaches her, she rises abruptly.)

Isid. Nay, touch me not—approach me not, Anselmo.

Ans. (looking earnestly at her). Isidora!

Isid. Holy Virgin, to thee I trust for strength
In this my hour of peril. Anselmo,
That look has reft a heart too fondly thine—
But only thine, henceforth, in holy love.

Ans. And is not all love holy? that the holiest,
Which gushes from the springs of thy pure heart;
So pure, that, laved by it, my spotted breast
Shall shortly be as snow.

Isid. Hear me, Anselmo:
It is ordain'd we meet no more.

Ans. And canst thou say those words? (Kneels.) See, on the earth
I grovelling kneel—my straining eyes seek thine:
Turn, turn to me; say not those words again;
Thou canst not, dearest.

Isid. (her eyes still averted). We must meet no more.

Ans. I'll not believe thy voice: look on me now
One steady, one unflinching glance, and then
If thou'lt repeat those words—I must believe.
(Pause.) Averted still!—Oh, Isidora, who,
Who pour'd such cruel thoughts into thy breast?
Was it a female fiend, or some vile priest,
Some meddling, sin-absolving, canting priest?—
It was—that start declares it.—Curse him, curse him.
(Rises.)

Isid. (coming forward with dignity and fronting Anselmo.)
Anselmo, curse him not. Thou art that priest.
[Anselmo covers his face with his hand.]
My better angel hath my mind illumed—
Hath shown me thy past life. Thy heavy sins,
In black array, hath weigh'd before mine eyes;
That silent voice, which every bosom sways,
Hath spoken deeply—bidden me abjure
Him who mock'd all. That gentle voice hath said,
That of us twain, immortal bliss alone
Can crown the union; which to be obtain'd,
Must on this earth be won by penance strict,
Unceasing prayer, and thy resumed vows.
Is it not well, Anselmo——

Ans. Isidora,
Are racking tortures well? is liquid fire
Rushing and bubbling through the burning veins,
Until they shrivel, well? And is it well
To find the angel, who hath borne your soul
Half o'er the flaming abyss of the damn'd,
Shake it away, and feel it whirling sink
To everlasting torments?—In bitter truth,
These are but nought compared to the fell pangs
Thy words have caused, which rack my tortured breast.

Isid. Anselmo, hear me!

Ans. Hear me now in turn,
By the soul I've perill'd, we must not part!
Cast me but off, and Heav'n may do so too:
Here stand I, Isidora, with one foot
Upon Heaven's threshold, thou within the gates:
Oh! call me to thee. I am Heaven's and thine:
But, loose thy hand, and I will seek that hell
Which lies beneath. The deed be on thy head.

Isid. Oh! horrible, Anselmo—horrible!

Ans. Question me, Isidora. Where's the sin
That, in thine eyes, demands such heavy penance?

Isid. The violated vow——

Ans. Was made long ere I
Knew its power or meaning, and was forced
By those who thrust it on me in deceit;
For well they knew it robb'd me of my birthright.
'Twas sin to make that vow; and were it not
God's 'gerent here on earth hath power more ample
To unloose, than monks to bind—thou'rt answer'd.

Isid. Answer'd, but not content—if false to vows
More sacred far;—yet surely not more sacred,—
For what should be more sacred than the vows
Which link the happiness of two in one
Till death dissolves the union?—If false
To Heav'n, Anselmo——

Ans. Who made me false, then?

Isid. Touch not that chord—treat me not as woman,
Easy to flattery, boastful of her charms:
You know me not, Anselmo; but till late
I scarcely knew myself.
Talk not to me of Heaven's vicegerent:
Can man absolve from compact made with God?

Ans. Isidora, it is now my duty
T' assume the monitor, and point out to thee
How e'en the purest of us, in our frailty,
May haply slide. A maiden in her pride,
But scarce in womanhood, dare to dispute
The tenets of our faith, strikes at the head
Of our religion; and what, for ages,
Holy men have reverenced and believed,
Hath been by her denounced as not her creed.

Isid. 'Tis true—'tis true. The sin of unbelief,
'Gainst which I've rail'd, I fall into myself,
Swayed by my foolish pride. (Turns to Anselmo.) But still, as yet
Thou'rt bound, Anselmo—e'en this discourse,
Methinks, is sacrilege.

Ans. Nay, Isidora,
Does not the father, he whose spiritual sway
I yet acknowledge, grant me this sweet bliss?
And is the tender sanction of that saint,
Our more than mother, nothing? As monk,—
And now I scarce am one,—it would seem
I am an object of your utter hate.

Isid. Not hate, Anselmo—'tis a bitter word;
Say rather fear—of what belongs to Heav'n.
Was there no crime, Anselmo, when thou stol'st,
Like a disguised thief, this trusting heart?
What sophistry can'st thou put forth to show
Thou should'st retain thy base, dishonest theft?

Ans. Not words, but deeds, my Isidora,
Shall prove me worthy of the stolen treasure:
The first are due to God. This very night
With penance strict, I'll cleanse my tainted soul;
Deep in contrition, on my knees I'll wait
My dispensation from the sovereign pontiff;
Then——

Isid. And then—dear, dear Anselmo.

Ans. And then
Shall sneering cavalier or flaunting dame
Say, when a Guzman shall a Guzman wed,
The monk parades it boldly, and the bride
Hath cull'd the cloister for her wedded lord?
No, no; they never shall, my Isidora.
Then will I clad me in the warrior's steel:
Thou shalt receive me from the crimson'd field,
A laurel'd hero, or shall mourn me slain;
I will not steal to thee from cloister'd sloth,
But at thy portal light from battle steed.
Spain hath around and that within, shall make
The monk—a hero. Dost thou not think
The plumed helm will better fit this head,
Than the dull friar's cowl? My Isidora,
Now for a space—a brief one, fare thee well!
Once more I'll meet thee, and on bended knee,
As soldier should, I'll claim from my betroth'd
Some token that shall cheer me in the fight.
I must be worthy of you.

Isid. Thou art so. (Embrace.)
Anselmo, fare thee well! may Heav'n bless thee! [Exit.

Ans. All powerful virtue, unto thy shrine
I bow. Sweet maid, whose great perfection
Hath as a glass display'd to me my crimes;
Oh may'st thou ever keep me in the path
Where peace and happiness attend my steps!
Now must I to the monast'ry repair,
There to remain until I'm freed;—but then,
To-night it is I meet the brave Don Felix:
I had forgotten it. Most willingly
Would I avoid this foolish rash dispute;
And yet I must not. When I was friendless,
Reckless of life,—a life not worth preserving,—
I could have pass'd whole days in mortal strife. [Exit.

Scene III.