Before the very Judge you swore it to,
    And before this great lady, and do you
    Substantiate or deny it point by point.

    _Judge._ Audacity!

    _Gil_ (_reading_). In the first place you swear,
    That, ‘As luck fell, you were behind a tree
    When the two gentlemen came out to fight.’
    Say, is this true?

    _Bapt._             It is.

    _Gil._                      ‘And that they fought
    Hand to hand fairly, until suddenly
    Gil Perez, rushing from a thicket, sided
    With Don Alonso.’ Now, bethink you well;
    Is this the truth, Baptista?

    _Bapt._                       Yes. I swear it.

    _Gil._ Infamous liar! (_Shoots him with a pistol._)

    _Bapt_ (_falling_). Heav’n have mercy on me!

    _Gil._ My lord, you must another murder add
    To my black catalogue. Come, Manuel,
    We must away while we have time. Farewell.

                                                [_Exeunt GIL and MANUEL._

    _Judge._ By the most sacred person of my king,
    I swear to punish this audacity,
    If it should cost my life.

    _Bapt._                     Oh, listen, lady;
    While I have breath to speak. I’m justly slain.
    I tried to swear Gil Perez’s life away
    To gain his sister; he has told you true:
    In fair and open duel, hand to hand,
    Was Don Diego slain. Oh let my death
    Atone for this, and my last dying words
    Attest it.

                                                                (_Dies._)

                    _Enter the Alguazils with PEDRO._

_Alg._ We heard a pistol, and returned, my lord, to see.

_Judge._ It was Gil Perez; that is his work. (_Pointing to BAPTISTA._)

_Ped._ There, said I not the truth?

_Judge._ He must not escape; after him! As to this fellow here, who is
plainly in his secrets, let two Alguazils keep guard upon him here, lest
he do further mischief; the rest come with me.

_Ped._ What crime have I committed? Did I not tell you, my lord, he would
come, and did he not come?

_Judge._ Peace, traitor! Come, madam.

                                                               [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.—_Another Pass in the same Mountain._

            _Firing and shouting heard; after which, enter
       ISABEL and JUANA on a platform of rock above the stage._

    _Isab._ That arquebuss! of which only the thunder
    Has reach’d us of perhaps some deadly bolt
    On one of those we love!
    Why tarry they so long? What think you, Juana?

    _Jua._ Oh what, but share your fears!

    _Isab._                                Let us descend,
    And learn the truth at once; better at once
    To die, than by this torture.

                            (_As they are about to descend, enter to them
                                         suddenly GIL PEREZ and MANUEL._)

    _Gil._                         Wait!

    _Isab._                               My brother!

    _Jua._ Manuel!

    _Gil._          They are coming; hide we here;
    There is no time—

                 _Enter Judge, LEONOR, Alguazils, etc._

    _Judge._ After them! after them!
    By Heav’n, this mountain-top shall be the scaffold
    On which the wretch shall expiate his crimes.
    Two thousand scudi for the man who brings,
    Dead or alive, Gil Perez!

    _Gil_ (_appearing above_). By the Lord,
    You rate me cheap, my lord; I’ll set you higher—
    I say four thousand scudi for the Judge,
    Alive or stuff’d!

    _Judge._        There he is! Fire!

                                       (_Alguazil fires and wounds GIL._)

    _Gil_ (_falling_).                     God help me!

    _Judge._ Yield.

    _Gil_ (_struggling_). I’ve an arm left yet.

    _Alg._                                     He’ll fight when dead.

    _Judge._ Away with him!
                                   (_Judge and Alguazils carry off GIL._)

    _Man._ (_struggling with JUANA_). Leave hold of me,
    I say.

    _Jua._ Oh! Manuel!

    _Isab._             Oh! my brother!

    _Man._                               Let me go,
    Or I will dash you headlong with myself.

                          (_He rushes down, ISABEL and JUANA after him._)

SCENE III.—_Same as SCENE I._

_PEDRO discovered guarded by two Alguazils._

_Ped._ Shots and shouting! They must be at work. Perhaps you gentlemen
will wait, while I go and see.

_Alg._ Be quiet, or two bullets—

_Ped._ Oh, one would be enough, thank you. Well, if I mustn’t go, will
you two gentlemen? and leave me to wait for you? I’m quite indifferent.

_Alg._ We leave you not an instant or an inch.

_Ped._ Were ever guards half so polite! Sure, I must be a holiday to be
so strictly kept.

_Alg._ Hark! They are coming.

     _Enter Judge and Alguazils with GIL, a cloak thrown over him._

_Judge._ Where is the other prisoner?

_Alg._ Here, my lord.

_Judge._ March on with us.

_Alg. 2._ My lord, this man will faint with loss of blood and weariness.

_Judge._ Halt then, and let him breathe awhile.

                                (_They uncover GIL, and PEDRO sees him._)

_Ped._ I might have guessed it! Let me be in the bilboes, on the very
scaffold, he must be with me: he will die on purpose to lie in the same
grave with me, I think!

_Gil._ Whose voice is that?

_Ped._ Nobody’s.

_Gil._ Pedro? Courage, my poor boy. My day is over. Oh, vanity of mortal
strength!

_Judge._ But who are these?

         _Enter DONNA LEONOR, with ISABEL, JUANA, and Servants._

    _Leonor._ I, Donna Leonor, who, falling in
    With these sad ladies, do repent me much,
    That, misdirected by a lying tongue,
    I have pursued this gentleman—I doubt
    To death—if not, I charge you from this moment
    Leave him at liberty.

    _Isab._                Or else—

         _Enter suddenly MANUEL and DON ALONSO, and Followers._

    _Alon._                                  Or else,
    Look to it.

    _Gil._       Don Alonso! whom I thought
    Far off upon the seas?

    _Alon._                 And should have been,
    But when my foot was on the very plank
    That rock’d upon the foam along the beach,
    I, who could never get you from my heart,
    And knew that you had come to peril hither,
    Could but return once more to him who saved
    My life, though he had waved me from his side.
    Enough; I am in time. I tell you, sir,
    Give up this man at once. (_To the Judge._)

    _Judge._                   Not for you all!

    _Alon._ Then at him and his people!

                    (_ALONZO, MANUEL, and their people rush on the Judge,
                       Alguazils, etc., disarm them, and beat them out._)

    _Alon._ (_embracing GIL_). My friend is free.

    _Gil._ And what first use shall make
    Of freedom?

    _Ped._       Why, turn Friar; you can then
    Be free and easy too, and leave me so.
    Oh, sir, have I not had enough of terror,
    Exile, and hunger, to deserve your pardon?
    Plead for me, Don Alonso.

    _Alon._                    Gil—

    _Gil._                           Nay, nay,
    What could you seem about to ask of me
    But granted ere ’twas said? Go. I forgive you.
    With which magnanimous forbearance now
    Gil Perez, the Gallician, makes his bow.

                                                               [_Exeunt._

‘Thus ends,’ says Calderon, ‘the first part of the _hozanas notables_ of
Luis Perez,’ whose name I have, for sundry reasons, (and without offence
to the hero, I hope,) changed to _Gil_. He was ‘a notorious robber,’ says
Mr. Ticknor, a kind of Spanish Rob Roy perhaps; at all events, one whose
historical reality is intimated by greater distinctness of character
than is usual in these plays. Of such gentry examples are never wanting
in Spain, where so little alters to this day; witness the career of the
famous José Maria, quite lately ended; who, I read in a book of Travels,
was, like Gil, a farmer, for his first calling; a most merciful robber
when he took to his second; and who performed Gil’s feat of confronting,
if not a Judge, a Prime Minister in his own den.

Gil perhaps had better have ‘played his pranks’ (as Fuller says of Robin
Hood) in prose; but he was a lawless fellow, and blank verse lay in
his way. Those who think his style altogether too heroic for a country
robber, will at least find my version more than excused by the original.

THREE JUDGMENTS AT A BLOW

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

    PEDRO IV.              _King of Arragon._

    DON MENDO TORELLAS     _his Minister._

    DONNA VIOLANTE         _Mendo’s Daughter._

    ELVIRA                 _her Maid._

    DON LOPE DE URREA.

    DONNA BLANCA           _his Wife._

    DON LOPE               _their Son._

    BEATRICE               _their Servant._

    DON GUILLEN            _a Friend of Don Lope’s._

    VICENTE                _Young Lope’s Servant._

    ROBBERS, OFFICERS, ROYAL SUITE, etc.

ACT I

SCENE I.—_A Mountain Pass near Saragossa._

_Shot within. Then enter DON MENDO and VIOLANTE pursued by Robbers, among
whom is VICENTE._

    _Men._ Villains, let steel or bullet do their worst,
    I’ll die ere yield.

    _Viol._              Heaven help us!

    _Robber I._                          Fool, to strive
    Against such odds—upon their own ground too,
    Red with the blood of hundreds like yourselves.

    _Vic._ Come, sir, no more ado;
    But quietly give my young madam up,
    Nice picking for our captain.

    _Men._ Not while a drop of blood is in my body.

    _Robbers._ Here’s at you then!

    _Viol._                        My father!

                         (_As the Robbers attack MENDO, enter DON LOPE._)

    _Lope._ How now? whom have you here?

    _Vic._                              Oh, noble captain,
    We found this lady resting from the sun
    Under the trees, with a small retinue,
    Who of course fled.
    All but this ancient gentleman, who still
    Holds out against us.

    _Lope_ (_to MENDO_). What can you expect
    Against such numbers?

    _Men._                 Not my life, but death.
    You come in time—
    Upon my knees I do beseech of you (_kneels_)
    No other mercy save of instant death
    To _both_ of us.

    _Lope._                Arise! you are the first
    Has moved me to the mercy you decline.
    This lady is—your wife?

    _Men._                    My only daughter!

    _Viol._ In spirit as in blood. If by his death
    You think to make you masters of my life,
    Default of other weapon, with these hands
    I’ll cease the breath of life, or down these rocks
    Dash myself headlong.

    _Lope._                Lady, calm yourself;
    Your beauty has subdued an angry devil
    One like yourself first raised within my soul.
    Your road lies whither, sir?

    _Men._                        To Saragossa.
    Where if I could requite—

    _Lope._                     Your name?

    _Men._                                  Don Mendo
    Torellas, after a long embassage
    To Paris, Rome, and Naples, summon’d back
    By Pedro, King of Arragon—with whom
    If ’t be (as oft) some youthful petulance,
    Calling for justice or revenge at home,
    Drives you abroad to these unlawful courses,
    I pledge my word—

    _Lope._             Alas, sir, I might hail
    Your offer could I hope that your deserts,
    However great, might cancel my account
    Of ill-deserving. But indeed my crimes
    Have gather’d so in number, and in weight,
    And condemnation—committed, some of them,
    To stave away the very punishment
    They must increase at last; others, again,
    In the sheer desperation of forgiveness
    That all had heap’d upon me—

    _Men._                         Nay, nay, nay;
    Despair not; trust to my good offices;
    In pledge of which here, now, before we part,
    I swear to make your pardon the first boon
    I’ll ask for or accept at the King’s hand.
    Your name?

    _Lope._     However desperate, and ashamed
    To tell it, you shall hear it—and my story.
    Retire!

                                          (_To the Robbers, who exeunt._)

              Don Mendo, I am Lope, son
    Of Lope de Urrea, of some desert,
    At least in virtue of my blood.

    _Men._                      Indeed!
    Urrea and myself were, I assure you,
    Intimate friends of old,—another tie,
    If wanting one, to bind me to your service.

    _Lope._ I scarce can hope it, sir; if I, his son,
    Have so disgraced him with my evil ways,
    And so impoverisht him with my expenses,
    Were you his friend, you scarcely can be mine.
    And yet, were I to tell you all, perhaps
    I were not all to blame.

    _Men._                   Come, tell me all;
    ’Tis fit that I should hear it.

    _Viol._                          I begin
    To breathe again.

    _Lope._ Then listen, sir. My father in his youth,
    As you perhaps may know, but _why_ I know not,
    Held off from marriage; till, bethinking him,
    Or warn’d by others, what a shame it were
    So proud a name should die for want of wearer,
    In his late years he took to wife a lady
    Of blameless reputation, and descent
    As noble as his own, but so unequal
    In years, that she had scarcely told fifteen
    When age his head had whiten’d with such snows
    As froze his better judgment.

    _Men._                         Ay, I know
    Too well—too well! (_Aside._)

    _Lope._ Long she repell’d his suit,
    Feeling how ill ill-sorted years agree;
    But, at the last, before her father’s will
    She sacrificed her own. Oh sacrifice
    That little lacks of slaughter! So, my father
    Averse from wedlock’s self, and she from him,
    Think what a wedlock this must be, and what
    The issue that was like to come of it!
    While other sons cement their parents’ love,
    My birth made but a wider breach in mine,
    Just in proportion as my mother loved
    Her boy, my father hated him—yes, hated,
    Even when I was lisping at his knees
    That little language charms all fathers’ hearts.
    Neglecting me himself, as I grew up
    He neither taught, nor got me taught, to curb
    A violent nature, which by love or lash
    May even be corrected in a wolf:
    Till, as I grew, and found myself at large,
    Spoilt both by mother’s love and father’s hate
    I took to evil company, gave rein
    To every passion as it rose within,
    Wine, dice, and women—what a precipice
    To build the fabric of a life upon!
    Which, when my father
    Saw tottering to its fall, he strove to train
    The tree that he had suffer’d to take root
    In vice, and grow up crooked—all too late!
    Though not revolting to be ruled by him,
    I could not rule myself. And so we lived
    Both in one house, but wholly apart in soul,
    Only alike in being equally
    My mother’s misery. Alas, my mother!
    My heart is with her still! Why, think, Don Mendo,
    That, would she see me, I must creep at night
    Muffled, a tip-toe, like a thief, to her,
    Lest he should know of it! Why, what a thing
    That such a holy face as filial love
    Must wear the mask of theft! But to sum up
    The story of my sorrows and my sins
    That have made me a criminal, and him
    Almost a beggar;—
    In the full hey-day of my wilfulness
    There lived a lady near, in whom methought
    Those ancient enemies, wit, modesty,
    And beauty, all were reconciled; to her,
    Casting my coarser pleasures in the rear,
    I did devote myself—first with mute signs,
    Which by and by began to breathe in sighs,
    And by and by in passionate words that love
    Toss’d up all shapeless, but all glowing hot,
    Up from my burning bosom, and which first
    Upon her willing ears fell unreproved,
    Then on her heart, which by degrees they wore
    More than I used to say her senseless threshold
    Wore by the nightly pressure of my feet.
    She heard my story, pitied me
    With her sweet eyes; and my unruly passion,
    Flusht with the promise of first victory,
    Push’d headlong to the last; not knowing, fool!
    How in love’s world the shadow of disappointment
    Exactly dogs the substance of success.
    In fine, one night I stole into her house,
    Into her chamber; and with every vow
    Of marriage on my tongue; as easy then
    To utter, as thereafter to forswear,
    When in the very jewel I coveted
    Very compliance seem’d to make a flaw
    That made me careless of it when possess’d.
    From day to day I put our marriage off
    With false pretence, which she at last suspecting
    Falsely continued seeming to believe,
    Till she had got a brother to her side,
    (A desperate man then out-law’d, like myself,
    For homicide,) who, to avenge her shame,
    With other two waylaid me on a night
    When as before I unsuspectingly
    Crept to her house; and set upon me so,
    All three at once, I just had time to parry
    Their thrusts, and draw a pistol, which till then
    They had not seen, when—

    _Voices_ (_within_). Fly! Away! Away!

                            _Enter VICENTE._

    _Lope._ What is the matter now?

    _Vic._                           Captain!

    _Lope._                                    Well, speak.

    _Vic._ We must be off; the lady’s retinue
    Who fled have roused the soldiery, and with them
    Are close upon our heels. We’ve not a moment.

    _Lope._ Then up the mountain!

    _Men._                         Whither I will see
    They shall not follow you; and take my word
    I’ll not forget my promise.

    _Lope._                      I accept it.

    _Men._ Only, before we part, give me some token,
    The messenger I send may travel with
    Safe through your people’s hands.

    _Lope_ (_giving a dagger_).        This then.

    _Men._                                         A dagger?
    An evil-omen’d pass-word.

    _Lope._                    Ah, Don Mendo,
    What has a wretched robber got to give
    Unless some implement of death! And see,
    The wicked weapon cannot reach your hand,
    But it must bite its master’s. (_His hand bleeding._)
    Ill-omen’d as you say!

    _Voices_ (_within_). Away! Away!

    _Vic._                             They’re close upon us!

    _Viol._ O quick! begone! My life hangs on a thread
    While yours is in this peril.

    _Lope._                        That alone
    Should make me fly to save it. Farewell, lady.
    Farewell, Don Mendo.

    _Men. and Viol._      Farewell!

    _Lope._                          What strange things
    One sun between his rise and setting brings!

                                                                 [_Exit._

    _Men._ Let us anticipate, and so detain
    The soldiers. That one turn of Fortune’s wheel
    Years of half-buried memory should reveal!

    _Viol._ Could I believe that crime should ever be
    So amiable! How fancy with us plays,
    And with one touch colours our future days!

                                                     [_Exeunt severally._

SCENE II.—_An Audience Hall in the Palace of PEDRO, King of Arragon._

               _Enter DON LOPE DE URREA and DON GUILLEN._

    _Guil._ Such bosom friends, sir, as from infancy
    Your son and I have been, I were ashamed,
    You being in such trouble, not to offer
    My help and consolation. Tell me aught
    That I can serve you in.

    _Urr._                   Believe me, sir,
    My heart most deeply thanks your courtesy.
    When came you to the city?

    _Guil._                     Yesterday,
    From Naples.

    _Urr._       Naples?

    _Guil._               To advance a suit
    I have in Arragon.

    _Urr._              I too am here
    For some such purpose; to beseech the King
    A boon I doubt that he will never grant.

    _Guil._ Ev’n now his Highness comes.

                      _Enter KING PEDRO and Train._

    _Urr._ So please your Majesty, listen to one,
    Of whom already you have largely heard—
    Don Lope de Urrea.

    _King._             Oh! Don Lope!

    _Urr._ I come not hither to repeat in words
    The purport of so many past petitions,
    My sorrows now put on a better face
    Before your Highness’ presence. I beseech you
    To hear me patiently.

    _King._                Speak, Urrea, speak!

    _Urr._ Speak if I can, whose sorrow rising still
    Clouds its own utterance. My liege, my son,
    Don Lope, loved a lady here; seduced her
    By no feign’d vows of marriage, but compell’d
    By me, who would not listen to a suit
    Without my leave contracted, put it off
    From day to day, until the lady, tired
    Of a delay that argued treachery,
    Engaged her brother in the quarrel; who
    With two companions set upon my son
    One night to murder him. The lad, whose metal
    Would never brook affront, nor cared for odds,
    Drew on all three; slew one—a homicide
    That nature’s common law of self-defence
    Permits. The others fled, and set on him
    The officers of justice, one of whom
    In his escape he struck—
    A self-defence against your laws I own
    Not so to be excused—then fled himself
    Up to the mountains. I must needs confess
    He better had deserved an after-pardon
    By lawful service in your camp abroad
    Than aggravating old offence at home,
    By lawless plunder; but your Highness knows
    It is an ancient law of honour here
    In Arragon, that none of noble blood
    In mortal quarrel quit his native ground.
    But to return. The woman, twice aggrieved,
    Her honour and her brother lost at once,
    (For him it was my son slew of the three,)
    Now seeks to bring her sorrows into port:
    And pitying my grey hairs and misery,
    Consents to acquit my son on either count,
    Providing I supply her wherewithal
    To hide her shame within some holy house;
    Which, straiten’d as I am, (that, by my troth,
    I scarce, my liege, can find my daily bread,)
    I have engaged to do; not only this,
    But, in addition to the sum in hand,
    A yearly income—which to do, I now
    Am crept into my house’s poorest rooms,
    And, (to such straits may come nobility!)
    Have let for hire what should become my rank
    And dignity to an old friend, Don Mendo
    Torellas, who I hear returns to-day
    To Saragossa. It remains, my liege,
    That, being by the plaintiff’s self absolved,
    My son your royal pardon only needs;
    Which if not he nor I merit ourselves,
    Yet let the merits of a long ancestry,
    Who swell your glorious annals with their names
    Writ in their blood, plead for us not in vain;
    Pity the snows of age that misery
    Now thaws in torrents from my eyes; yet more,
    Pity a noble lady—my wife—his mother—
    Who sits bow’d down with sorrow and disgrace
    In her starved house.

    _King._                This is a case, Don Lope,
    For my Chief Justice, not for me.

    _Urr._                             Alas!
    How little hope has he who, looking up
    To dove-eyed mercy, sees but in her place
    Severely-sworded justice!

    _King._                    Is ’t not fit
    That the tribunal which arraign’d the crime
    Pronounce the pardon also?

    _Urr._                        Were it so,
    I know not where to look for that tribunal,
    Or only find it speechless, since the death
    Of Don Alfonso.

    _King._      His successor’s name
    This day will be announced to Arragon.

    _Urr._ Yet let a father’s tears—

    _King._                            They might indeed
    The marble heart of justice make to bleed.

                                  [_Exeunt KING, DON GUILLEN, and Train._

    _Urr._ And thus to satisfy the exigence
    Of public estimation, one is forced
    To sacrifice entreaty and estate
    For an ill son.
    Yet had but this petition been inflamed
    With love, that love of his had lit in me,
    My prayer had surely prosper’d. But ’tis done,
    Fruitless or not: _well_ done, for Blanca’s sake;
    Poor Blanca, though indeed she knows it not,
    And scarcely would believe it—
    But who comes here?—the friend of better days,
    Don Mendo! I would hide me from his eye,
    But, oh indignity, his ancient friend,
    Equal in birth and honour to himself,
    Must now, reduced to ’t by a shameless son,
    Become his tavern-keeper! For the present
    I may hold back—the King too! come to meet
    And do him honour.

           _Enter, meeting, KING, with Train, and DON MENDO._

    _Men._ My royal master, let me at your feet
    Now and for ever—

    _King._            Rise, Don Mendo, rise,
    Chief Justice of all Arragon.

    _Men._                     My liege,
    How shall I rise with such a weight of honour
    And solemnest responsibility,
    As you have laid upon my neck!

    _King._                     ’Tis long
    Since we have met. How fare you?

    _Men._                         How but well,
    On whom your royal favour shines so fair!

    _King._ Enough. You must be weary. For to-day
    Go rest yourself, Chief Justice. And to-morrow
    We’ll talk together. I have much to tell,
    And much to ask of you.

    _Men._                    Your Highness knows
    How all my powers are at your sole command,
    And only well employ’d in doing it.

                                                 [_Exit KING with Train._

    _Urr._ If it be true that true nobility
    Slowly forgets what once it has esteem’d,
    I think Don Mendo will not turn away
    From Lope de Urrea.

    _Men._              My old friend!
    I must forget myself, as well as honour,
    When I forget the debt I owe your love.

    _Urr._ For old acquaintance then I kiss your hand;
    And on two other counts. First, as your host,
    You know, on your arrival; be assured
    That I shall do my best to entertain you:
    And, secondly, congratulating you
    On your new dignity, which you hardly don
    Before I am your suitor.

    _Men._                Oh Don Lope,
    How gladly shall I serve you!

    _Urr._                   This memorial
    I had presented to the King, and he
    Referr’d to his Chief Justice.

    _Men._                     Oh trust to me,
    And to my loyal friendship in the cause.

    _Urr._ A son of mine, Don Mendo,—

    _Men._                        Nay, no more—
    I am apprized of all.

    _Urr._            I know that men
    Think my heart harden’d toward my only son.
    It might have been so; not, though, till my son’s
    Was flint to me. O Mendo, by his means
    My peace of mind, estate, and good repute
    Are gone for ever!

    _Men._            Nay, be comforted:
    I fill a post where friendship well can grant
    What friendship fairly asks. Think from this hour
    That all is ended. Not for your sake only,
    But for your son’s; to whom (you soon shall hear
    The whole strange history) I owe my life,
    And sure shall not be slack to save his own.
    All will be well. Come, let us to your house,
    Whither, on coming to salute the King,
    I sent my daughter forward.

    _Urr._                  I rejoice
    To think how my poor Blanca will rejoice
    To do her honour. You remember Blanca?

    _Men._ Remember her indeed, and shall delight
    To see her once again. (_Aside._) O lying tongue,
    To say so, when the heart beneath would fain
    We had not met, or might not meet again!

SCENE III.—_A Room in URREA’S House._

        _Enter BLANCA and VIOLANTE in travelling dress, meeting._

    _Blan._ How happy am I that so fair a guest
    Honours my house by making it her own,
    And me her servant!
    To welcome and to wait on Violante
    I have thus far intruded.

    _Viol._                   Nay, Donna Blanca,
    Mine is the honour and the happiness,
    Who, coming thus to Arragon a stranger,
    Find such a home and hostess. Pardon me
    That I detain you in this ante-room,
    My own not ready yet.

    _Blan._                You come indeed
    Before your people look’d for you.

    _Viol._                             But not
    Before my wishes, lady, I assure you:
    Not minding on the mountains to encounter
    Another such a risk.

    _Blan._               There was a first then?

    _Viol._ So great that I assure you—and too truly, (_aside_)—
    My heart yet beats with it.

    _Blan._                     How was ’t?

    _Viol._                                 Why, thus:
    In wishing to escape the noon-day sun,
    That seem’d to make both air and land breathe fire,
    I lighted from my litter in a spot
    That one might almost think the flowers had chosen
    To tourney in, so green and smooth the sward
    On which they did oppose their varied crests,
    So fortified above with closing leaves,
    And all encompass’d by a babbling stream.
    There we sat down to rest; when suddenly
    A company of robbers broke upon us,
    And would have done their worst, had not as suddenly
    A young and gallant gentleman, their captain,
    Arrested them, and kindly—but how now?
    Why weep you, Donna Blanca?

    _Blan._                        Weeping, yes,
    My sorrows with your own—But to your tale.

    _Viol._ Nay, why should I pursue it if my trouble
    Awake the memory of yours?

    _Blan._                    Your father,
    Saw he this youth, this robber cavalier
    Who graced disgrace so handsomely?

    _Viol._                             Indeed,
    And owes his life and honour to him.

    _Blan._                               Oh!
    He had aton’d for many a foregone crime
    By adding that one more! But I talk wild;
    Pardon me, Violante.
    I have an anguish ever in my breast
    At times will rise, and sting me into madness;
    Perhaps you will not wonder when you hear
    This robber was my son, my only son,
    Whose wicked ways have driv’n him where he is,
    From home, and law, and love!

    _Viol._                        Forgive me, lady,
    I mind me now—he told us—
    But I was too confused and terrified
    To heed to names. Else credit me—

                        _Enter URREA and MENDO._

    _Urr._ Largess! a largess, wife! for bringing you
    Joy and good fortune to our house, from which
    They have so long been banisht.

    _Blan._                          Long indeed!

    _Urr._ So long, methinks, that coming all at once
    They make me lose my manners. (_To VIOLANTE._) This fair hand
    Must, as I think it will, my pardon sign;
    Inheriting such faculty. Oh, Blanca,
    I must not let one ignorant moment slip—
    You know not half our joy.
    Don Mendo, my old friend, and our now guest,
    Graced at the very threshold by the King
    With the Chief-Justiceship of Arragon,
    Points his stern office with an act of mercy,
    By pardoning your Lope—whom we now
    Shall have once more with us, I trust, for ever.
    Oh join with me in thanking him!

    _Blan._                          I am glad,
    Don Mendo, that we meet under a roof
    Where I can do you honour. For my son,
    I must suppose from what your daughter says,
    You would, without our further prayer or thanks,
    Have done as you have done.

    _Mend._                      Too true—I know—
    And you still better, lady—that, all done,
    I am your debtor still.

                             _Enter ELVIRA._

    _Elv._ Madam, your room is ready.

    _Viol._                            May I then
    Retire?

    _Blan._ If I may wait upon you thither.

    _Urr._ Nay, nay, ’tis I that as a grey-hair’d page
    Must do that office.

    _Mend._               Granted, on condition
    That I may do as much for Donna Blanca.

    _Viol._ As master of the house, I must submit
    Without condition.

                                            [_Exeunt VIOLANTE and URREA._

    _Blan._             You were going, sir?—

    _Mend._ To wait upon you, Blanca.

    _Blan._                   Nay, Don Mendo,
    Least need of that.

    _Mend._              Oh, Blanca, Heaven knows
    How much I have desired to talk with you!

    _Blan._ And to what purpose, sir?
    No longer in your power—perhaps, nor will—
    To do as well as talk.

    _Mend._              If but to say
    How to my heart it goes seeing you still
    As sad as when I left you years ago.

    _Blan._ ‘As sad?—as when you left me years ago’—
    I understand you not—am not aware
    I ever saw you till to-day.

    _Mend._                     Ah, Blanca,
    Have pity!

    _Blan._ Nay, Don Mendo, let us cease
    A conversation, uselessly begun,
    To end in nothing. If your memory,
    Out of some dreamt-of fragments of the past,
    Attach to me, the past is dead in time;
    Let it be buried in oblivion.

    _Mend._ Oh, with what courage, Blanca, do you wield
    Your ready woman’s wit!

    _Blan._                  I know not why
    You should say that.

    _Mend._               But _I_ know.

    _Blan._                                   If ’t be so,
    Agree with me to say no more of it.

    _Mend._ But how?

    _Blan._           By simple silence.

    _Mend._                               How be silent
    Under such pain?

    _Blan._           By simple suffering.

    _Mend._ Oh, Blanca, how learn that?

    _Blan._                              Of me—and thus.
    Beatrice!

                            _Enter BEATRICE._

    _Beat._ Madam?

    _Blan._         Light Don Mendo to
    His chamber. Thus be further trouble sped.

    _Mend._ Nay, rather coals of fire heap’d on my head!

                                                     [_Exeunt severally._

ACT II

SCENE I.—_A Room in URREA’S House._

        _Enter URREA and BLANCA on one side, and LOPE and VICENTE
                             on the other._

    _Lope._ Thrice blessed be the day, that brings me back
    In all humility and love, my father,
    To kiss your feet once more.

    _Urr._                        Rise up, my son,
    As welcome to your parents as long lookt for.
    Rise and embrace me.

    _Lope._               Till I have your hand
    I scarcely dare.

    _Urr._            Then take it, Lope—there—
    And may God make thee virtuous as thy father
    Can pray for thee. Thy mother too—

    _Lope._                              O madam,
    I scarcely dare with anguish and repentance
    Lift up my eyes to those I have made weep
    So many bitter tears—

    _Blan._              You see, my son,
    You keep them weeping still—not bitter tears,
    But tears of joy—Oh, welcome home again!

    _Vic._ Where is there any room for a poor devil
    Who has done penance upon rock and water
    This many a day, and much repents him of
    His former sins?

    _Urr._            What you alive too?

    _Vic._                                 Yes, sir,
    This saddle’s pad, (_showing LOPE_,) or, if you like, the beast
    That bears the saddle—or, by another rule,—
    That where the cat jumps also goes her tail.

    _Lope_ (_to his father_). You see, sir, in such godly company
    I must repent.

    _Vic._          Why, devil take ’t—

    _Urr._                               What, swearing?

    _Vic._ But some poor relic of our former life
    That yet will stick. Madam, permit me,
    If not to kiss your hand, nor ev’n your feet,
    At least the happy ground on which they walk.

    _Blan._ Rise, rise. How can I less than welcome one
    Who has so loyally stood by my son,
    Through evil and through good.

    _Vic._                         A monument
    As one might say, madam, _ad perpetuam_
    _Fidelis Amicitiæ Memoriam_.

                            _Enter BEATRICE._

    _Beat._ What! is my master home? Then, by the saints,
    Saving your presence, and before your faces,
    I must embrace him.

    _Lope._              Thanks, good Beatrice.

    _Urr._ You see how all rejoice to see you, Lope,
    But none so more than I; believe ’t. But now
    ’Tis time you wait on Mendo, and acknowledge
    The kindness he has done us. See, Beatrice,
    If he be in his room, or busy there.

                                                        [_Exit BEATRICE._

    Meanwhile, my son, I crave one patient hearing
    To what I have to say.

    _Vic._                  Now for a lecture.

    _Lope._ Silence, sir! Coming here, we must expect
    And bear such things. Pray speak, sir.

    _Urr._                                  You see, Lope,
    (And doubtless must have heard of it before,)
    In what a plight we are: my property,
    What yet remains of it, embroil’d and hamper’d,
    And all so little, that this last expense,
    Of getting (as I have) your Estifania,
    Who has already cost us all so much,
    Into a convent; to do this, I say,
    I have been forced to let my house for hire
    To my old friend; yea, almost, I assure you,
    To beg from door to door. Enough of that:
    ’Tis done; and you are now at last restor’d
    To home, and station—wealth I cannot say—
    But all is well that ends well. All I ask,
    (And ’tis with tears and with a broken voice
    I ask it: I would ask it on my knees
    If these white hairs forbade not such descent,)
    That from this day, in pity to us all—
    Perhaps in gratitude—you would repent
    Your past excess; yea, surfeited with that,
    Would henceforth tame your headlong passions down
    Into a quiet current. Help me, son,
    Restore the shaken credit of our house,
    And show—let us _both_ show—that misery
    Has taught us not in vain. Let us be friends
    Henceforth; no rivalry of love or hate
    Between us; each doing what in him lies
    To make what may remain of life to each
    Happy and honourable. On my part
    I stake a father’s love and tenderness;
    And will not you as freely on your side
    Wager your filial obedience?
    Your father asks, implores you. Oh, consider
    You may not always have a friend in need
    To rescue you as now: nay, disappoint
    His mercy and again provoke the laws
    He now remits, that friend may turn to foe
    And sacrifice the life he vainly spared.

    _Vic._ There only wants, ‘in sæcula sæculorum,’
    To finish off with.

    _Lope._              Sir, I promise you
    Amendment, that shall make the past a foil
    To set the future off.

                             _Enter MENDO._

    _Men._                  I come in time
    To vouch fulfilment of so fair a vow.

    _Lope._ Oh, sir—

    _Men._             I knew you on your road to me;
    Your errand too; and thus much have forestall’d
    Of needless courtesy.

    _Lope._                Pray God, reward you
    With such advancement in your prince’s love
    As envy, the court Hydra, shall not hiss,
    But general love and acclamation
    Write in gold letters in our history,
    For ages and for ages. Sir, your hand!

    _Men._ My heart, my heart, you shame me by your thanks,
    For service that the veriest churl had paid
    For what you did me, Lope.
    Why, I’m your debtor still. But now, enough!
    I cannot steal more time from business;
    The King expects me.

    _Urr._                I too must abroad.

    _Lope._ Would I could wait on both—but, as it is,
    I think my father’s self would waive his right,
    In favour of our common benefactor.

    _Urr._ Indeed, indeed, I do rejoice you should.

                                                     [_Exit with BLANCA._

    _Men._ And I, not knowing if your choice be right,
    Know that I would not lose you for a moment,
    So glad your presence makes me.

                                                       [_Exit with LOPE._

_Vic._[5] Beatrice! Beatrice!

_Beat._ Well?

_Vic._ Think you not, now that our principals are fairly out of the way,
you owe me a kiss on my arrival?

_Beat._ Ay, hot from the oven.

_Vic._ Ah Beatrice! if you only knew what heartaches you’ve cost me.

_Beat._ You indeed, robbing and murdering, and I don’t know what beside,
up in the mountains! and then my new madam that’s come with you, Donna
Violante; with her fine Elvira—I know, sir, when your master was courting
his mistress, you—

_Vic._ Now, my own Beatrice, if you could only know what you are talking
of as well as I, how little jealousy could such a creature as that give
you!

_Beat._ Well—but why?

_Vic._ Not a woman at all, neither maid nor mermaid—Why, didn’t I catch
her with all those fine locks of hers clean off her head?

_Beat._ Clean off her head?

_Vic._ The woman’s bald.

_Beat._ Bald?

_Vic._ As my hand! besides, all the fine white _chevaux-de-frise_ that
ornaments her gums.

_Beat._ Well?

_Vic._ All sham.

_Beat._ What, my fine madam there false teeth?

_Vic._ Oh, and half a dozen villainous things I could tell you, did it
become a gentleman to tell tales of ladies. But see, here is master
coming back.

_Beat._ Good-bye then, for the present, Vicente. False teeth and a wig!

                                                                 [_Exit._

                            _Enter DON LOPE._

_Lope._ Vicente, have you by any chance seen Violante?

_Vic._ Not that I know of, sir; she may however have passed without my
knowing her.

_Lope._ Vicente still! As if it were possible one who had once seen such
beauty could ever forget it.

_Vic._ Why, sir, if her maid Elvira happened to be by her side—

_Lope._ Fool!

_Vic._ Pray is it impossible in the system of things that the maid should
be handsomer than the mistress?

_Lope._ Oh could I but see her!

_Vic._ Take care, take care, sir. Beware of raising the old devil—and
now we are but just out of the frying-pan—

_Lope._ Beware _you_, sir! I tell you I ill liked my father’s lecture;
do not you read me another. It were best that no one crossed me, or by
heaven!—But who comes here?

_Vic._ Don Guillen de Azagra.

                          _Enter DON GUILLEN._

    _Lope._                        What?
    Ask what reward you will of me, Vicente.
    Don Guillen de Azagra back again!

    _Guil._ And could not wait a moment, hearing you
    Were also back, Don Lope, till I found you,
    As well to give you welcome as receive it.

    _Lope._ Our old affection asks for nothing less
    On both sides. Oh, you are welcome!

    _Guil._ Well can he come, who comes half dead between
    Dead hope and quickening passion!

    _Lope._                           How is that?

    _Guil._ Why, you remember how three years ago
    I went to Naples—to the wars there?

    _Lope._                              Yes,
    We parted, I remember, sadly enough
    On both sides, in the Plaza del Aseo;
    Unconsciously divining the sad days
    That were about to dawn on one of us.

    _Guil._ Nay, upon both. I am no stranger, Lope,
    To your misfortunes; and Heaven knows I felt them!
    But they are over, Heaven be thankt! mine yet
    Are sadly acting. You can help me now,
    If not to conquer, to relieve them.

    _Lope._                             Ay,
    And will strain every nerve for you. But first
    Must hear your story.

    _Guil._               Well—I went to Naples,
    Where, as you know, our King by force of arms
    Was eager to revenge the shameful death
    Of Norandino, whom the King of Naples
    Had on the scaffold treacherously murder’d.
    Of which, and Naples too, I say no more
    Than this; that, entering the city,
    I saw a lady in whom the universe
    Of beauty seem’d to centre; as it might be
    The sun’s whole light into a single beam,
    The heavenly dawn into one drop of dew,
    Or the whole breathing spring into one rose.
    You will believe I loved not without cause,
    When you have heard the lady that I speak of
    Is—

    _Vic._ Donna Violante

    _Lope._               Knave and fool!

_Vic._ Why so, sir! only for telling you I saw the lady coming this way;
but, I suppose, seeing people here, she has turned back.

_Lope._ Will you retire awhile, Don Guillen? this lady is my father’s
guest.

_Guil._ (_aside_). Beside, she might be angry finding me here.

                                                                 [_Exit._

_Lope._ ’Fore Heaven, my mind misgave me it was she he spoke of!

_Vic._ Well, you have got the weather-gage. Tackle her now.

                      _Enter VIOLANTE and ELVIRA._

    _Lope._ Nay, lady, turn not back. What you, the sun
    I see by, to abridge my little day
    By enviously returning to the west
    As soon as risen, and prematurely drawing
    The veil of night over the blush of dawn!
    Oh, let me not believe I fright you now,
    As yesterday I did, fair Violante,
    Arm’d among savage rocks with savage men,
    From whose rude company your eyes alone
    Have charm’d me, and subdued for the first time
    A fierce, unbridled will.

    _Viol._                   It were not strange,
    Don Lope, if my bosom trembled still
    With that first apparition. But in truth
    I had not hesitated,
    Had I not seen, or fancied, at your side
    Another stranger.

    _Lope._           Oh, a friend; and one
    Who spoke with me of _you_; nay, who retired
    Only for fear of drawing new disdain
    Upon old love: and left me here indeed,
    To speak in his behalf.

    _Viol._                 Alas, Elvira,
    Was ’t not Don Guillen?

    _Elv._                 Yes.

    _Viol._                     Don Lope plead
    Another’s, and Don Guillen’s love!

                                                        (_She is going._)

    _Lope._                             At least
    Let me attend you to my mother’s door.

    _Viol._ Nay, stay, sir.

    _Lope._                 Stay! and lose my life in losing
    This happy opportunity!

    _Viol._                 Are life
    And opportunity the same?

    _Lope._                   So far,
    That neither lost ever returns again.

    _Viol._ If you have aught to tell me, tell it here
    Before I go.

    _Lope._      Only to ask if you
    Confess yourself no debtor to a heart
    That long has sigh’d for you?

    _Viol._                       You, sir, are then
    Pleading another’s cause?

    _Lope._                   I might be shy
    To plead in my own person—a reserve
    That love oft feels—and pardons.

    _Viol._                           ’Tis in vain.
    I will not own to an account of sighs
    Drawn up against me without my consent;
    So tell your friend; and tell him he mistakes
    The way to payment making you, of all,
    His agent in the cause.

    _Lope._                 Nay, nay, but wait.

    _Viol._ No more—Adieu!

                                                                 [_Exit._

    _Lope._                 She thought I only used
    Another’s suit as cover to my own,
    And cunningly my seeming cunning turns
    Against myself. But I will after her;
    If Don Guillen come back, tell him, Vicente,
    I’ll wait upon him straight.

                                                                 [_Exit._

_Vic._ Madam Elvira!

_Elv._ Well, Monsieur Cut-throat?

_Vic._ Well, you are not scared at my face now?

_Elv._ I don’t know that—your face remains as it was.

_Vic._ Come, come, my queen, do me a little favour.

_Elv._ Well, what is that?

_Vic._ Just only die for love of me; I always make a point of never
asking impossibilities of any woman.

_Elv._ Love is out of the question! I perhaps might _like_ you, did I
not know the lengths you go with that monkey Beatrice.

_Vic._ With whom?

_Elv._ I say with Beatrice. Bystanders see as much, sir, as players.

_Vic._ I with Beatrice! Lord! lord! if you only knew half what I know,
Elvira, you’d not be jealous of her.

_Elv._ Why, what do you know of her?

_Vic._ A woman who, could she breed at all, would breed foxes and
stoats—a tolerable outside, but only, only go near her—Foh! such a
breath! beside other peculiarities I don’t mention out of respect to the
sex. But this I tell you, one of those sparkling eyes of hers is glass,
and her right leg a wooden one.

_Elv._ Nonsense!

_Vic._ Only you look, and, see if she don’t limp on one side, and squint
on the other.

_Don Guillen_ (_entering at one side_). I can wait no longer.

_Don Lope_ (_entering at the other_). It is no use; she is shut up with
my mother. Now for Don Guillen.

_Elv._ They are back.

_Vic._ We’ll settle our little matter by and by.

_Elv._ Glass eyes and wooden legs!

                                                                 [_Exit._

    _Lope_ (_To DON GUILLEN_). Forgive my leaving you so long; I have been
    Waiting on one who is my father’s guest,
    The lady Violante.

    _Guil._            So sweet duty
    Needs no excuse.

    _Lope._           Now to pursue your story—

    _Guil._ Ah—where did I leave off?

    _Lope._                             About the truce
    Making at Naples, when you saw a lady—

    _Guil._ Ay, but I must remember one thing, Lope,
    Most memorable of all. The ambassador
    Empower’d to treat on our good King’s behalf
    Was Mendo de Torellas, whose great wisdom
    And justice, both grown grey in state affairs,
    Well fitted him for such authority;
    Which telling you, and telling you beside,
    That when the treaty made, and he left Naples,
    I left it too, still following in his wake
    The track of a fair star who went with him
    To Saragossa, to this very house—
    Telling you this, I tell you all—tell who
    My lady is—his daughter—Violante,
    Before whose shrine my life and soul together
    Are but poor offerings to consecrate.

    _Vic._ (_aside_). A pretty market we have brought our pigs to!
    Who’ll bet upon the winner?

    _Lope._ (_aside_).           Oh confusion!
    But let us drain the cup at once.—Don Guillen,
    Your admiration and devotedness
    Needed the addition of no name to point
    Their object out. But tell me,
    Ere I advise with you, how far your prayer
    Is answer’d by your deity.

    _Guil._                    Alas!
    Two words will tell—

    _Lope._                And those?

    _Guil._                            Love unreturn’d!
    Or worse, return’d with hate.

    _Vic._ (_aside_).              Come, that looks better.

    _Guil._ My love for her has now no hope, Don Lope,
    But in your love for me. She is your guest,
    And I as such, beside my joy in you,
    May catch a ray of her—may win you even
    To plead for me in such another strain
    As has not yet wearied her ears in vain;
    Or might you not ev’n now, as she returns,
    Give her a letter from me; lest if first
    She see, or hear from others of my coming,
    She may condemn my zeal for persecution,
    And make it matter of renew’d disdain.
    I’ll write the letter now, and bring it you
    Ere she be back.

                                                                 [_Exit._

    _Vic._ (_to LOPE_). Good-bye, sir.

    _Lope._                         Whither now,
    Vicente?

    _Vic._    To the mountains—I am sure
    You’ll soon be after me.

    _Lope._                  I understand—
    But stay awhile.
    True, I love Violante, and resent
    Don Guillen’s rivalry: but he’s my friend—
    Confides to me a passion myself own,
    And cannot blame.
    Wait we awhile, Vicente, and perhaps
    A way will open through the labyrinth
    Without our breaking through.

    _Vic._                         How glad I am
    To see you take ’t so patiently? Now, sir,
    Would you be ruled—

    _Lope._               What then?

    _Vic._                            Why simply, sir,
    Forget the lady—but a few days’ flame,
    And then—

    _Lope._     Impossible!

    _Vic._                   What’s to be done then?

    _Lope._ I know not—But she comes.

                            _Enter VIOLANTE._

    _Viol._                Still here, Don Lope!

    _Lope._ Ah, what in nature will its centre leave,
    Or, forced away, recoils not faster still?
    So rivers yearn along their murmuring beds
    Until they reach the sea; the pebble thrown
    Ever so high, still faster falls to earth;
    Wind follows wind, and not a flame struck out
    Of heavy wood or flint, but it aspires
    Upward at once and to its proper sphere.

    _Viol._ All good philosophy, could I but see
    How to apply it here.

    _Lope._                And yet, how easy!
    Your beauty being that to which my soul
    Ever flies fastest, and most slowly leaves.

    _Viol._ Surely this sudden rapture scarce agrees
    With what I heard before.

    _Lope._                    How, Violante?

    _Viol._ Have you not haply changed parts in the farce,
    And risen from second character to first?

    _Lope._ My second did not please you—come what will,
    Casting feign’d speech and character aside,
    I’ll e’en speak for myself in my own person.
    Listen to me—Don Guillen—

    _Guil._ (_listening at the side_). Just a moment
    To hear him plead my cause.

    _Lope._ Following your beauty, as a flower the sun,
    Has come from Italy to Arragon,
    And, as my friend, by me entreats of you
    To let him plead his suit.

    _Guil._                     Would I could stay
    To hear the noble Lope plead my cause,
    But summon’d hence—

                                                                 [_Exit._

    _Viol._              Ill does your second part
    Excuse your ill performance of the first;
    One failure might be pardon’d, but two such
    Are scarce to be excused.

    _Lope._                   Oh, tell me then
    Which chiefly needs apology!

    _Viol._                       I will.
    First for your friend Don Guillen; bid him cease
    All compliment and courtship, knowing well
    How all has been rejected hitherto,
    And will hereafter, to the ruthless winds.

    _Lope._ And on the second count—my own?

    _Viol._                                   How easily
    Out of his answer you may draw your own!

    _Lope._ Alas!

    _Viol._        For when the judge has to pronounce
    Sentence on two defendants, like yourselves,
    Whose charge is both alike, and bids the one
    Report his condemnation to the other;
    ’Tis plain—

    _Lope._       That both must suffer?

    _Viol._                               Nay, if so
    The judge had made one sentence serve for both.

    _Lope._ Great heavens!

    _Guil._ (_listening at the side_). The man dismiss’d, I’ll hear the
      rest.

    _Viol._ Oh, let it be enough to tell you now
    The heart that once indeed was adamant,
    Resisting all impression—but at last
    Ev’n adamant you know—

    _Guil._                 Oh, she relents!

    _Lope._ Oh, let me kiss those white hands for those words!

    _Guil._ Excellent friend! he could not plead more warmly
    Were ’t for himself.

    _Lope._              Oh for some little token
    To vouch, when you have vanisht from my eyes,
    That all was not a dream!

    _Viol._ (_giving him a rose_). This rose, whose hue
    Is of the same that should my check imbue!

                                                                 [_Exit._

                            _Enter GUILLEN._

    _Guil._ Oh how thrice welcome is my lady’s favour,
    Sent to me by the hand of such a friend!
    How but in such an attitude as this
    Dare I receive it? (_Kneels._)

    _Lope._             Rise, Don Guillen, rise:
    Flowers are but fading favours that a breath
    Can change and wither.

    _Guil._                 What mean you by this?

    _Lope._ Only that though the flower in my hands
    Is fresh from Violante’s, I must tell you
    It must not pass to yours.

    _Guil._                     Did not I hear you
    Pleading my cause?

    _Lope._             You might—

    _Guil._                          And afterwards,
    When I came back again, herself confess
    That, marble as she had been to my vows,
    She now relented tow’rd me!

    _Lope._                      If you did,
    ’Twould much disprove the listener’s adage.

    _Guil._                                     How?

    _Lope._ You set your ears to such a lucky tune,
    As took in all the words that made for you,
    But not the rest that did complete the measure.

    _Guil._ But did not Violante, when you urged her
    In my behalf, say she relented?

    _Lope._                          Yes.

    _Guil._ To whom then?

    _Lope._                To myself.

    _Vic._                             The cat’s unbagg’d!

    _Guil._ To you!

    _Lope._          To me.

    _Guil._                 Don Lope, you must see
    That ev’n my friendship for you scarce can stomach
    Such words—or credit them.

    _Lope._                      Let him beware
    Who doubts my words, stomach them as he can.

    _Guil._ But ’tis a jest:
    Bearing my happy fortune in your hands,
    You only, as old love has leave to do,
    Tantalize ere you give it me. Enough,
    Give me the rose.

    _Lope._            I cannot, being just
    Given to me, and for me.

    _Guil._                   His it is
    Whose right it is, and that is mine; and I
    Will have it.

    _Lope._        If you can.

    _Guil._                     Then follow me,
    Where (not in your own house) I may chastise
    The friendship that must needs have play’d me false
    One way or other.

                                                                 [_Exit._

    _Lope._            Lead the way then, sir.

               _Enter hurriedly DONNA BLANCA and VIOLANTE
                          from opposite sides._

    _Viol._ Don Lope, what is this?

    _Lope._                          Nothing, Violante.

    _Viol._ I heard your angry voices in my room,
    And could not help—

    _Blan._               And I too. O my son,
    Scarce home with us, and all undone already!
    Where are you going?

    _Lope._               No where; nothing; leave me.

    _Viol._ Tell me the quarrel—Oh! I dread to hear.

    _Lope._ What quarrel, lady? let me go: your fears
    Deceive you.

    _Blan._       Lope, not an hour of peace
    When you are here!

    _Lope._             Nay, madam, why accuse me,
    Before you know the cause?

                             _Enter URREA._

    _Urr._                      How now?—disputing?
    Blanca and Violante too? What is it?

    _Blan._ Oh, nothing! (I must keep it from his father.)
    Nothing—he quarrell’d with Vicente here,
    And would have beat him—and we interposed;
    Indeed, no more.

    _Vic._            The blame is sure to fall
    Upon my shoulders.

    _Urr._              Is ’t not very strange,
    Your disposition, Lope? never at peace
    With others or yourself.

    _Lope._                   ’Tis nothing, sir.

    _Vic._ He quarrell’d with me, sir, about some money
    He thought he ought to have, and couldn’t find
    In his breeches’ pocket.

    _Urr._                    Go, go—get you gone, knave.

    _Vic._ Always fair words from you at any rate. (_Aside._)

    _Urr._ And for such trifles, Lope, you disturb
    My house, affright your mother and her guest
    With your mad passion.

    _Lope._                 I can only, sir,
    Answer such charge by silence, and retire.—
    Now for Don Guillen. (_Aside._)

                                                                 [_Exit._

    _Blan._               Oh let him not go!

    _Urr._ Why not? ’tis a good riddance. Violante,
    You must excuse this most unseemly riot
    Close to your chamber. My unruly son,
    When his mad passion’s roused, neither respects
    Person or place.

    _Viol._           Nay, sir, I pardon him.
    And should, for I’m the cause! (_Aside._)

    _Blan._                         Ah, wretched I,
    Who by the very means I would prevent
    His going forth, have oped the door to him.

                              (_Noise within of swords, and the voices of
                                             LOPE and GUILLEN fighting._)

    _Urr._ What noise is that again?

                             _Enter ELVIRA._

    _Elv._                            ’Tis in the street.

                            _Enter BEATRICE._

    _Beat._ Oh, my young master fighting—run, sir, run!

    _Urr._ And ’tis for this I’ve sacrificed myself!

                    _Enter fighting LOPE and GUILLEN;
               Gentlemen and others trying to part them._

    _Urr._ (_going between them_). Hold, Lope! Hold,
    Don Guillen!

    _Voices._          Part them! part them!

    _Guil._ Traitor!

    _Lope._           Traitor!—I say that he’s the traitor
    Whoever—

    _Urr._      Madman, can you not forbear
    When your grey-headed father holds your sword!

    _Lope._ And in so doing robs me of the honour
    I never got from him.

    _Urr._                 Oh! ruffian!
    But if this graceless son will not respect
    His father, my white hairs appeal to you,
    Don Guillen.

    _Guil._      And shall not appeal in vain—
    Out of respect, sir, for your age and name,
    And for these gentlemen who interpose,
    I shall refer the issue of this quarrel
    To other time and place.

    _Lope._                  A good excuse
    For fear to hide in.

    _Guil._              Fear!

    _Urr._                      Madman! again!
    That the respect his rival shows to me
    Should make my son despise him. By these heavens
    This staff shall teach you better.

    _Lope._                             Strike me not!
    Beware—beware!

    _Urr._           Why, art thou not ashamed—

    _Lope._ Yes, of respect for you that’s fear of me.

    _Guil._ Whoever says or thinks what I have done
    Is out of fear of you, I say—

    _Urr._                          He lies!
    I’ll top your sentence for you.

    _Lope._                          Then take thou
    The answer!

                                 (_Strikes URREA, who falls: confusion._)

    _A voice._   What have you done?

    _Another._                        Help, help!

    _Voices._ After him, after him!—the parricide!

                            (_LOPE rushes out and the people after him._)

    _Guil._ I know not how to leave the poor old man—
    Come, let me help you, sir.

    _Urr._                       Parricide!
    May outraged Heaven that has seen thy crime,
    Witness my curse, and blast thee! Every sword
    That every pious hand against thee draws,
    Caught up into the glittering elements,
    Turn thunderbolt, (as every weapon shall
    Drawn in God’s cause,) and smite thee to the centre!
    That sacrilegious hand which thou hast raised
    Against this snow-white head—how shall it show
    Before Heaven’s judgment bar; yea, how can Heaven
    Ev’n now behold this deed, nor quench its sun,
    Veil its pure infinite blue with awful cloud,
    And with a terrified eclipse of things
    Confound the air you breathe, the light you see,
    The ground you walk on!

    _Guil._                  Pray sir, compose yourself—
    Your cloak—your staff—

    _Urr._                    My staff! what use is that,
    When it is steel that must avenge my wrong?
    Yet give it me—fit instrument
    Wherewith to chastise a rebellious child—
    Ay, and he did not use his sword on me,
    Mark that, nor I on him—give me my staff.
    Alas, alas! and I with no strength left
    To wield it, only as I halt along,
    Feeling about with it to find a grave,
    And knocking at deaf earth to let me in.[6]

    _Guil._ Nay, calm yourself,
    The population of the place is up
    After the criminal.

    _Urr._               And to what purpose?
    They cannot wipe away my shame by that.
    Let the whole city turn its myriad eyes
    Upon me, and behold a man disgraced—
    Disgraced by him to whom he gave a being.
    I say, behold me all—the wretched man
    By his own flesh and blood insulted, and
    On his own flesh and blood crying Revenge!
    Revenge! revenge! revenge!
    Not to the heavens only, nor to Him
    Who sits in judgment there, do I appeal,
    But to the powers of earth. Give me my hat,
    I’ll to the King forthwith.

    _Vic._                       Consider, sir;
    You would not enter in the palace gates
    So suddenly, and in this plight?

    _Urr._                     Why not,
    Whose voice should over-leap the firmament,
    And without any preparation enter
    The palace-doors of God—
    King Pedro! King of Arragon! Christian king!
    Whom fools the Cruel call, and Just the wise,
    I call on you, King Pedro[7]—

    _King_ (_entering with MENDO and Train_). Who calls the King?

    _Urr._ A wretch who, falling at your feet, implores
    Your royal justice.

    _King._              I remember you;
    Don Lope de Urrea, whose son I pardon’d.
    What would you of me?

    _Urr._                 That you would, my King,
    Unpardon him you pardon’d; draw on him
    The disappointed sword of justice down.
    That son—_my_ son—if he indeed be mine—
    (Oh, Blanca, pure as the first blush of day,
    Pardon me such a word!) has, after all
    My pain and sacrifice in his behalf;
    Has, in defiance of the laws of man
    And God, and of that great commandment, which,
    Though fourth on the two tables, yet comes first
    After God’s jealous honour is secured,
    Has struck me—struck his father—in a fray
    Wherein that father tried to save his life.
    I have no vindication; _will_ have none,
    But at your hands and by your laws; unless,
    If you deny me that, I do appeal
    Unto the King of kings to do me justice;
    Which I will have, that heaven and earth may know
    How a bad son begets a ruthless sire!

    _King._ Mendo!

    _Men._          My liege.

    _King._                    I must again refer
    This cause to you. (_To URREA._) Where is your son?

    _Urr._           Fled! fled!

    _King_ (_to MENDO_). After him then, use all the powers I own
    To bring the wretch to justice. See me not
    Till that be done.

    _Men._              I’ll do my best, my liege.

    _King._ I have it most at heart. In all the rolls
    Of history, I know of no like quarrel:
    And the first judgment on it shall be done
    By the Fourth Pedro, King of Arragon.

                                                     [_Exeunt severally._

ACT III

SCENE I.—_A Wild Place._

              _Enter MENDO and Officers of Justice armed._

_1st Officer._ Here, my lord, where the Ebro, swollen with her mountain
streams, runs swiftest, he will try to escape.

_Men._ Hunt for him then, leaving neither rock nor thicket unexplored.
(_They disperse._)

    Oh, what a fate is mine,
    Having to seek what most I dread to find,
    Once thought the curse of jealousy alone!
    The iron King will see my face no more
    Unless I bring Don Lope to his feet:
    Whom, on the other hand, the gratitude
    And love I bear him fain would save from justice.
    Oh, how—

                  _Enter some, fighting with DON LOPE._

    _Lope._    I know I cannot save my life,
    But I will sell it dear.

    _Men._                    Hold off! the King
    Will have him taken, but not slain. And I,
    If I can save him now, shall find a mean
    To do it afterwards—
    Don Lope!

    _Lope._    I should know that voice, the face
    I cannot, blind with fury, dust, and blood.
    Or was ’t the echo of some inner voice,
    Some far off thunder of the memory,
    That moves me more than all these fellows’ swords?
    Is it Don Mendo?

    _Men._            Who demands of you
    Your sword, and that you yield in the King’s name.

    _Lope._ I yield?

    _Men._            Ay, sir, what can you do beside?

    _Lope._ Slaying be slain. And yet my heart relents
    Before your voice; and now I see your face
    My eyes dissolve in tears. Why, how is this?
    What charm is on my sword?

    _Men._                      ’Tis but the effect
    And countenance of justice that inspires
    Involuntary awe in the offender.

    _Lope._ Not that. Delinquent as I am, I could,
    With no more awe of justice than a mad dog,
    Bite right and left among her officers;
    But ’tis yourself alone: to you alone
    Do I submit myself; yield up my sword
    Already running with your people’s blood,
    And at your feet—

    _Men._              Rise, Lope. Heaven knows
    How gladly would your judge change place with you
    The criminal; far happier to endure
    Your peril than my own anxiety.
    But do not you despair, however stern
    Tow’rds you I carry me before the world.
    The King is so enraged—

    _Lope._                   What, he has heard!

    _Men._ Your father cried for vengeance at his feet.

    _Lope._ Where is my sword?

    _Men._                      In vain. ’Tis in my hand.

    _Lope._ Where somehow it affrights me—as before
    When giving you my dagger, it turn’d on me
    With my own blood.

    _Mendo._            Ho there!
    Cover Don Lope’s face, and carry him
    To prison after me. (_Aside._) Hark, in your ear,
    Conduct him swiftly, and with all secrecy,
    To my own house—in by the private door,
    Without his knowing whither,
    And bid my people watch and wait on him.
    I’ll to the King—Alas, what agony,
    I know not what, grows on me more and more!

                                                               [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.—_A Room in the Palace._

                              _Enter KING._

    _King._ Don Mendo comes not back, and must not come,
    Till he have done his errand. I myself
    Can have no rest till justice have her due.
    A son to strike his father in my realm
    Unawed, and then unpunisht!
    But by great Heaven the law shall be avenged
    So long as I shall reign in Arragon.
    Don Mendo!

                             _Enter MENDO._

    _Mendo._       Let me kiss your Highness’ hand.

    _King._ Welcome, thou other Atlas of my realm,
    Who sharest the weight with me. For I doubt not,
    Coming thus readily into my presence,
    You bring Don Lope with you.

    _Men._                        Yes, my liege;
    Fast prisoner in my house, that none may see
    Or talk with him.

    _King._            Among your services
    You have not done a better.
    The crime is strange, ’tis fit the sentence on it
    Be memorably just.

    _Men._              Most true, my liege,
    Who I am sure will not be warp’d away
    By the side current of a first report,
    But on the whole broad stream of evidence
    Move to conclusion. I do _know_ this charge
    Is not so grave as was at first reported.

    _King._ But is not thus much clear—that a son smote
    His father?

    _Men._       Yes, my liege.

    _King._                      And can a charge
    Be weightier?

    _Men._            I confess the naked fact,
    But ’tis the special cause and circumstance
    That give the special colour to the crime.

    _King._ I shall be glad to have my kingdom freed
    From the dishonour of so foul a deed
    By any extenuation.

    _Men._               Then I think
    Your Majesty shall find it here. ’Tis thus:
    Don Lope, on what ground I do not know,
    Fights with Don Guillen—in the midst o’ the fray,
    Comes old Urrea, at the very point
    When Guillen was about to give the lie
    To his opponent—which the old man, enraged
    At such unseemly riot in his house,
    Gives for him; calls his son a fouler name
    Than gentleman can bear, and in the scuffle
    Receives a blow that in his son’s blind rage
    Was aim’d abroad—in the first heat of passion
    Throws himself at your feet, and calls for vengeance,
    Which, as I hear, he now repents him of.
    He’s old and testy—age’s common fault—
    And, were not this enough to lame swift justice,
    There’s an old law in Arragon, my liege,
    That in our courts father and son shall not
    Be heard in evidence against each other;
    In which provision I would fain persuade you
    Bury this quarrel.

    _King._             And this seems just to you?

    _Men._ It does, my liege.

    _King._                    Then not to me, Don Mendo,
    Who will examine, sentence, and record,
    Whether in such a scandal to the realm
    The son be guilty of impiety,
    Or the sire idle to accuse him of ’t.
    Therefore I charge you have Urrea too
    From home to-night, and guarded close alone;
    It much imports the business.

    _Men._                         I will, my liege.

                                                     [_Exeunt severally._

SCENE III.—_A Corridor in URREA’S House, with three doors in front._

              _Enter from a side door VIOLANTE and ELVIRA._

_Viol._ Ask me no more, Elvira; I cannot answer when my thoughts are all
locked up where Lope lies.

_Elv._ And know you where that is? Nearer than you think; there, in my
lord your father’s room.

_Viol._ There! Oh, could I but save him!

_Elv._ You can at least comfort him.

_Viol._ Something must be done. Either I will save his life, Elvira, or
die with him. Have you the key?

_Elv._ I have one; my lord has the master-key.

_Viol._ Yours will do, give it me. I am desperate, Elvira, and in his
danger drown my maiden shame; see him I will at least. Do you rest here
and give me a warning if a footstep come. (_She enters centre door._)

SCENE IV.—_An inner Chamber in URREA’S House._

_LOPE discovered._

    _Lope._ Whither then have they brought me? Ah, Violante,
    Your beauty costs me dear! And even now
    I count the little I have yet to live
    Minute by minute, like one last sweet draught,
    But for your sake. Nay, ’tis not life I care for,
    But only Violante.

    _Violante_ (_entering unseen_). Oh, his face
    Is bathed in his own blood; he has been wounded.
    Don Lope!

    _Lope._    Who is it calls on a name
    I thought all tongues had buried in its shame?

    _Viol._ One who yet—pities you.

    _Lope_ (_turning and seeing her_). Am I then dead,
    And thou some living spirit come to meet me
    Upon the threshold of another world;
    Or some dead image that my living brain
    Draws from remembrance on the viewless air,
    And gives the voice I love to? Oh, being here,
    Whatever thou may’st be, torment me not
    By vanishing at once.

    _Viol._                No spirit, Lope,
    And no delusive image of the brain;
    But one who, wretched in your wretchedness,
    And partner of the crime you suffer for,
    All risk of shame and danger cast away,
    Has come—but hark!—I may have but a moment—
    The door I came by will be left unlockt
    To-night, and you must fly.

    _Lope._                      Oh, I have heard
    Of a fair flower of such strange quality,
    It makes a wound where there was none before,
    And heals what wound there was. Oh, Violante,
    You who first made an unscathed heart to bleed,
    Now save a desperate life!

    _Viol._                     And I have heard
    Of two yet stranger flowers that, severally,
    Each in its heart a deadly poison holds,
    Which, if they join, turns to a sovereign balm.
    And so with us, who in our bosoms bear
    A passion which destroys us when apart,
    But when together—

    _Elvira_ (_calling within_). Madam! madam! your father!

    _Viol._ Farewell!

    _Lope._            But you return?

    _Viol._                             To set you free.

    _Lope._ That as it may; only return to me.

                                          [_Exit VIOLANTE, leaving LOPE._

SCENE V.—_Same as SCENE III._

_ELVIRA waiting. Enter VIOLANTE from centre door._

_Viol._ Quick! lock the door, Elvira, and away with me on wings. My
father must not find me here.

_Elv._ Nay, you need not be frightened, he has gone to my lady Blanca’s
room by the way.

_Viol._ No matter, he must not find me; I would learn too what is
stirring in the business.

    Oh, would I ever drag my purpose through,
    I must be desperate and cautious too.

                                                                 [_Exit._

_Elv._ (_locking the door_). Well, that’s all safe, and now myself to
hear what news is stirring.

_Vicente_ (_talking as he enters_). In the devil’s name was there ever
such a clutter made about a blow? People all up in arms, and running
here and there, and up and down, and every where, as if the great Tom of
Velilla was a ringing.

_Elv._ Vicente! what’s the matter?

_Vic._ Oh, a very great matter, Elvira. I am very much put out indeed.

_Elv._ What about, and with whom?

_Vic._ With all the world, and my two masters, the young and old one,
especially.

_Elv._ But about what?

_Vic._ With the young one for being so ready with his fists, and the
old one bawling out upon it to heaven and earth, and then Madam Blanca,
she must join in the chorus too; and then your grand Don Mendo there,
with whom seizing’s so much in season, he has seized my master, and my
master’s father, and Don Guillen, and clapt them all up in prison. Then
I’ve a quarrel with the King!

_Elv._ With the King! You must be drunk, Vicente.

_Vic._ I only wish I was.

_Elv._ But what has the King done?

_Vic._ Why let me be beaten at least fifty thousand times, without caring
a jot: and now forsooth, because an old fellow gets a little push, his
eyes flash axe and gibbet. Then, Elvira, I’m very angry with you.

_Elv._ And why with me?

_Vic._ Because, desperately in love with me as you are, you never
serenade me, nor write me a billet-doux, nor ask me for a kiss of my fair
hand.

_Elv._ Have I not told you, sir, I leave that all to Beatrice?

_Vic._ And have I not told you, Beatrice may go hang for me?

_Elv._ Oh, Vicente, could I believe you!

_Vic._ Come, give me a kiss on credit of it; in case I lie, I’ll pay you
back.

_Elv._ Well, for this once.

                            _Enter BEATRICE._

_Beat._ The saints be praised, I’ve found you at last!

_Vic._ Beatrice!

_Elv._ Well, what’s the matter?

_Vic._ You’ll soon see.

_Beat._ Oh, pray proceed, proceed, good folks, Never mind me: you’ve
business—don’t interrupt it—I’ve seen quite enough, besides being quite
indifferent who wears my cast-off shoes.

_Elv._ I beg to say, madam, I wear no shoes except my own, and if I
_were_ reduced to other people’s, certainly should not choose those that
are made for a wooden leg.

_Beat._ A wooden leg? pray, madam, what has a wooden leg to do with me?

_Elv._ Oh, madam, I must refer you to your own feelings.

_Beat._ I tell you, madam, these hands should tear your hair up by the
roots, if it had roots to tear.

_Vic._ Now for her turn.

_Elv._ Why, does she mean to insinuate my hair is as false as that left
eye of hers?

_Beat._ Do you mean to insinuate my left eye is false?

_Elv._ Ay; and say it to your teeth.

_Beat._ More, madam, than I ever could say to yours, unless, indeed,
you’ve _paid_, madam, for the set you wear.

_Elv._ Have you the face to say my teeth are false?

_Beat._ Have _you_ the face to say my eye’s of glass?

_Elv._ I’ll teach you to say I wear a wig.

_Beat._ Would that my leg _were_ wood just for the occasion.

_Vic._ Ladies, ladies, first consider where we are.

_Beat._ Oh ho! I think I begin to understand.

_Elv._ Oh, and so methinks do I.

    _Beat._ It is this wretch—          ⎫
                                        ⎪
    _Elv._ This knave—                  ⎪
                                        ⎪
    _Beat._ This rascal—                ⎬ Spoken together.
                                        ⎪
    _Elv._ This vagabond—               ⎪
                                        ⎪
    _Beat._ Has told all these lies.    ⎪
                                        ⎪
    _Elv._ Has done all this mischief.  ⎭

                                    (_They set upon and pinch him, etc._)

_Vic._ Ladies, ladies—Mercy! oh! ladies! just listen!

_Elv._ Listen indeed! If it were not that I hear people coming—

_Vic._ Heaven be praised for it!

_Beat._ We will defer the execution then—And in the mean while shall we
two sign a treaty of peace?

    _Elv._ My hand to it—Agreed!

    _Beat._                       Adieu!

    _Elv._                               Adieu!

                                           [_Exeunt BEATRICE and ELVIRA._

    _Vic._ The devil that seized the swine sure has seized you,
    And all your pinches make me tenfold writhe
    Because you never gave the king his tithe.

                                                                 [_Exit._

SCENE VI.—_DONNA BLANCA’S Apartment: it is dark._

          _Enter the KING disguised, and BLANCA following him._

    _Blan._ Who is this man,
    That in the gathering dusk enters our house,
    Enmaskt and muffled thus? what is ’t you want?
    To croak new evil in my ears? for none
    But ravens now come near us—Such a silence
    Is not the less ill-omen’d. Beatrice!
    A light! my blood runs cold—Answer me, man,
    What want you with me?

    _King._                Let us be alone,
    And I will tell you.

    _Blan._              Leave us, Beatrice—
    I’ll dare the worst—And now reveal yourself.

    _King._ Not till the door be lockt.

    _Blan._                              Help, help!

    _King._                                          Be still.

    _Blan._ What would you? and who are you then?

    _King_ (_discovering himself_).                 The King!

    _Blan._ The King!

    _King._           Do you not know me?

    _Blan._                               Yea, my liege,
    Now the black cloud has fallen from the sun;
    But cannot guess why, at an hour like this,
    And thus disguised—Oh, let me know at once
    Whether in mercy or new wrath you come
    To this most wretched house!

    _King._                      In neither, Blanca;
    But in the execution of the trust
    That Heaven has given to kings.

    _Blan._                         And how, my liege,
    Fall I beneath your royal vigilance?

    _King._ You soon shall hear: but, Blanca, first take breath,
    And still your heart to its accustom’d tune,
    For I must have you all yourself to answer
    What I must ask of you. Listen to me.
    Your son, in the full eye of God and man,
    Has struck his father—who as publicly
    Has cried to me for vengeance—such a feud
    Coming at length to such unnatural close,
    Men ’gin to turn suspicious eyes on you,—
    You, Blanca, so mixt up in such a cause
    As in the annals of all human crime
    Is not recorded. Men begin to ask
    Can these indeed be truly son and sire?
    This is the question, and to sift it home,
    I am myself come hither to sift you
    By my own mouth. Open your heart to me,
    Relying on the honour of a king
    That nothing you reveal to me to-night
    Shall ever turn against your good repute.
    We are alone, none to way-lay the words
    That travel from your lips; speak out at once;
    Or, by the heavens, Blanca,—

    _Blan._                       Oh, my liege,
    Not in one breath
    Turn royal mercy into needless threat;
    Though it be true my bosom has so long
    This secret kept close prisoner, and hop’d
    To have it buried with me in my grave,
    Yet if I peril my own name and theirs
    By such a silence, I’ll not leave to rumour
    Another hour’s suspicion; but reveal
    To you, my liege, yea, and to heaven and earth,
    My most disastrous story.

    _King._                   I attend.

    _Blan._ My father, though of lineage high and clear
    As the sun’s self, was poor; and knowing well
    How in this world honour fares ill alone,
    Betroth’d the beauty of my earliest years
    (The only dowry that I brought with me)
    To Lope de Urrea, whose estate
    Was to supply the much he miss’d of youth.
    We married—like December wed to May,
    Or flower of earliest summer set in snow;
    Yet heaven witness that I honour’d, ay,
    And loved him; though with little cause of love,
    And ever cold returns; but I went on
    Doing my duty toward him, hoping still
    To have a son to fill the gaping void
    That lay between us—yea, I pray’d for one
    So earnestly, that God, who has ordain’d
    That we should ask at once for all and nothing
    Of him who best knows what is best for us,
    Denied me what I wrongly coveted.
    Well, let me turn the leaf on which are written
    The troubles of those ill-assorted years,
    And to my tale. I had a younger sister,
    Whom to console me in my wretched home,
    I took to live with me—of whose fair youth
    A gentleman enamour’d—Oh, my liege,
    Ask not his name—yet why should I conceal it,
    Whose honour may not leave a single chink
    For doubt to nestle in?—Sir, ’twas Don Mendo,
    Your minister; who, when his idle suit
    Prosper’d not in my sister’s ear, found means,
    Feeing one of the household to his purpose,
    To get admittance to her room by night;
    Where, swearing marriage soon should sanction love,
    He went away the victor of an honour
    That like a villain he had come to steal;
    Then, but a few weeks after, (so men quit
    All obligation save of their desire,)
    Married another, and growing great at court,
    Went on your father’s bidding into France
    Ambassador, and from that hour to this
    Knows not the tragic issue of his crime.
    I, who perceived my sister’s altered looks,
    And how in mind and body she fared ill,
    With menace and persuasion wrung from her
    The secret I have told you, and of which
    She bore within her bosom such a witness
    As doubly prey’d upon her life. Enough;
    She was my sister, why reproach her then,
    And to no purpose now the deed was done?
    Only I wonder’d at mysterious Heaven,
    Which her misfortune made to double mine,
    Who had been pining for the very boon
    That was her shame and sorrow; till at last,
    Out of the tangle of this double grief
    I drew a thread to extricate us both,
    By giving forth myself about to bear
    The child whose birth my sister should conceal.
    ’Twas done—the day came on—I feign’d the pain
    She felt, and on my bosom as my own
    Cherish’d the crying infant she had borne,
    And died in bearing—for even so it was;
    I and another matron (who alone
    Was partner in the plot)
    Assigning other illness for her death.
    This is my story, sir—this is the crime,
    Of which the guilt being wholly mine, be mine
    The punishment; I pleading on my knees
    My love both to my husband and my sister
    As some excuse. Pedro of Arragon,
    Whom people call the Just, be just to me:
    I do not ask for mercy, but for justice,
    And that, whatever be my punishment,
    It may be told of me, and put on record,
    That, howsoever and with what design
    I might deceive my husband and the world,
    At least I have not shamed my birth and honour.

    _King_ (_apart_). Thus much at least is well; the blackest part
    Of this unnatural feud is washt away
    By this confession, though it swell the list
    Of knotted doubts that Justice must resolve;
    As thus:—Don Lope has reviled and struck
    One whom himself and all the world believe
    His father—a belief that I am pledged
    Not to disprove. Don Mendo has traduced
    A noble lady to her death; and Blanca
    Contrived an ill imposture on her lord:
    Two secret and one public misdemeanour,
    To which I must adjudge due punishment.—
    Blanca, enough at present, you have done
    Your duty; Fare you well.

    _Blan._                   Heaven keep your Highness!

    _Don Mendo_ (_knocking within_). Open the door.

    _King._                                       Who calls?

    _Blan._                                               I know not, sir.

    _King._ Open it, then, but on your life reveal not
    That I am here.

                                   (_KING hides, BLANCA opens the door._)

    _Blan._         Who is it calls?

                             _Enter MENDO._

    _Men._                            I, Blanca.

    _Blan._ Your errand?

    _Men._               Only, Blanca, to beseech you
    Fear not, whatever you may hear or see
    Against your son. His cause is in my hands,
    His person in my keeping; being so,
    Who shall arraign my dealings with him?

    _King_ (_coming forth_).                  I.

    _Men._ My liege, if you—

    _King._                   Enough; give me the key
    Of Lope’s prison.

    _Men._            This it is, my liege:
    Only—

    _King._ I know enough. Blanca, retire.
    Mendo, abide you here. To-night shall show
    If I be worthy of my name or no.

                                                                 [_Exit._

    _Men._ What is the matter, Blanca?

    _Blan._                            Your misdeeds,
    And mine, Don Mendo, which just Heaven now
    Revenges with one blow on both of us.
    After the King! nor leave him till he swear
    To spare my Lope, who, I swear to you,
    Is not my son, but yours, and my poor Laura’s!

    _Men._ Merciful Heavens! But I will save his life
    Come what come may to me.

    _Blan._                   Away, away, then!

                                                     [_Exeunt severally._

SCENE VII.—_Same as SCENE III._

               _Enter VIOLANTE and Elvira at a side door._

_Elv._ Consider, madam.

_Viol._ No!

_Elv._ But think—

_Viol._ I tell you it must be done.

_Elv._ They will accuse your father.

_Viol._ Let them; I tell you it must be done, and _now_; I ask’d you not
for advice, but to obey me. Unlock the door.

_Elv._ Oh how I tremble! Hark!

_Viol._ A moment! They must not find him passing out—the attempt and not
the deed confounding us.[8] Listen!

_Elv._ (_listening at a side door_). I can hear nothing distinct, only a
confused murmur of voices.

_Viol._ Let me—hush!—Hark! they are approaching!

                             _Enter MENDO._

    _Men._ Anguish, oh! anguish!

    _Viol._                      My father!

    _Men._                                  Ay, indeed,
    And a most wretched one.

    _Viol._                  What is it, sir?
    Tell me at once.

    _Men._           I know not. Oh, ’tis false!
    I know too well, and you must know it too.
    My daughter, the poor prisoner who lies there
    Is my own son, not Blanca’s, not Urrea’s,
    But my own son, your brother, Violante!

    _Viol._ My brother!

    _Men._              Ay, your brother, my own son,
    Whom we must save!

    _Viol._            Alas, sir, I was here
    On the same errand, ere I knew—but hark!
    All’s quiet now. (_A groan within._)

    _Men._           Listen! What groan was that?

    _Viol._ My hand shakes so, I cannot—

    _Lope_ (_within_).                      Mercy, O God!

    _Men._ The key, the key!—but hark! they call again
    At either door; we must unlock.

                   (_They unlock the side doors.—Enter through one BLANCA
                     and BEATRICE, through the other URREA and VICENTE._)

    _Urr._                          Don Mendo,
    The King desires me from your mouth to learn
    His sentence on my son.

    _Blan._               Oh, Violante!

    _Men._ From me! from me! to whom the King as yet
    Has not deliver’d it.—
    But what is this? Oh, God!

                      (_The centre door opens and DON LOPE is discovered,
                        garrotted, with a paper in his hand, and lights
                                                          at each side._)

    _Urr._                     A sight to turn
    Rancour into remorse.

    _Men._                In his cold hand
    He holds a scroll, the sentence, it may be,
    The King referr’d you to. Read it, Urrea;
    I cannot. Oh, my son, the chastisement
    That I alone have merited has come
    Upon us both, and doubled the remorse
    That I must feel—and stifle!

    _Urr._ (_reading_). “He that reviles and strikes whom he believes
    His father, let him die for ’t; and let those
    Who have disgraced a noble name, or join’d
    An ill imposture, see his doom; and show
    Three judgments summ’d up in a single blow.”

THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

    KING PHILIP II.

    DON LOPE DE FIGUEROA.

    DON ALVARO DE ATAIDE.

    PEDRO CRESPO        _a Farmer of Zalamea._

    JUAN                _his Son._

    ISABEL              _his Daughter._

    INES                _his Niece._

    DON MENDO           _a poor Hidalgo._

    NUÑO                _his Servant._

    REBOLLEDO           _a Soldier._

    CHISPA              _his Mistress._

    A SERGEANT, A NOTARY, SOLDIERS, LABOURERS, CONSTABLES,
      ROYAL SUITE, etc.

ACT I

SCENE I.—_Country near Zalamea._

                _Enter REBOLLEDO, CHISPA, and Soldiers._

_Reb._ Confound, say I, these forced marches from place to place, without
halt or bait; what say you, friends?

_All._ Amen!

_Reb._ To be trailed over the country like a pack of gipsies, after a
little scrap of flag upon a pole, eh?

_1st Soldier._ Rebolledo’s off!

_Reb._ And that infernal drum which has at last been good enough to stop
a moment stunning us.

_2nd Sold._ Come, come, Rebolledo, don’t storm: we shall soon be at
Zalamea.

_Reb._ And where will be the good of that if I’m dead before I get
there? And if not, ’twill only be from bad to worse: for if we all
reach the place alive, as sure as death up comes Mr. Mayor to persuade
the Commissary we had better march on to the next town. At first Mr.
Commissary replies very virtuously, ‘Impossible! the men are fagged to
death.’ But after a little pocket persuasion, then it’s all ‘Gentlemen,
I’m very sorry: but orders have come for us to march forward, and
immediately’—and away we have to trot, foot weary, dust bedraggled, and
starved as we are. Well, I swear if I do get alive to Zalamea to-day,
I’ll not leave it on this side o’ sun-rise for love, lash, or money. It
won’t be the first time in my life I’ve given ’em the slip.

_1st Sold._ Nor the first time a poor fellow has had the slip given him
for doing so. And more likely than ever now that Don Lope de Figueroa has
taken the command, a fine brave fellow they say, but a devil of a Tartar,
who’ll have every inch of duty done, or take the change out of his own
son, without waiting for trial either.[9]

_Reb._ Listen to this now, gentlemen! By Heaven, I’ll be beforehand with
him.

_2nd Sold._ Come, come, a soldier shouldn’t talk so.

_Reb._ I tell you it isn’t for myself I care so much, as for this poor
little thing that follows me.

_Chis._ Signor Rebolledo, don’t you fret about me; you know I was born
with a beard on my heart if not on my chin, if ever girl was; and your
fearing for me is as bad as if I was afeard myself. Why, when I came
along with you I made up my mind to hardship and danger for honour’s
sake; else if I’d wanted to live in clover, I never should have left the
Alderman who kept such a table as all Aldermen don’t, I promise you.
Well, what’s the odds? I chose to leave him and follow the drum, and
here I am, and if I don’t flinch, why should you?

_Reb._ ’Fore Heaven, you’re the crown of womankind!

_Soldiers._ So she is, so she is, Viva la Chispa!

_Reb._ And so she is, and one cheer more for her, hurrah! especially if
she’ll give us a song to lighten the way.

_Chis._ The castanet shall answer for me.

_Reb._ I’ll join in—and do you, comrades, bear a hand in the chorus.

_Soldiers._ Fire away!

_Chispa sings._

    I.

    Titiri tiri, marching is weary,
      Weary, weary, and long is the way:
    Titiri tiri, hither, my deary,
      What meat have you got for the soldier to-day?
    ‘Meat have I none, my merry men,’
    Titiri tiri, then kill the old hen.
      ‘Alas and a day! the old hen is dead!’
    Then give us a cake from the oven instead,
      Titiri titiri titiri tiri,
    Give us a cake from the oven instead.

    II.

    Admiral, admiral, where have you been-a?
      ‘I’ve been fighting where the waves roar.’
    Ensign, ensign, what have you seen-a?
      ‘Glory and honour and gunshot galore;
    Fighting the Moors in column and line,
    Poor fellows, they never hurt me or mine—
      Titiri titiri titiri tina’—

_1st Sold._ Look, look, comrades—what between singing and grumbling we
never noticed yonder church among the trees.

_Reb._ Is that Zalamea?

_Chis._ Yes, that it is, I know the steeple. Hurrah! we’ll finish the
song when we get into quarters, or have another as good; for you know I
have ’em of all sorts and sizes.

_Reb._ Halt a moment, here’s the sergeant.

_2nd Sold._ And the captain too.

                      _Enter Captain and Sergeant._

_Capt._ Good news, gentlemen, no more marching for to-day at least; we
halt at Zalamea till Don Lope joins with the rest of the regiment from
Llerena. So who knows but you may have a several days’ rest here?

_Reb. and Solds._ Huzzah for our captain!

_Capt._ Your quarters are ready, and the Commissary will give every one
his billet on marching in.

_Chis._ (_singing_). Now then for

    Titiri tiri, hither, my deary,
    Heat the oven and kill the old hen.

                                                   [_Exit with Soldiers._

_Capt._ Well, Mr. Sergeant, have you my billet?

_Serg._ Yes, sir.

_Capt._ And where am I to put up?

_Serg._ With the richest man in Zalamea, a farmer, as proud as Lucifer’s
heir-apparent.

_Capt._ Ah, the old story of an upstart.

_Serg._ However, sir, you have the best quarters in the place, including
his daughter, who is, they say, the prettiest woman in Zalamea.

_Capt._ Pooh! a pretty peasant! splay hands and feet.

_Serg._ Shame! shame!

_Capt._ Isn’t it true, puppy?

_Serg._ What would a man on march have better than a pretty country lass
to toy with?

_Capt._ Well, I never saw one I cared for, even on march. I can’t call
a woman a woman unless she’s clean about the hands and fetlocks, and
otherwise well appointed—a lady in short.

_Serg._ Well, any one for me who’ll let me kiss her. Come, sir, let us be
going, for if you won’t be at her, I will.

_Capt._ Look, look, yonder!

_Serg._ Why, it must be Don Quixote himself with his very Rosinante too,
that Michel Cervantes writes of.

_Capt._ And his Sancho at his side. Well, carry you my kit on before to
quarters, and then come and tell me when all’s ready.

                                                               [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.—_Zalamea, before CRESPO’S House._

                       _Enter DON MENDO and NUÑO._

_Men._ How’s the gray horse?

_Nuñ._ You may as well call him the _Dun_; so screw’d he can’t move a leg.

_Men._ Did you have him walk’d gently about?

_Nuñ._ Walk’d about! when it’s corn he wants, poor devil!

_Men._ And the dogs?

_Nuñ._ Ah, now, they might do if you’d give them the horse to eat.

_Men._ Enough, enough—it has struck three. My gloves and tooth-pick!

_Nuñ._ That sinecure tooth-pick!

_Men._ I tell you I would brain anybody who insinuated to me I had not
dined—and on game too. But tell me, Nuño, haven’t the soldiers come into
Zalamea this afternoon?

_Nuñ._ Yes, sir.

_Men._ What a nuisance for the commonalty who have to quarter them!

_Nuñ._ But worse for those who haven’t.

_Men._ What do you mean, sir?

_Nuñ._ I mean the squires. Ah, sir; if the soldiers aren’t billeted on
them, do you know why?

_Men._ Well, why?

_Nuñ._ For fear of being starved—which would be a bad job for the king’s
service.

_Men._ God rest my father’s soul, says I, who left me a pedigree and
patent all blazon’d in gold and azure, that exempts me from such
impositions.

_Nuñ._ I wish he’d left you the gold in a more available shape, however.

_Men._ Though indeed when I come to think of it, I don’t know if I owe
him any thanks; considering that unless he had consented to beget me an
Hidalgo at once, I wouldn’t have been born at all, for him or any one.

_Nuñ._ Humph! Could you have help’d it?

_Men._ Easily.

_Nuñ._ How, sir?

_Men._ You must know that every one that is born is the essence of the
food his parents eat.

_Nuñ._ Oh! Your parents did eat then, sir? You have not inherited _that_
of them, at all events.

_Men._ Which forthwith converts itself into proper flesh and blood—ergo,
if my father had been an eater of onions, for instance, he would have
begotten me with a strong breath; on which I should have said to him,
‘Hold, I must come of no such nastiness as that, I promise you.’

_Nuñ._ Ah, now I see the old saying is true.

_Men._ What is that?

_Nuñ._ That hunger sharpens wit.

_Men._ Knave, do you insinuate—

_Nuñ._ I only know it is now three o’clock, and we have neither of us yet
had any thing but our own spittle to chew.

_Men._ Perhaps so, but there are distinctions of rank. An Hidalgo, sir,
has no belly.

_Nuñ._ Oh Lord! that I were an Hidalgo!

_Men._ Possibly; servants must learn moderation in all things. But let me
hear no more of the matter; we are under Isabel’s window.

_Nuñ._ There again—If you are so devoted an admirer, why on earth, sir,
don’t you ask her in marriage of her father? by doing which you would
kill two birds with one stone; get yourself something to eat, and his
grandchildren squires.

_Men._ Hold your tongue, sir, it is impious. Am I, an Hidalgo with such
a pedigree, to demean myself with a plebeian connexion just for money’s
sake?

_Nuñ._ Well, I’ve always heard say a mean father-in-law is best; better
stumble on a pebble than run your head against a post. But, however, if
you don’t mean marriage, sir, what do you mean?

_Men._ And pray, sir, can’t I dispose of her in a convent in case I get
tired of her? But go directly, and tell me if you can get a sight of her.

_Nuñ._ I’m afraid lest her father should get a sight of me.

_Men._ And what if he do, being my man? Go and do as I bid you.

_Nuñ._ (_after going to look_). Come, sir, you owe one meal at least
now—she’s at the window with her cousin.

_Men._ Go again, and tell her something about her window being another
East, and she a second Sun dawning from it in the afternoon.

                                  (_ISABEL and INES come to the window._)

_Ines._ For heaven’s sake, cousin, let’s stand here and see the soldiers
march in.

_Isab._ Not I, while that man is in the way, Ines; you know how I hate
the sight of him.

_Ines._ With all his devotion to you!

_Isab._ I wish he would spare himself and me the trouble.

_Ines._ I think you are wrong to take it as an affront.

_Isab._ How would you have me take it?

_Ines._ Why, as a compliment.

_Isab._ What, when I hate the man?

_Men._ Ah! ’pon the honour of an Hidalgo, (which is a sacred oath,) I
could have sworn that till this moment the sun had not risen. But why
should I wonder? when indeed a second Aurora—

_Isab._ Signor Don Mendo, how often have I told you not to waste your
time playing these fool’s antics before my window day after day!

_Men._ If a pretty woman only knew, la! how anger improved its beauty!
her complexion needs no other paint than indignation. Go on, go on,
lovely one, grow angrier, and lovelier still.

_Isab._ You shan’t have even that consolation; come, Ines.

                                                                 [_Exit._

_Ines._ Beware of the portcullis, sir knight.

                                    (_Shuts down the blind in his face._)

_Men._ Ines, beauty must be ever victorious, whether advancing or in
retreat.

                             _Enter CRESPO._

_Cres._ That I can never go in or out of my house without that squireen
haunting it!

_Nuñ._ Pedro Crespo, sir!

_Men._ Oh—ah—let us turn another way; ’tis an ill-conditioned fellow.

                         _As he turns, enter JUAN._

_Juan._ That I never can come home but this ghost of an Hidalgo is there
to spoil my appetite.

_Nuñ._ His son, sir!

_Men._ He’s worse. (_Turning back._) Oh, Pedro Crespo, good day, Crespo,
good man, good day.

                                                       [_Exit with NUÑO._

_Cres._ Good day indeed; I’ll make it bad day one of these days with you,
if you don’t take care. But how now, Juanito, my boy?

_Juan._ I was looking for you, sir, but could not find you; where have
you been?

_Cres._

    To the barn, where high and dry,
    The jolly sheaves of corn do lie,
    Which the sun, arch-chemist old,
    Turn’d from black earth into gold,
    And the swinging flail one day
    On the barn-floor shall assay,
    Separating the pure ore
    From the drossy chaff away.
    This I’ve been about—And now,
    Juanito, what hast thou?

_Juan._ Alas, sir, I can’t answer in so good rhyme or reason. I have
been playing at fives, and lost every bout.

_Cres._ What signifies if you paid?

_Juan._ But I could not, and have come to you for the money.

_Cres._

    Before I give it you, listen to me.
    There are things two
    Thou never must do;
    Swear to more than thou knowest,
    Play for more than thou owest;
    And never mind cost,
    So credit’s not lost.

_Juan._ Good advice, sir, no doubt, that I shall lay by for its own sake
as well as for yours. Meanwhile, I have also heard say,

    Preach not to a beggar till
    The beggar’s empty hide you fill.

_Cres._ ’Fore Heaven, thou pay’st me in my own coin. But—

                            _Enter Sergeant._

_Serg._ Pray, does one Pedro Crespo live hereabout?

_Cres._ Have you any commands for him, if he does?

_Serg._ Yes, to tell him of the arrival of Don Alvaro de Ataide, captain
of the troop that has just marcht into Zalamea, and quartered upon him.

_Cres._ Say no more; my house and all I have is ever at the service of
the king, and of all who have authority under him. If you will leave his
things here, I will see his room is got ready directly; and do you tell
his Honour that, come when he will, he shall find me and mine at his
service.

_Serg._ Good—he will be here directly.

                                                                 [_Exit._

_Juan._ I wonder, father, that, rich as you are, you still submit
yourself to these nuisances.

_Cres._ Why, boy, how could I help them?

_Juan._ You know; by buying a patent of Gentility.

_Cres._ A patent of Gentility! upon thy life now dost think there’s a
soul who doesn’t know that I’m no gentleman at all, but just a plain
farmer? What’s the use of my buying a patent of Gentility, if I can’t buy
the gentle blood along with it! will any one think me a bit more of a
gentleman for buying fifty patents? Not a whit; I should only prove I was
worth so many thousand royals, not that I had gentle blood in my veins,
which can’t be bought at any price. If a fellow’s been bald ever so long,
and buys him a fine wig, and claps it on; will his neighbours think it
is his own hair a bit the more? No, they will say, ‘So and so has a fine
wig; and, what’s more, he must have paid handsomely for it too.’ But they
know his bald pate is safe under it all the while. That’s all he gets by
it.

_Juan._ Nay, sir, he gets to look younger and handsomer, and keeps off
sun and cold.

_Cres._ Tut! I’ll have none of your wig honour at any price. My
grandfather was a farmer, so was my father, so is yours, and so shall you
be after him. Go, call your sister.

                        _Enter ISABEL and INES._

Oh, here she is. Daughter, our gracious king (whose life God save these
thousand years!) is on his way to be crowned at Lisbon; thither the
troops are marching from all quarters, and among others that fine veteran
Flanders regiment, commanded by the famous Don Lope de Figueroa, will
march into Zalamea, and be quartered here to-day; some of the soldiers
in my house. Is it not as well you should be out of the way?

_Isab._ Sir, ’twas upon this very errand I came to you, knowing what
nonsense I shall have to hear if I stay below. My cousin and I can go up
to the garret, and there keep so close, the very sun shall not know of
our whereabout.

_Cres._ That’s my good girl. Juanito, you wait here to receive them in
case they come while I am out looking after their entertainment.

_Isab._ Come, Ines.

    _Ines._ Very well—
    Though I’ve heard in a song what folly ’twould be
    To try keep in a loft what won’t keep on the tree.

                                                               [_Exeunt._

                      _Enter Captain and Sergeant._

_Serg._ This is the house, sir.

_Capt._ Is my kit come?

_Serg._ Yes, sir, and (_aside_) I’ll be the first to take an inventory of
the pretty daughter.

                                                                 [_Exit._

_Juan._ Welcome, sir, to our house; we count it a great honour to have
such a cavalier as yourself for a guest, I assure you. (_Aside._) What a
fine fellow! what an air! I long to try the uniform, somehow.

_Capt._ Thank you, my lad.

_Juan._ You must forgive our poor house, which we devoutly wish was a
palace for your sake. My father is gone after your supper, sir; may I go
and see that your chamber is got ready for you?

_Capt._ Thank you, thank you.

_Juan._ Your servant, sir.

                                                                 [_Exit._

                            _Enter Sergeant._

_Capt._ Well, sergeant, where’s the Dulcinea you told me of?

_Serg._ Deuce, take me, sir, if I haven’t been looking everywhere in
parlour, bed-room, kitchen, and scullery, up-stairs and down-stairs, and
can’t find her out.

_Capt._ Oh, no doubt the old fellow has hid her away for fear of us.

_Serg._ Yes, I ask’d a serving wench, and she confess’d her master had
lock’d the girl up in the attic, with strict orders not even to look out
so long as we were in the place.

_Capt._ Ah! these clodpoles are all so jealous of the service. And what
is the upshot? Why, I, who didn’t care a pin to see her before, shall
never rest till I get at her now.

_Serg._ But how, without a blow-up?

_Capt._ Let me see; how shall we manage it?

_Serg._ The more difficult the enterprise, the more glory in success, you
know, in love as in war.

_Capt._ I have it!

_Serg._ Well, sir?

_Capt._ You shall pretend—but no, here comes one will serve my turn
better.

                      _Enter REBOLLEDO and CHISPA._

_Reb._ (_to CHISPA_). There he is; now if I can get him into a good
humour—

_Chis._ Speak up then, like a man.

_Reb._ I wish I’d some of your courage; but don’t you leave me while I
tackle him. Please your Honour—

_Capt._ (_to Sergeant_). I tell you I’ve my eye on Rebolledo to do him a
good turn; I like his spirit.

_Serg._ Ah, he’s one of a thousand.

_Reb._ (_aside_). Here’s luck! Please your Honour—

_Capt._ Oh, Rebolledo—Well, Rebolledo, what is it?

_Reb._ You may know I am a gentleman who has, by ill luck, lost all his
estate; all that ever I had, have, shall have, may have, or can have,
through all the conjugation of the verb ‘_to have_.’ And I want your
Honour—

_Capt._ Well?

_Reb._ To desire the ensign to appoint me roulette-master to the
regiment, so I may pay my liabilities like a man of honour.

_Capt._ Quite right, quite right; I will see it done.

_Chis._ Oh, brave captain! Oh, if I only live to hear them all call me
Madam Roulette!

_Reb._ Shall I go at once and tell him?

_Capt._ Wait. I want you first to help me in a little plan I have.

_Reb._ Out with it, noble captain. Slow said slow sped, you know.

_Capt._ You are a good fellow; listen. I want to get into that attic
there, for a particular purpose.

_Reb._ And why doesn’t your Honour go up at once?

_Capt._ I don’t like to do it in a strange house without an excuse. Now
look here; you and I will pretend to quarrel; I get angry and draw my
sword, and you run away up-stairs, and I after you, to the attic, that’s
all; I’ll manage the rest.

_Chis._ Ah, we get on famously.

_Reb._ I understand. When are we to begin?

_Capt._ Now directly.

_Reb._ Very good. (_In a loud voice._) This is the reward of my
services—a rascal, a pitiful scoundrel, is preferred, when a man of
honour—a man who has seen service—

_Chis._ Halloa! Rebolledo up! All is not so well.

_Reb._ Who has led you to victory—

_Capt._ This language to me, sir!

_Reb._ Yes, to you, who have so grossly insulted and defrauded—

_Capt._ Silence! and think yourself lucky if I take no further notice of
your insolence.

_Reb._ If I restrain myself, it is only because you are my captain, and
as such—but ’fore God, if my cane were in my hand—

_Chis._ (_advancing_). Hold! Hold!

_Capt._ I’ll show you, sir, how to talk to me in this way. (_Draws his
sword._)

_Reb._ It is before your commission, not you, I retreat.

_Capt._ That shan’t save you, rascal! (_Pursues REBOLLEDO out._)

_Chis._ Oh, I shan’t be Madam Roulette after all. Murder! murder!

                                                        [_Exit, calling._

SCENE III.—_ISABEL’S Garret. ISABEL and INES._

_Isab._ What noise is that on the stairs?

                           _Enter REBOLLEDO._

_Reb._ Sanctuary! Sanctuary!

_Isab._ Who are you, sir?

                            _Enter Captain._

_Capt._ Where is the rascal?

_Isab._ A moment, sir! This poor man has flown to our feet for
protection; I appeal to you for it; and no man, and least of all an
officer, will refuse that to any woman.

_Capt._ I swear no other arm than that of beauty, and beauty such as
yours, could have withheld me. (_To REBOLLEDO._) You may thank the deity
that has saved you, rascal.

_Isab._ And I thank you, sir.

_Capt._ And yet ungratefully slay me with your eyes in return for sparing
him with my sword.

_Isab._ Oh, sir, do not mar the grace of a good deed by poor compliment,
and so make me less mindful of the real thanks I owe you.

_Capt._ Wit and modesty kiss each other, as well they may, in that lovely
face. (_Kneels._)

_Isab._ Heavens! my father!

                  _Enter CRESPO and JUAN with swords._

_Cres._ How is this, sir? I am alarmed by cries of murder in my house—am
told you have pursued a poor man up to my daughter’s room; and, when I
get here expecting to find you killing a man, I find you courting a woman.

_Capt._ We are all born subjects to some dominion—soldiers especially to
beauty. My sword, though justly raised against this man, as justly fell
at this lady’s bidding.

_Cres._ No lady, sir, if you please; but a plain peasant girl—my
daughter.

_Juan_ (_aside_). All a trick to get at her. My blood boils. (_Aloud to
Captain._) I think, sir, you might have seen enough of my father’s desire
to serve you to prevent your requiting him by such an affront as this.

_Cres._ And, pray, who bid thee meddle, boy? Affront! what affront? The
soldier affronted his captain; and if the captain has spared him for thy
sister’s sake, pray what hast thou to say against it?

_Capt._ I think, young man, you had best consider before you impute ill
intention to an officer.

_Juan._ I know what I know.

_Cres._ What! you will go on, will you?

_Capt._ It is out of regard for you I do not chastise him.

_Cres._ Wait a bit; if that were wanting, ’twould be from his father, not
from you.

_Juan._ And, what’s more, I wouldn’t endure it from any one but my father.

_Capt._ You would not?

_Juan._ No! death rather than such dishonour!

_Capt._ What, pray, is a clodpole’s idea of honour?

_Juan._ The same as a captain’s—no clodpole no captain, I can tell you.

_Capt._ ’Fore Heaven, I must punish this insolence. (_About to strike
him._)

_Cres._ You must do it through me, then.

_Reb._ Eyes right!—Don Lope!

_Capt._ Don Lope!

                            _Enter DON LOPE._

_Lope._ How now? A riot the very first thing I find on joining the
regiment? What is it all about?

_Capt._ (_aside_). Awkward enough!

_Cres._ (_aside_). By the lord, the boy would have held his own with the
best of ’em.

_Lope._ Well! No one answer me? ’Fore God, I’ll pitch the whole house,
men, women, and children, out of windows, if you don’t tell me at once.
Here have I had to trail up your accursed stairs, and then no one will
tell me what for.

_Cres._ Nothing, nothing at all, sir.

_Lope._ Nothing? that would be the worst excuse of all: but swords aren’t
drawn for nothing; come, the truth?

_Capt._ Well, the simple fact is this, Don Lope; I am quartered upon this
house; and one of my soldiers—

_Lope._ Well, sir, go on.

_Capt._ Insulted me so grossly I was obliged to draw my sword on him. He
ran up here where it seems these two girls live; and I, not knowing there
was any harm, after him; at which these men, their father or brother, or
some such thing, take affront. This is the whole business.

_Lope._ I am just come in time then to settle it. First, who is the
soldier that began it with an act of insubordination?

_Reb._ What, am I to pay the piper?

_Isab._ (_pointing to REB._). This, sir, was the man who ran up first.

_Lope._ This? handcuff him!

_Reb._ Me! my lord?

_Capt._ (_aside to REB._). Don’t blab, I’ll bear you harmless.

_Reb._ Oh, I dare say, after being marcht off with my hands behind me
like a coward. Noble commander, ’twas the captain’s own doing; he made
me pretend a quarrel, that he might get up here to see the women.

_Cres._ I _had_ some cause for quarrel, you see.

_Lope._ Not enough to peril the peace of the town for. Halloa there! beat
all to quarters on pain of death. And, to prevent further ill blood here,
do you (_to the Captain_) quarter yourself elsewhere till we march. I’ll
stop here.

_Capt._ I shall of course obey you, sir.

_Cres._ (_to ISABEL_). Get you in. (_Exeunt ISAB. and INES._) I really
ought to thank you heartily for coming just as you did, sir; else, I’d
done for myself.

_Lope._ How so?

_Cres._ I should have killed this popinjay.

_Lope._ What, sir, a captain in his Majesty’s service?

_Cres._ Ay, a general, if he insulted me.

_Lope._ I tell you, whoever lays his little finger on the humblest
private in the regiment, I’ll hang him.

_Cres._ And I tell you, whoever points his little finger at my honour,
I’ll cut him down before hanging.

_Lope._ Know you not, you are bound by your allegiance to submit?

_Cres._ To all cost of property, yes; but of honour, no, no, no! My goods
and chattels, ay, and my life—are the king’s; but my honour is my own
soul’s, and that is—God Almighty’s!

_Lope._ ’Fore God, there’s some truth in what you say.

_Cres._ ’Fore God, there ought to be, for I’ve been some years saying it.

_Lope._ Well, well. I’ve come a long way, and this leg of mine (which I
wish the devil who gave it would carry away with him!) cries for rest.

_Cres._ And who prevents its taking some? the same devil I suppose, who
gave you your leg, gave me a bed (which I don’t want him to take away
again, however) on which your leg may lie if it like.

_Lope._ But did the devil, when he was about it, make your bed as well as
give it?

_Cres._ To be sure he did.

_Lope._ Then I’ll unmake it—Heaven knows I’m weary enough.

_Cres._ Heaven rest you then.

_Lope._ (_aside_). Devil or saint alike he echoes me.

_Cres._ (_aside_). I and Don Lope never shall agree.

ACT II

SCENE I.—_In Zalamea._

                       _Enter DON MENDO and NUÑO._

_Men._ Who told you all this?

_Nuñ._ Ginesa, her wench.

_Men._ That, whether that riot in the house were by accident or design,
the captain has ended by being really in love with Isabel.

_Nuñ._ So as he has as little of comfort in his quarters as we of eatable
in ours—ever under her window, sending her messages and tokens by a nasty
little soldier of his.

_Men._ Enough, enough of your poisoned news.

_Nuñ._ Especially on an empty stomach.

_Men._ Be serious, Nuño. And how does Isabel answer him?

_Nuñ._ As she does you. Bless you, she’s meat for your masters.

_Men._ Rascal! This to me! (_Strikes him._)

_Nuñ._ There! two of my teeth you’ve knockt out, I believe: to be sure
they weren’t of much use in your service.

_Men._ By Heaven, I’ll do so to that captain, if—

_Nuñ._ Take care, he’s coming, sir.

_Men._ (_aside to NUÑO_). This duel shall be _now_—though night be
advancing on—before discretion come to counsel milder means. Come, and
help me arm.

_Nuñ._ Lord bless me, sir, what arms have you got except the coat over
the door?

_Men._ In my armoury I doubt not are some pieces of my ancestors that
will fit their descendant.

                                                               [_Exeunt._

                _Enter Captain, Sergeant, and REBOLLEDO._

_Capt._ I tell you my love is not a fancy; but a passion, a tempest, a
volcano.

_Serg._ What a pity it is you ever set eyes on the girl!

_Capt._ What answer did the servant give you?

_Serg._ Nay, sir, I have told you.

_Capt._ That a country wench should stand upon her virtue as if she were
a lady!

_Serg._ This sort of girls, captain, don’t understand gentlemen’s ways.
If a strapping lout in their own line of life courted them in their own
way, they’d hear and answer quick enough. Besides, you really expect too
much, that a decent woman should listen after one day’s courtship to a
lover who is perhaps to leave her to-morrow.

_Capt._ And to-day’s sun setting!

_Serg._ Your own love too, but from one glance—

_Capt._ Is not one spark enough for gunpowder?

_Serg._ You too, who would have it no country girl could be worth a day’s
courtship!

_Capt._ Alas, ’twas that was my ruin—running unawares upon a rock. I
thought only to see a splay-footed gawky, and found a goddess. Ah,
Rebolledo, could you but get me one more sight of her!

_Reb._ Well, captain, you have done me one good turn, and though you had
like to run me into danger, I don’t mind venturing again for you.

_Capt._ But how? how?

_Reb._ Well, now, look here. We’ve a man in the regiment with a fair
voice, and my little Chispa—no one like her for a flash song. Let’s
serenade at the girl’s window; she must, in courtesy or curiosity, look
out; and then—

_Capt._ But Don Lope is there, and we mustn’t wake him.

_Reb._ Don Lope? When does he ever get asleep with that leg of his, poor
fellow? Besides, you can mix along with us in disguise, so as at least
_you_ won’t come into question.

_Capt._ Well, there is but this chance, if it be but a faint one; for if
we should march to-morrow!—come, let us set about it; it being, as you
say, between ourselves that I have any thing to do with it.

                                          [_Exeunt Captain and Sergeant._

                             _Enter CHISPA._

_Chis._ He’s got it, at any rate.

_Reb._ What’s the matter now, Chispa?

_Chis._ Oh, I mark’d his face for him.

_Reb._ What, a row?

_Chis._ A fellow there who began to ask questions as to my fair play
at roulette—when I was all as fair as day too—I answered him with this.
(_Showing a knife._) Well, he’s gone to the barber’s to get it dressed.

_Reb._ You still stand kicking when I want to get to the fair. I wanted
you with your castanets, not your knife.

_Chis._ Pooh! one’s as handy as the other. What’s up now?

_Reb._ Come with me to quarters; I’ll tell you as we go along.

                                                               [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.—_A trellis of Vines in CRESPO’S garden._

                      _Enter CRESPO and DON LOPE._

_Cres._ Lay the table here. (_To LOPE._) You’ll relish your supper here
in the cool, sir. These hot August days at least bring their cool nights
by way of excuse.

_Lope._ A mighty pleasant parlour this!

_Cres._ Oh, a little strip my daughter amuses herself with; sit down,
sir. In place of the fine voices and instruments you are used to, you
must put up with only the breeze playing on the vine leaves in concert
with the little fountain yonder. Even the birds (our only musicians) are
gone to bed, and wouldn’t sing any the more if I were to wake them. Come,
sit down, sir, and try to ease that poor leg of yours.

_Lope._ I wish to heaven I could.

_Cres._ Amen!

_Lope._ Well, I can at least bear it. Sit down, Crespo.

_Cres._ Thank you, sir. (_Hesitating._)

_Lope._ Sit down, sit down, pray.

_Cres._ Since you bid me then, you must excuse my ill manners. (_Sits._)

_Lope._ Humph! Do you know, I am thinking, Crespo, that yesterday’s riot
rather overset your good ones.

_Cres._ Ay?

_Lope._ Why how else is it that you, whom I can scarce get to sit down at
all to-day, yesterday plump’d yourself down at once, and in the big chair
too?

_Cres._ Simply because yesterday you _didn’t_ ask me. To-day you are
courteous, and I am shy.

_Lope._ Yesterday you were all thistle and hedgehog; to-day as soft as
silk.

_Cres._ It is only because you yourself were so. I always answer in the
key I’m spoken to; yesterday you were all out of tune, and so was I. It
is my principle to swear with the swearer, and pray with the saint; all
things to all men. So much so as I declare to you your bad leg kept me
awake all night. And, by the by, I wish, now we are about it, you would
tell me which of your legs it is that ails you: for, not knowing, I was
obliged to make sure by swearing at both of mine: and one at a time is
quite enough.

_Lope._ Well, Pedro, you will perhaps think I have some reason for my
tetchiness, when I tell you that for thirty years during which I have
served in the Flemish wars through summer’s sun, and winter’s frost, and
enemy’s bullets, I have never known what it is to be an hour without pain.

_Cres._ God give you patience to bear it!

_Lope._ Pish! can’t I give it myself?

_Cres._ Well, let him leave you alone then!

_Lope._ Devil take patience!

_Cres._ Ah, let him! he wants it; only it’s too good a job for him.

                      _Enter JUAN with Table, etc._

_Juan._ Supper, sir!

_Lope._ But what are my people about, not to see to all this?

_Cres._ Pardon my having been so bold to tell them I and my family would
wait upon you, so, as I hope, you shall want for nothing.

_Lope._ On one condition then, that as you have no fear of your company
now, your daughter may join us at supper.

_Cres._ Juan, bid your sister come directly.

                                                            [_Exit JUAN._

_Lope._ My poor health may quiet all suspicion on that score, I think.

_Cres._ Sir, if you were as lusty as I wish you, I should have no fear.
I bid my daughter keep above while the regiment was here because of the
nonsense soldiers usually talk to girls. If all were gentlemen like you,
I should be the first to make her wait on them.

_Lope_ (_aside_). The cautious old fellow!

                     _Enter JUAN, ISABEL, and INES._

_Isab._ (_to CRESPO_). Your pleasure, sir?

_Cres._ It is Don Lope’s, who honours you by bidding you to sup with him.

_Lope_ (_aside_). What a fair creature!—Nay, ’tis I that honour myself by
the invitation.

_Isab._ Let me wait upon you.

_Lope._ Indeed no, unless waiting upon me mean supping with me.

_Cres._ Sit down, sit down, girl, as Don Lope desires you.

                               [_They sit at table. Guitar heard within._

_Lope._ Music too!

_Cres._ None of ours. It must be some of your soldiers, Don Lope.

_Lope._ Ah, Crespo, the troubles and dangers of war must have a little to
sweeten them betimes. The uniform sits very tight, and must be let out
every now and then.

_Juan._ Yet ’tis a fine life, sir.

_Lope._ Do you think you would like to follow it?

_Juan._ If I might at your Excellency’s side.

    SONG (_within_).

    Ah for the red spring rose,
      Down in the garden growing,
    Fading as fast as it blows,
      Who shall arrest its going?
    Peep from thy window and tell,
    Fairest of flowers, Isabel.

_Lope_ (_aside_). Pebbles thrown up at the window too! But I’ll say
nothing, for all sakes. (_Aloud._) What foolery!

_Cres._ Boys! Boys! (_Aside._) To call her very name too! If it weren’t
for Don Lope—

_Juan_ (_going_). I’ll teach them—

_Cres._ Holloa, lad, whither away?

_Juan._ To see for a dish—

_Cres._ They’ll see after that. Sit still where thou art.

    SONG (_within_).

    Wither it would, but the bee
      Over the blossom hovers,
    And the sweet life ere it flee
      With as sweet art recovers,
    Sweetest at night in his cell,
    Fairest of flowers, Isabel.

_Isab._ (_aside_). How have I deserved this?