D. Pas.(In his sleep.) Oh, Inez, Inez! (Waking with a start.) Ha! was that a dream?Gip. Q.He wakes.D. Ped.Oh, that I had thus slumbered on,Feeling her soothing presence, and so died,Rather than waken to this cold, bleak, world.Gip. Q.(Aside.) How I do long to open all my heart!Unmask this stern exterior, and makeHim master of the secret of his birth.His wound's but slight, I think he'll bear the news.I'll try. (To Don Pascual) Young man! Say, how goes it with thee?D. Pas.I thank thee, mother, I have soundly slept;My wound's already healed. The gipsy balmHath wrought a miracle.Gip. Q.(Aside.)He calls me mother.See how the native gipsy blood's instinctSpeaks through the lips of half-unconscious sense.I'll wager he already half divinesHis occult parentage.D. Pas.(Looking around him.) Mother, where's Inez?Gip. Q.(Aside.) Mother again; but Inez fills his thoughts.Hast thou no mem'ry, youth, of last nights fray?[Aloud.D. Pas.But little, mother; all is still confused.Gip. Q.Then be thou patient, for I've much to tell.But say, how is't, thou ever call'st me mother?D. Pas.In faith I know not how my careless tongueCould shape a word so tender to thee, Queen,Who art a stranger to me. Yet I feel,And felt from the first moment that I gazedUpon thy dusky brow, a mother's heartDid beat for me within that hardy breast.Why I know not. I, too, who never knewA mother's love, whose infant steps were ledBy other than a mother's hand. A goodKind lady, long since dead, adopted me,And dying, left me all her patrimony,Which hitherto has been doled out to meBy guardians, until I should come of age.One Father Miguel, whom I seldom saw,Paid my expenses at the seminary;But when I asked him questions of my birthI never got intelligent response,So that I long have thought some mysteryDoth underly the subject of my birth.Gip. Q.I knew the Lady Angela, and loved her.D. Pas.Good Heavens! What, that name! The lady who——Gip. Q.Adopted thee and Father Miguel too.D. Pas.And Father Miguel!Gip. Q.Does that surprise thee?I could tell thee more.D. Pas.More than that! Ay, thenWho knows thou may'st not discoverThe secret of my birth.Gip. Q.Secrets as strangeHave often been discovered by gipsies.Am I not a gipsy? Can I not readThe destinies of all, mapped out for theeBy the great heavenly bodies? Think'st thou thatOur meeting was not fashioned by the starsAnd known to me beforehand?D. Pas.Even that!Gip. Q.Ay, and your meeting with the Lady Inez.D. Pas.That, too! Nay, tell me more. I fain would hear.Gip. Q.Not so fast. Thou'rt o'er excitable.Calm thyself first an thou wouldst hear moreOf that young damsel. But of her anon.D. Pas.Weird and mysterious being, as I readThy mystic brow a whisper seems to sayI've seen thee once before. Say, art thou notThat crone who ever haunts me in my dreams,Known in my youth, who once gave me this ring?Gip. Q.The same, the same! I've watched thee from a child.D. Pas.And by that ring thou knowest me.Gip. Q.'Tis true.D. Pas.Ay, now I know thee. Tell me now, O Queen,Why tookest thou an interest in my fate?Gip. Q.The tale is long and sad, but thou must hear.Be patient and lend an attentive ear.Know, then, that in Grenada's lofty rangeThere stands a twin-peaked mountain doubly-crowned,With two grim feudal castles, old, yet strong.The owners of these fortresses of yoreWere aye at feud, until at last the oneSubdued the other. Ever since that dayThe victor's star in the ascendant seemed,For though in later times they turned to friends,Who had been foes, and were allied togetherIn skirmishes with castles neighbouring,In which they came off gainers, still, the one—The larger and the richer one, I mean,The whilom victor of the other peak—Did e'er with haughty overbearing sneerUpon his humbler neighbour, and would bindThe poorer lord with obligations strong,For favours often granted, till at lastThe lesser lord became dependent onThe greater one, and ever poorer grewAnd more dependent, and so stands the case.Things will not long be thus. A change will come.The Fates predict it, and the proud one's starAlready's on the wane.D. Pas.In sooth, good Queen!But tell me what has this to do with me?Gip. Q.Peace! It concerns thee much, as thou shalt hear.The father of the present owner ofThe richer castle, Don Fernando height,I do remember well when but a child.A warrior proud was he, like all his race.His son, the present lord, is like him. HeWhose name I've vowed shall ne'er more pass my lips.D. Pas.Ha!Gip. Q.Interrupt me not. Thou soon shalt hear.This lord, who shall be nameless, in his youth(He now is old) did love a gipsy maid,Who, in the freshness of her virgin heart,Returned his passion, being but a child,Whilst he, the villain, was a full-grown manOf forty years and over. Still he boreHis years so lightly that he younger seemed.With passion fierce he wooed the gipsy maid,And pleaded in such moving tropes his love,That the young gipsy's heart—not then of stone,Though long since turned to flint—did melt, and he,Seeing his prey secure, did plot her ruin.But the child had a father, old and wise,Of royal blood, too, known as King Djâbel,And proud, too, of his lineage and his race.He thought it lowering to true gipsy bloodTo mate with pale-faced Christians, even though'Twere to a Christian king and by the church,Drawn up with legal document and signedIn all due form, and when he heard that IDid to a Christian's love lend listening ear.D. Pas.You?You, O Queen, then, were the gipsy maid.You're speaking of yourself. I understand.Gip. Q.(Starting) My tongue has tripped, and traitor turned. Why thenPursue my tale under false colours? Aye,Know that I, Pepa, was the gipsy maidOnce beloved of that false Don Diego.D. Pas.Don Diego.Gip. Q.Ha! My tongue has tripped again.I vowed that name should ne'er more pass my lips.Well, this false lord, with subtle wiles and artsDid so win my young heart, that King Djâbel,Furious at first at what he deemed a stainUpon his lineage, threatened me with death,And would have killed me, had I brought dishonourOn his fair name. But deem not that I fell.I loved him—and how dearly! But he foundThat the proud gipsy maid, though young, would notBarter her honour. Not for wealth untold.He then made promises that I should beMistress of all his castle and his landsAfter his father's death. Till then, he said,Our match must be clandestine, as his fatherWould disinherit him were he to knowThat his son were wedded to a gipsy.Our plans were well nigh ripe, for oft we metIn secret, and had full time to discussOur future prospects, left quite undisturbed.But one day King Djâbel, suspecting guile,Did lie in wait for us, and with drawn bladeFrom ambush out did spring upon the pair,And straight did fall upon this haughty lord,The would-be dishonourer of his child.But Pepa threw herself between her loverAnd angered father, and so stayed the blowAnd clinging to him, ever called uponHer furious sire to spare the gentle lord,And bid him smiteherbreast ifonemust die.But Djâbel loved his daughter, and did pause,Touched for a moment with her pleading prayer.When, seeing him more calm, the wily donDid straight, in full and flowing courteous speech,Declare his love for me, and how he soughtNot to make me his minion, but his wife.But Djâbel, answering with haughty scorn,Said: "Go back to thy castle, Christian lord,And wed some damsel of the pale-faced herd.No blood of thine must mar our gipsy race."The don's eye flashed. He would have spoken wordsFull of wild fury and deep bitterness;But Pepa interposed again, and flungHerself on bended knees before her sire,And begged her knight kneel too, and join her prayer.The don at first loathing much to grovelDown in the dust before a gipsy chief,Whom he esteemed a savage, yet did yield,And for my sake did bend his haughty knee.And thus we knelt together, clinging toKing Djâbel's robe and choked with sobs and tears,Did pray and plead, and plead and pray for long,But all in vain our pleading and our prayers,For dark as midnight grew King Djâbel's brow,And stern his glance of cold and deep disdain,Saying: "Humblest thou thyself, O haughty don?Methinks thou might'st have spared thyself the pains.Rise from the dust. Thy prayers are but as the windThat blows against the granite mountain's side,Yet harms it not, nor will it budge an inch,E'en though it blow a hurricane. So IRemain unmoved by all thy puny prayers."Stung to the quick, and rendered desperate,The haughty don with one bound sprang erect,And darting lightning flashes from his eye,Blushing the while at having bent the knee,Humbling himself in vain, now cried aloud,"Have at thee, then, dark chief, foronemust die.I fear thee not, and will not lose my holdUpon thy daughter, whom I love as life.Give her me, an it please thee, but if notI'll wrest her from thee, so do thou thy worst."Then straight the fray began. Each drew his bladeAnd fell upon the other, whilst my tearsAnd screams availed not, for the two were lockedFirm in each other's grasp, and tugged and pulledIn equal match, whilst I with streaming hair,Torn robe, and tearful eyes, did cry aloudFor help in vain, till this poor frame, o'erwroughtWith multiplex emotions, did give way,And, swooning, I fell heavily at their feet,Grasping my father's garment in my fall.The fight was stayed awhile, and each took breath."Look to your daughter, chieftain," were the firstWords that I heard on wakening from my swoon.And soon as e'er my tongue was loose, I cried,In accents feeble still, "Oh, father, stayThis wicked brawl. Say, dost thou love thy child?"With heaving breast and eyes suffused with tears,And choking sobs, I seized his hand, and cried,"Spare my young life. I love this Christian lord,An thou do aught to him, 'twill be my death.Canst see thy darling wither, droop, and die,Or, stung to madness, seek a violent death?Now mark well what I say, O most dread King.Shouldst thou be guilty of this Señor's blood,Know me no more for daughter, for I vowOr him or none to wed, and should he fall,And by thy hand, I too will follow next.The oath is sworn." Then from my father's eyeA tear fell, which he brushing soon away,As if he deemed it shame for man to weep,And changing to a lighter mood, he cried:"Girl, thou hast conquered. Christian knight, thy hand.Let all broils cease between us. Thou hast foughtAnd won my daughter fairly, showing courageWorthy a gipsy born. Therefore no moreWill I withhold consent unto this match.But, mark me well, Sir Knight, this marriage mustBe, though clandestine, legally up-drawn,That no base shuffling subterfuge may e'erIn after years crop up to thwart the bond."Thus spake the king Djâbel. My Christian knightDid vow upon his honour all should beExact as nicest lawyer could require.Alas, for human villainy! What snaresAnd wiles beset the simple, trusting heart.I loved him, and did lend a willing earTo all his schemes, spite my father's counsel,Suspecting nothing. What should I, poor child,Know of the world and all its hollowness?But King Djâbel, suspecting treacheryE'en from the first, and well upon his guard—For little trust he placed in Christian wight—Did stand aloof, and watched things from afar."Now will I try the faith of this same knight,"He said, and with a frankness ably feigned,He bid my lord take all things inhishands,Saying he trusted him in all, but he,For his part, was a very simple man,Unskilled in the world's usances and allThat appertains to life 'neath governments,'Pon seeing which, the wily Christian lordStraight sought to profit by his innocence;Betray the hand that trusted him, and thoughtThe dusky king, the dark barbarian,Would fall an easy prey into his hands.Howbeit, King Djâbel, like crafty foe,Though simple seeming, sent abroad his spies,Whilst he himself was absent. From these men—Men whom he trusted—he was well informedThat this proud don had formed the fell designThat a false priest should join our hands together.D. Pas.Villain!Gip. Q.Thou speakest sooth, for villainyMore base or perjured never sprang from hell.I thought he loved me, but I found too lateHe sought to spurn me from him soon as e'erHis lust was sated. So he straightway wroteTo some base profligate and spendthrift friendWho owed him money, promising that heWould cancel all his debt and yet advanceAnother round sum, if, peradventure,He should so aid him in his hellish plotAs to enact the part of holy priest,And satisfy the claims of King Djâbel,Whilst he himself should be no longer boundTo me by law than it should seem him fit,E'en as I were but his base concubine.You see, he loved me not, e'en from the first,Despite his protestations, since he couldIn base cold blood conceive such dire deceit.But this I knew not at the time, nor allThe foul devices of his reptile heart.But fondly thinking that he loved me asI then loved him, I listened to his suit;Nor was I undeceived, till, ah! too late.D. Pas.This is most monstrous! Noble Queen, I vowYour sorrows move me to forget mine own.I would I had the traitor by the throat,That I might show him once how I esteemHim and his villainy. Nay, 'tis a crimeThat calls aloud to Heaven for vengeance.Thou art nought to me Queen, but yet I feelThe wrong done towards thee e'en as though thou wertMy own true flesh and blood. I'd do as muchE'en wert thou thrice mine enemy. I swearThat should this traitor ever cross my path,Or he or the false priest (I care not which—Aye, both together, for 'tis nought to me),By Heaven I swear——Gip. Q.Hold! Heaven's instrumentsAre ever preordained. Thou canst not moveOne single step; nay, more, not e'en thy pulseCould throb again but for the will of Heaven.Leave him to Fate, for vengeance due will fallIn time, and from that quarter Heaven wills.D. Pas.True Queen, but tell me more, I fain would know,What said your royal sire King Djâbel?Gip. Q.Then list, and thou shalt hear how Djâbel's spiesDid intercept the lines that this false lordWrote to his profligate and perjured friend,So that he received them not. But now markWhat did my royal father? First he wentTo seek a Christian priest, long known to him,Albeit, unknown to this same haughty don;To him he showed the lines, and through his aid.Was writ an answer to this foul epistle,As coming from the friend of this false lord.This priest was father Miguel.D. Pas.Ha! that name.Why beats my heart as it ne'er throbbed before?Say, what is this new light that bursts uponMy whilom darkened soul? What power is thisThat stirs my thoughts within me? But proceed.I must, and will know more. Proceed, O Queen.My frame doth tremble in expectancyFor thy next word. Tell me, oh, tell me if——Gip. Q.(Aside.) Already he doth divine what I would say;Be still, my heart, and give me strength to tell it.(Aloud.) This letter, then, by Father Miguel forged,Ran thus in substance. Making first excuseThat sudden illness made him keep his bed,But though unable to oblige his friend,Did, ne'ertheless, not to disappoint him,(Hearing the case was urgent, and not knowingHow long it might be e'er he should recover)He thought to do not wrong in sending one,A trusty friend and boon companion,One, Don Elviro hight, to act as proxy;This was the name that Father Miguel boreTo mask his own. Then straightway he set forthT'wards the inn, from which the letter dated,The while my lord, who, reading in hot hasteThe letter through, and doubting not that heWere aught else than what the letter stated(To wit, Elviro, and no priest at all).So sure was he of this, suspecting nought,He fondly welcomed him, and many a jokeThey cracked together o'er the heartless scheme.Don Miguel acting well his part throughoutWith ribald jest, and oft full merrilyAlluding to his tonsure newly shorn,Asked of his patron how he liked his garb,And if he did not look a priest indeed.At this his lord laughed heartily, and thusTime passed away till I should don the veil,And we were married before witnesses.The ceremony over, all passed o'erRight merrily, nor knows my lord e'en now,Not even to this day, that he is married.D. Pas.Well done, by Heaven! And Father Miguel hail!So was the base would-be seducer paidBack in his own base coin. This should e'er be.Gip. Q.Ay, but thinkest thou I knew aught of this,Or was partaker in Don Miguel's scheme?Oh, no; of this my father told me nought,Nor knew I aught of all this base intrigue,This would-be marriage false, by false priest blessed,Till later years; in fact, until the timeThat King Djâbel upon his death bed lay.He then confessed to me the foul designBy him so ably thwarted. But e'en thenThe traitor had abandoned me already.He thought his marriage false, and told me plainI had no hold on him. I sought my sire,And then the truth came out. The blow was great,To find myself abandoned and deceivedBy him I loved and trusted, e'en though IKnew well that I stood right before the law,He had no right to leave me, that I knew.'Twas heartless, as I then was big with child;His father, too, was dead, old Don Fernand,And I, by rights, his castle should have shared,As he had promised, but old King DjâbelDid counsel me, "Be patient yet awhile;A day will come when thou shalt vengeance take.Nature hath made me prophet. I can seeNow that my sun is sinking far beyondThis earthly sphere, all that shall come to passIn future years. Delay thy vengeance, then,Still a few years, and I will be thy guide;I, Djâbel, from over this side the graveWill guide thy steps and shape thy destiniesUntil the hour arrive." Thus spake Djâbel,And falling back upon his rugged couch,Did breathe his last, clasping my hand in his;He now sleeps with his fathers. Rest his soul!And I, now left an orphan, and so young;Abandoned, too, by the base man I loved,How fared it with me, being then with child?The days of mourning for my father o'er,I could not keep my mind from wandering backTo our first days of courtship, when my lordFirst wooed me, and did win my virgin heart.I dwelt upon the memory of his words—How he had promised me in days of yore,His father being dead, old Don Fernand,That I should mistress of his castle be.How had he kept his promise? Don FernandWas long since dead, yet he no offer madeAbout his castle, but did keep me e'erWithin a little cottage that he builtDuring his father's lifetime for me, whenWe first were married. Here I lived content,For he then oft would visit me, and whenHe came not, yet I had full trust in him,And waited patiently, beguiling timeBy tending flowers in my garden home,For this was aye my passion from a child,And thus the hours passed full happily.But one day, seeing my lord with murky brow,And not divining what the cause mote be,I, with fond heart and young simplicity,Did offer all that consolationThat loving wife will offer to her lordIn moments of deep sadness. But he spurnedMe coldly from him, and when I did askIn what way I had my lord offended,Deigning no direct reply, made answer,He loved me not. I had no hold on him,Should ne'er be mistress of his father's hall,Our marriage being but a mockery,To last as long as it should please himself.He left me with a laugh of bitter scorn,Whilst I, as if by lightning struck, did fallFlat to the earth, and waking, sought my sire.Thou knowest how my father, dying, leftA promise he would ever guide my stepsIn hour of vengeance; so I patience kept.Meanwhile our son was born. That sonart thou!D. Pas.Oh, mother! mother![They embrace and weep on each others' necks.(On recovering.)I did half divineThe truth from the beginning of thy tale,But at the name of Father MiguelMy heart did smite so loud against my ribsAs like to burst them; e'en as were it chargedFrom Heaven with joyful tidings to my soul.I ever knew that man in some strange wayWas mixed up in the mystery of my birth.Gip. Q.'Twas he that christened thee, abandoned byThy all unworthy father. He that holdsProofs that our marriage valid is by law,Without which proofs thou'dst been born a bastard,A stray, an outcast, slave to this world's scorn.The Lady Angela, that kind, good soul,Whose counsellor and priest Don Miguel was,Knew all thy history, and pitied thee.She was thy godmother while at the font.Don Miguel marked thee with the Christian's sign,And being a widow lady without heirs,And rich withal, she straightway did resolveT'adopt thee, and 'neath Father Miguel's careTo have thee educated as a priest.Poor pious soul! But thou know'st best of allHow thine own wilful temper at the school—Thy wild, impatient, roving gipsy blood,—Did give small promise for a like career,Which Father Miguel seeing from the first(Though not until repeated efforts madeTo tame thy stubborn nature proved in vain)Did finally, now weary of his charge,Abandon thee unto thine own wild ways,Doling the money out from time to time,Till thou should'st come of age. That time has come.D. Pas.Ha! ha! I well do call to mind the timeWhen Father Miguel, with church dogmas soughtTo warp my stubborn brain, and if I askedHim to explain some of that lore he taught,And fain would burden my poor skull withal,Then straight it was a mystery. I mustHave faith, he said; nor ask the reason why.Against this answer my young soul rebelled.And long and fierce the battles that we fought.He called me insubordinate and rude.Said I lacked discipline, humility,That I must subjugate my intellectUnto the church's dictates, threatening meWith purgatory and everlasting fireUnless I thought as he did, branding meAs atheist, Jew, or heretic, whilst ICalled him a fool. Then losing all controlOver his passions, this good, holy manDid raise his hand to strike me, seeing whichI seized a knife and threw it at his head,Leaving a scar upon his cheek; then laughed.As I grew older matters mended not,So he sent me to a seminary,Thinking to curb my will by discipline;But they soon found the worse they treated meThe worse was I, and so all gave me up.'Tis years since we have met. We were not formedTo live together. Greater oppositesIn character Nature ne'er formed from clay.I owe the holy man no grudge; not I.He did his best, I mine to understand him.We were formed differently from our birth.Gip. Q.A wild boy thou wert ever. That is true.I've watched thee oft when thou thought'st me afar.Thou knew'st me not for mother, nor would IUnveil the myst'ry of thy parentage,Nor bring disgrace on Lady Angela,Who had so kindly offered to adoptThee, the poor outcast gipsy's mongrel son,And rear him like the proudest of the land.Why should I, with my narrow, selfish love,Oppose a barrier to my son's advance,Refuse the lady's bounty, and drag downMy son unto the level of myself.A wand'ring gipsy! Yet I loved thee. Ay,I loved thee e'en with more than mother's love.I would that all should love thee. As for thoseWho loved thee not, these I vowed should fear thee.I'ld see thee feared and envied, proud and greatHigh up above thy fellows; and for thisI smothered in my heart all outward showOf my affection, and so hid myself.Still, I was near and watched thee day by dayExpand as the young plant before the sun.And I was happy in my heart of heartsTo know that thou wert happy, and to knowI was thy mother, though thou knew'st it not.And so for years I've watched thee, till thine ownWild wand'ring nature bid thee roam abroad.'Twas then for years that I lost sight of thee;This also was predicted by the stars,And so I gave to thee this gipsy ringThat I might know thee when we met again.D. Pas.Ay, I do mind me well, when yet a child,How once a gipsy gave it me, and bidMe wear it ever, and 'twould bring me luck;And how I, childlike, straight returned home,Pleased with the gift, to show my mother, orThe lady whom I thought my mother then.But tell me, queen or mother, which thou wilt,Why, if as I think, all thy tale be trueAnd thou wert really married to Don Diego,Knowing the law to be upon thy side,Why didst thou not at once set up thy claimOf lawful wife, instead of waiting now,A score of years and more! Thou could'st have claimed——Gip. Q.Thou askest me why I did not availMyself of that protection that the lawIn my case would enforce. I'll tell thee, then.I was, indeed, then counselled so to doBy Father Miguel and some other friends,Who knew that legal marriage was performed;But being mindful of the promise madeUnto my father on his bed of death,And having strict confidence in his words,Those deep prophetic words which never erred,Then finding, too, when I did scan the starsGood reason his for bidding me postponeMy vengeance for a season less ill-starred.D. Pas.What saw'st thou, mother, in the stars to makeThee to abandon all thy rightful claimsAnd crave the charity of an alien?Gip. Q.I craved no charity. The lady whoDid stand to thee in lieu of mother, cameHerself and craved of me permissionTo take thee home and rear thee as her child;Which offer I, though with much reluctance,At length accepted, ever mindful ofThe brilliant future that the stars foretold.D. Pas.What sign was that that caused thee then such fear?Gip. Q.A star malefic in thy house of life;Threatening thee with speedy violent deathFrom some traitor's hand. That hand, thy father's.Had I ta'en counsel of well-meaning friendsAnd urged my rights, ay, had I moved a step,Thy life and mine had dearly paid for it.D. Pas.How this may be, I know not. If the starsDo really rule our destinies, or ifThy woman's fears but made thee dread contactWith men in power. Have we not the law?Gip. Q.Justice may be bought. The oppressor's starWas then in the ascendant. 'Tis no more.Now mark, and I will show thee how the starsHave worked and ripened for my just revenge.Thou knowest well, 'tis now full many yearsI have lost sight of thee, though I have learnedFrom Father Miguel thou wast still alive;The stars foretold our meeting. Until nowI've waited for thee, and the stars likewisePredicted that almost at the same timeAnother I should meet, whose destinyDid figure so in thy young house of life.D. Pas.What! The Lady Inez?Gip. Q.Ay, even she.D. Pas.Then Heav'n be praised for happier destinyNe'er fell to lot of man.Gip. Q.Nay, not so fast;There're dangers still to pass, and thou must bearThyself right bravely if thou would'st succeed.D. Pas.Dost doubt my courage, mother? My good bladeShall carve me fortune wheresoe'er it turns.Gip. Q.Hot headed youth! Guard well thy strength until'Tis needed. Thou art weak from loss of blood,And need'st repose e'er thou set forth to work.The sun is high in heaven. Ere nightfallThou wilt have need of all thy youthful strength.Ere midnight I will lead thee to a wood,Accompanied by all my followers,From thence we must ascend a rugged pathThat leads to the tyrant's stronghold.D. Pas.What tyrant?Gip. Q.The nameless. Thy rival and thy father.D. Pas.Don Diego! 'Twas he, then, that yester-eveDid snatch the Lady Inez from my breastAs I lay faint and bleeding?Gip. Q.Ay, e'en he;And now he fain would marry her perforce,With or without her answer; he has swornTo wed her straight, scarce struck the midnight hour,And hurries on with most indecent hasteThis mockery of a marriage 'gainst the willAnd inclinations of the girl herself,And also 'gainst the wishes of her sire,Whom, poor man, the tyrant holds in 's power,As hawk doth hold a dove, obliging himTo give consent to this most monstrous matchWith his fair daughter, only late arrivedHome from the convent of St. Ursula(Albeit he knows not, I've the proofs in handOf our real marriage. Read them an you list)[Handing papers to Don Pascual.He needs must hasten on his base design,For fear of interruption. Be it oursTo baulk this rabid eagle of his prey,Snatch from his reeking claws the innocent lamb,And rescue chastity from guilt's device.Let this be Pepa's mission upon earth,To succour virtue and avenge the wrong,And thou, Pascual, stand thou me true in this,Let no wrong pass, but quickly search it out,And boldly in the light of day proclaimThe tyrant's wrong, in spite of odds or force.D. Pas.Mother, I swear. Fear not thou'lt find me apt;My sword is at thy service, e'en had INo more incentive to avenge thee thanThe sense of wrong that ever stirs my blood.But now I have my own more selfish endsTo serve. The maid 'fore all most near my heartTo rescue from the talons of a foe;The mother, too, who gave me birth to shieldFrom foul dishonour, and the tyrant whoBegat me, yet fain would dub me bastard,Still to chastise. With these wrongs to redress,Or e'en the half, what coward would not turn brave?What mouse would not turn lion? Rest in peace,This night thou art avenged. Pascual doth swear it.Gip. Q.Spoke like my own true son. And now to rest;Thou needest sleep, to calm thy jaded nerves,And brace thee for the work thou hast to-night.[They embrace. Pascual throws himself upon his couch. Gipsy Queen sits watching him. Scene changes.
D. Pas.(In his sleep.) Oh, Inez, Inez! (Waking with a start.) Ha! was that a dream?Gip. Q.He wakes.D. Ped.Oh, that I had thus slumbered on,Feeling her soothing presence, and so died,Rather than waken to this cold, bleak, world.Gip. Q.(Aside.) How I do long to open all my heart!Unmask this stern exterior, and makeHim master of the secret of his birth.His wound's but slight, I think he'll bear the news.I'll try. (To Don Pascual) Young man! Say, how goes it with thee?D. Pas.I thank thee, mother, I have soundly slept;My wound's already healed. The gipsy balmHath wrought a miracle.Gip. Q.(Aside.)He calls me mother.See how the native gipsy blood's instinctSpeaks through the lips of half-unconscious sense.I'll wager he already half divinesHis occult parentage.D. Pas.(Looking around him.) Mother, where's Inez?Gip. Q.(Aside.) Mother again; but Inez fills his thoughts.Hast thou no mem'ry, youth, of last nights fray?[Aloud.D. Pas.But little, mother; all is still confused.Gip. Q.Then be thou patient, for I've much to tell.But say, how is't, thou ever call'st me mother?D. Pas.In faith I know not how my careless tongueCould shape a word so tender to thee, Queen,Who art a stranger to me. Yet I feel,And felt from the first moment that I gazedUpon thy dusky brow, a mother's heartDid beat for me within that hardy breast.Why I know not. I, too, who never knewA mother's love, whose infant steps were ledBy other than a mother's hand. A goodKind lady, long since dead, adopted me,And dying, left me all her patrimony,Which hitherto has been doled out to meBy guardians, until I should come of age.One Father Miguel, whom I seldom saw,Paid my expenses at the seminary;But when I asked him questions of my birthI never got intelligent response,So that I long have thought some mysteryDoth underly the subject of my birth.Gip. Q.I knew the Lady Angela, and loved her.D. Pas.Good Heavens! What, that name! The lady who——Gip. Q.Adopted thee and Father Miguel too.D. Pas.And Father Miguel!Gip. Q.Does that surprise thee?I could tell thee more.D. Pas.More than that! Ay, thenWho knows thou may'st not discoverThe secret of my birth.Gip. Q.Secrets as strangeHave often been discovered by gipsies.Am I not a gipsy? Can I not readThe destinies of all, mapped out for theeBy the great heavenly bodies? Think'st thou thatOur meeting was not fashioned by the starsAnd known to me beforehand?D. Pas.Even that!Gip. Q.Ay, and your meeting with the Lady Inez.D. Pas.That, too! Nay, tell me more. I fain would hear.Gip. Q.Not so fast. Thou'rt o'er excitable.Calm thyself first an thou wouldst hear moreOf that young damsel. But of her anon.D. Pas.Weird and mysterious being, as I readThy mystic brow a whisper seems to sayI've seen thee once before. Say, art thou notThat crone who ever haunts me in my dreams,Known in my youth, who once gave me this ring?Gip. Q.The same, the same! I've watched thee from a child.D. Pas.And by that ring thou knowest me.Gip. Q.'Tis true.D. Pas.Ay, now I know thee. Tell me now, O Queen,Why tookest thou an interest in my fate?Gip. Q.The tale is long and sad, but thou must hear.Be patient and lend an attentive ear.Know, then, that in Grenada's lofty rangeThere stands a twin-peaked mountain doubly-crowned,With two grim feudal castles, old, yet strong.The owners of these fortresses of yoreWere aye at feud, until at last the oneSubdued the other. Ever since that dayThe victor's star in the ascendant seemed,For though in later times they turned to friends,Who had been foes, and were allied togetherIn skirmishes with castles neighbouring,In which they came off gainers, still, the one—The larger and the richer one, I mean,The whilom victor of the other peak—Did e'er with haughty overbearing sneerUpon his humbler neighbour, and would bindThe poorer lord with obligations strong,For favours often granted, till at lastThe lesser lord became dependent onThe greater one, and ever poorer grewAnd more dependent, and so stands the case.Things will not long be thus. A change will come.The Fates predict it, and the proud one's starAlready's on the wane.D. Pas.In sooth, good Queen!But tell me what has this to do with me?Gip. Q.Peace! It concerns thee much, as thou shalt hear.The father of the present owner ofThe richer castle, Don Fernando height,I do remember well when but a child.A warrior proud was he, like all his race.His son, the present lord, is like him. HeWhose name I've vowed shall ne'er more pass my lips.D. Pas.Ha!Gip. Q.Interrupt me not. Thou soon shalt hear.This lord, who shall be nameless, in his youth(He now is old) did love a gipsy maid,Who, in the freshness of her virgin heart,Returned his passion, being but a child,Whilst he, the villain, was a full-grown manOf forty years and over. Still he boreHis years so lightly that he younger seemed.With passion fierce he wooed the gipsy maid,And pleaded in such moving tropes his love,That the young gipsy's heart—not then of stone,Though long since turned to flint—did melt, and he,Seeing his prey secure, did plot her ruin.But the child had a father, old and wise,Of royal blood, too, known as King Djâbel,And proud, too, of his lineage and his race.He thought it lowering to true gipsy bloodTo mate with pale-faced Christians, even though'Twere to a Christian king and by the church,Drawn up with legal document and signedIn all due form, and when he heard that IDid to a Christian's love lend listening ear.D. Pas.You?You, O Queen, then, were the gipsy maid.You're speaking of yourself. I understand.Gip. Q.(Starting) My tongue has tripped, and traitor turned. Why thenPursue my tale under false colours? Aye,Know that I, Pepa, was the gipsy maidOnce beloved of that false Don Diego.D. Pas.Don Diego.Gip. Q.Ha! My tongue has tripped again.I vowed that name should ne'er more pass my lips.Well, this false lord, with subtle wiles and artsDid so win my young heart, that King Djâbel,Furious at first at what he deemed a stainUpon his lineage, threatened me with death,And would have killed me, had I brought dishonourOn his fair name. But deem not that I fell.I loved him—and how dearly! But he foundThat the proud gipsy maid, though young, would notBarter her honour. Not for wealth untold.He then made promises that I should beMistress of all his castle and his landsAfter his father's death. Till then, he said,Our match must be clandestine, as his fatherWould disinherit him were he to knowThat his son were wedded to a gipsy.Our plans were well nigh ripe, for oft we metIn secret, and had full time to discussOur future prospects, left quite undisturbed.But one day King Djâbel, suspecting guile,Did lie in wait for us, and with drawn bladeFrom ambush out did spring upon the pair,And straight did fall upon this haughty lord,The would-be dishonourer of his child.But Pepa threw herself between her loverAnd angered father, and so stayed the blowAnd clinging to him, ever called uponHer furious sire to spare the gentle lord,And bid him smiteherbreast ifonemust die.But Djâbel loved his daughter, and did pause,Touched for a moment with her pleading prayer.When, seeing him more calm, the wily donDid straight, in full and flowing courteous speech,Declare his love for me, and how he soughtNot to make me his minion, but his wife.But Djâbel, answering with haughty scorn,Said: "Go back to thy castle, Christian lord,And wed some damsel of the pale-faced herd.No blood of thine must mar our gipsy race."The don's eye flashed. He would have spoken wordsFull of wild fury and deep bitterness;But Pepa interposed again, and flungHerself on bended knees before her sire,And begged her knight kneel too, and join her prayer.The don at first loathing much to grovelDown in the dust before a gipsy chief,Whom he esteemed a savage, yet did yield,And for my sake did bend his haughty knee.And thus we knelt together, clinging toKing Djâbel's robe and choked with sobs and tears,Did pray and plead, and plead and pray for long,But all in vain our pleading and our prayers,For dark as midnight grew King Djâbel's brow,And stern his glance of cold and deep disdain,Saying: "Humblest thou thyself, O haughty don?Methinks thou might'st have spared thyself the pains.Rise from the dust. Thy prayers are but as the windThat blows against the granite mountain's side,Yet harms it not, nor will it budge an inch,E'en though it blow a hurricane. So IRemain unmoved by all thy puny prayers."Stung to the quick, and rendered desperate,The haughty don with one bound sprang erect,And darting lightning flashes from his eye,Blushing the while at having bent the knee,Humbling himself in vain, now cried aloud,"Have at thee, then, dark chief, foronemust die.I fear thee not, and will not lose my holdUpon thy daughter, whom I love as life.Give her me, an it please thee, but if notI'll wrest her from thee, so do thou thy worst."Then straight the fray began. Each drew his bladeAnd fell upon the other, whilst my tearsAnd screams availed not, for the two were lockedFirm in each other's grasp, and tugged and pulledIn equal match, whilst I with streaming hair,Torn robe, and tearful eyes, did cry aloudFor help in vain, till this poor frame, o'erwroughtWith multiplex emotions, did give way,And, swooning, I fell heavily at their feet,Grasping my father's garment in my fall.The fight was stayed awhile, and each took breath."Look to your daughter, chieftain," were the firstWords that I heard on wakening from my swoon.And soon as e'er my tongue was loose, I cried,In accents feeble still, "Oh, father, stayThis wicked brawl. Say, dost thou love thy child?"With heaving breast and eyes suffused with tears,And choking sobs, I seized his hand, and cried,"Spare my young life. I love this Christian lord,An thou do aught to him, 'twill be my death.Canst see thy darling wither, droop, and die,Or, stung to madness, seek a violent death?Now mark well what I say, O most dread King.Shouldst thou be guilty of this Señor's blood,Know me no more for daughter, for I vowOr him or none to wed, and should he fall,And by thy hand, I too will follow next.The oath is sworn." Then from my father's eyeA tear fell, which he brushing soon away,As if he deemed it shame for man to weep,And changing to a lighter mood, he cried:"Girl, thou hast conquered. Christian knight, thy hand.Let all broils cease between us. Thou hast foughtAnd won my daughter fairly, showing courageWorthy a gipsy born. Therefore no moreWill I withhold consent unto this match.But, mark me well, Sir Knight, this marriage mustBe, though clandestine, legally up-drawn,That no base shuffling subterfuge may e'erIn after years crop up to thwart the bond."Thus spake the king Djâbel. My Christian knightDid vow upon his honour all should beExact as nicest lawyer could require.Alas, for human villainy! What snaresAnd wiles beset the simple, trusting heart.I loved him, and did lend a willing earTo all his schemes, spite my father's counsel,Suspecting nothing. What should I, poor child,Know of the world and all its hollowness?But King Djâbel, suspecting treacheryE'en from the first, and well upon his guard—For little trust he placed in Christian wight—Did stand aloof, and watched things from afar."Now will I try the faith of this same knight,"He said, and with a frankness ably feigned,He bid my lord take all things inhishands,Saying he trusted him in all, but he,For his part, was a very simple man,Unskilled in the world's usances and allThat appertains to life 'neath governments,'Pon seeing which, the wily Christian lordStraight sought to profit by his innocence;Betray the hand that trusted him, and thoughtThe dusky king, the dark barbarian,Would fall an easy prey into his hands.Howbeit, King Djâbel, like crafty foe,Though simple seeming, sent abroad his spies,Whilst he himself was absent. From these men—Men whom he trusted—he was well informedThat this proud don had formed the fell designThat a false priest should join our hands together.D. Pas.Villain!Gip. Q.Thou speakest sooth, for villainyMore base or perjured never sprang from hell.I thought he loved me, but I found too lateHe sought to spurn me from him soon as e'erHis lust was sated. So he straightway wroteTo some base profligate and spendthrift friendWho owed him money, promising that heWould cancel all his debt and yet advanceAnother round sum, if, peradventure,He should so aid him in his hellish plotAs to enact the part of holy priest,And satisfy the claims of King Djâbel,Whilst he himself should be no longer boundTo me by law than it should seem him fit,E'en as I were but his base concubine.You see, he loved me not, e'en from the first,Despite his protestations, since he couldIn base cold blood conceive such dire deceit.But this I knew not at the time, nor allThe foul devices of his reptile heart.But fondly thinking that he loved me asI then loved him, I listened to his suit;Nor was I undeceived, till, ah! too late.D. Pas.This is most monstrous! Noble Queen, I vowYour sorrows move me to forget mine own.I would I had the traitor by the throat,That I might show him once how I esteemHim and his villainy. Nay, 'tis a crimeThat calls aloud to Heaven for vengeance.Thou art nought to me Queen, but yet I feelThe wrong done towards thee e'en as though thou wertMy own true flesh and blood. I'd do as muchE'en wert thou thrice mine enemy. I swearThat should this traitor ever cross my path,Or he or the false priest (I care not which—Aye, both together, for 'tis nought to me),By Heaven I swear——Gip. Q.Hold! Heaven's instrumentsAre ever preordained. Thou canst not moveOne single step; nay, more, not e'en thy pulseCould throb again but for the will of Heaven.Leave him to Fate, for vengeance due will fallIn time, and from that quarter Heaven wills.D. Pas.True Queen, but tell me more, I fain would know,What said your royal sire King Djâbel?Gip. Q.Then list, and thou shalt hear how Djâbel's spiesDid intercept the lines that this false lordWrote to his profligate and perjured friend,So that he received them not. But now markWhat did my royal father? First he wentTo seek a Christian priest, long known to him,Albeit, unknown to this same haughty don;To him he showed the lines, and through his aid.Was writ an answer to this foul epistle,As coming from the friend of this false lord.This priest was father Miguel.D. Pas.Ha! that name.Why beats my heart as it ne'er throbbed before?Say, what is this new light that bursts uponMy whilom darkened soul? What power is thisThat stirs my thoughts within me? But proceed.I must, and will know more. Proceed, O Queen.My frame doth tremble in expectancyFor thy next word. Tell me, oh, tell me if——Gip. Q.(Aside.) Already he doth divine what I would say;Be still, my heart, and give me strength to tell it.(Aloud.) This letter, then, by Father Miguel forged,Ran thus in substance. Making first excuseThat sudden illness made him keep his bed,But though unable to oblige his friend,Did, ne'ertheless, not to disappoint him,(Hearing the case was urgent, and not knowingHow long it might be e'er he should recover)He thought to do not wrong in sending one,A trusty friend and boon companion,One, Don Elviro hight, to act as proxy;This was the name that Father Miguel boreTo mask his own. Then straightway he set forthT'wards the inn, from which the letter dated,The while my lord, who, reading in hot hasteThe letter through, and doubting not that heWere aught else than what the letter stated(To wit, Elviro, and no priest at all).So sure was he of this, suspecting nought,He fondly welcomed him, and many a jokeThey cracked together o'er the heartless scheme.Don Miguel acting well his part throughoutWith ribald jest, and oft full merrilyAlluding to his tonsure newly shorn,Asked of his patron how he liked his garb,And if he did not look a priest indeed.At this his lord laughed heartily, and thusTime passed away till I should don the veil,And we were married before witnesses.The ceremony over, all passed o'erRight merrily, nor knows my lord e'en now,Not even to this day, that he is married.D. Pas.Well done, by Heaven! And Father Miguel hail!So was the base would-be seducer paidBack in his own base coin. This should e'er be.Gip. Q.Ay, but thinkest thou I knew aught of this,Or was partaker in Don Miguel's scheme?Oh, no; of this my father told me nought,Nor knew I aught of all this base intrigue,This would-be marriage false, by false priest blessed,Till later years; in fact, until the timeThat King Djâbel upon his death bed lay.He then confessed to me the foul designBy him so ably thwarted. But e'en thenThe traitor had abandoned me already.He thought his marriage false, and told me plainI had no hold on him. I sought my sire,And then the truth came out. The blow was great,To find myself abandoned and deceivedBy him I loved and trusted, e'en though IKnew well that I stood right before the law,He had no right to leave me, that I knew.'Twas heartless, as I then was big with child;His father, too, was dead, old Don Fernand,And I, by rights, his castle should have shared,As he had promised, but old King DjâbelDid counsel me, "Be patient yet awhile;A day will come when thou shalt vengeance take.Nature hath made me prophet. I can seeNow that my sun is sinking far beyondThis earthly sphere, all that shall come to passIn future years. Delay thy vengeance, then,Still a few years, and I will be thy guide;I, Djâbel, from over this side the graveWill guide thy steps and shape thy destiniesUntil the hour arrive." Thus spake Djâbel,And falling back upon his rugged couch,Did breathe his last, clasping my hand in his;He now sleeps with his fathers. Rest his soul!And I, now left an orphan, and so young;Abandoned, too, by the base man I loved,How fared it with me, being then with child?The days of mourning for my father o'er,I could not keep my mind from wandering backTo our first days of courtship, when my lordFirst wooed me, and did win my virgin heart.I dwelt upon the memory of his words—How he had promised me in days of yore,His father being dead, old Don Fernand,That I should mistress of his castle be.How had he kept his promise? Don FernandWas long since dead, yet he no offer madeAbout his castle, but did keep me e'erWithin a little cottage that he builtDuring his father's lifetime for me, whenWe first were married. Here I lived content,For he then oft would visit me, and whenHe came not, yet I had full trust in him,And waited patiently, beguiling timeBy tending flowers in my garden home,For this was aye my passion from a child,And thus the hours passed full happily.But one day, seeing my lord with murky brow,And not divining what the cause mote be,I, with fond heart and young simplicity,Did offer all that consolationThat loving wife will offer to her lordIn moments of deep sadness. But he spurnedMe coldly from him, and when I did askIn what way I had my lord offended,Deigning no direct reply, made answer,He loved me not. I had no hold on him,Should ne'er be mistress of his father's hall,Our marriage being but a mockery,To last as long as it should please himself.He left me with a laugh of bitter scorn,Whilst I, as if by lightning struck, did fallFlat to the earth, and waking, sought my sire.Thou knowest how my father, dying, leftA promise he would ever guide my stepsIn hour of vengeance; so I patience kept.Meanwhile our son was born. That sonart thou!D. Pas.Oh, mother! mother!
[They embrace and weep on each others' necks.
(On recovering.)I did half divineThe truth from the beginning of thy tale,But at the name of Father MiguelMy heart did smite so loud against my ribsAs like to burst them; e'en as were it chargedFrom Heaven with joyful tidings to my soul.I ever knew that man in some strange wayWas mixed up in the mystery of my birth.Gip. Q.'Twas he that christened thee, abandoned byThy all unworthy father. He that holdsProofs that our marriage valid is by law,Without which proofs thou'dst been born a bastard,A stray, an outcast, slave to this world's scorn.The Lady Angela, that kind, good soul,Whose counsellor and priest Don Miguel was,Knew all thy history, and pitied thee.She was thy godmother while at the font.Don Miguel marked thee with the Christian's sign,And being a widow lady without heirs,And rich withal, she straightway did resolveT'adopt thee, and 'neath Father Miguel's careTo have thee educated as a priest.Poor pious soul! But thou know'st best of allHow thine own wilful temper at the school—Thy wild, impatient, roving gipsy blood,—Did give small promise for a like career,Which Father Miguel seeing from the first(Though not until repeated efforts madeTo tame thy stubborn nature proved in vain)Did finally, now weary of his charge,Abandon thee unto thine own wild ways,Doling the money out from time to time,Till thou should'st come of age. That time has come.D. Pas.Ha! ha! I well do call to mind the timeWhen Father Miguel, with church dogmas soughtTo warp my stubborn brain, and if I askedHim to explain some of that lore he taught,And fain would burden my poor skull withal,Then straight it was a mystery. I mustHave faith, he said; nor ask the reason why.Against this answer my young soul rebelled.And long and fierce the battles that we fought.He called me insubordinate and rude.Said I lacked discipline, humility,That I must subjugate my intellectUnto the church's dictates, threatening meWith purgatory and everlasting fireUnless I thought as he did, branding meAs atheist, Jew, or heretic, whilst ICalled him a fool. Then losing all controlOver his passions, this good, holy manDid raise his hand to strike me, seeing whichI seized a knife and threw it at his head,Leaving a scar upon his cheek; then laughed.As I grew older matters mended not,So he sent me to a seminary,Thinking to curb my will by discipline;But they soon found the worse they treated meThe worse was I, and so all gave me up.'Tis years since we have met. We were not formedTo live together. Greater oppositesIn character Nature ne'er formed from clay.I owe the holy man no grudge; not I.He did his best, I mine to understand him.We were formed differently from our birth.Gip. Q.A wild boy thou wert ever. That is true.I've watched thee oft when thou thought'st me afar.Thou knew'st me not for mother, nor would IUnveil the myst'ry of thy parentage,Nor bring disgrace on Lady Angela,Who had so kindly offered to adoptThee, the poor outcast gipsy's mongrel son,And rear him like the proudest of the land.Why should I, with my narrow, selfish love,Oppose a barrier to my son's advance,Refuse the lady's bounty, and drag downMy son unto the level of myself.A wand'ring gipsy! Yet I loved thee. Ay,I loved thee e'en with more than mother's love.I would that all should love thee. As for thoseWho loved thee not, these I vowed should fear thee.I'ld see thee feared and envied, proud and greatHigh up above thy fellows; and for thisI smothered in my heart all outward showOf my affection, and so hid myself.Still, I was near and watched thee day by dayExpand as the young plant before the sun.And I was happy in my heart of heartsTo know that thou wert happy, and to knowI was thy mother, though thou knew'st it not.And so for years I've watched thee, till thine ownWild wand'ring nature bid thee roam abroad.'Twas then for years that I lost sight of thee;This also was predicted by the stars,And so I gave to thee this gipsy ringThat I might know thee when we met again.D. Pas.Ay, I do mind me well, when yet a child,How once a gipsy gave it me, and bidMe wear it ever, and 'twould bring me luck;And how I, childlike, straight returned home,Pleased with the gift, to show my mother, orThe lady whom I thought my mother then.But tell me, queen or mother, which thou wilt,Why, if as I think, all thy tale be trueAnd thou wert really married to Don Diego,Knowing the law to be upon thy side,Why didst thou not at once set up thy claimOf lawful wife, instead of waiting now,A score of years and more! Thou could'st have claimed——Gip. Q.Thou askest me why I did not availMyself of that protection that the lawIn my case would enforce. I'll tell thee, then.I was, indeed, then counselled so to doBy Father Miguel and some other friends,Who knew that legal marriage was performed;But being mindful of the promise madeUnto my father on his bed of death,And having strict confidence in his words,Those deep prophetic words which never erred,Then finding, too, when I did scan the starsGood reason his for bidding me postponeMy vengeance for a season less ill-starred.D. Pas.What saw'st thou, mother, in the stars to makeThee to abandon all thy rightful claimsAnd crave the charity of an alien?Gip. Q.I craved no charity. The lady whoDid stand to thee in lieu of mother, cameHerself and craved of me permissionTo take thee home and rear thee as her child;Which offer I, though with much reluctance,At length accepted, ever mindful ofThe brilliant future that the stars foretold.D. Pas.What sign was that that caused thee then such fear?Gip. Q.A star malefic in thy house of life;Threatening thee with speedy violent deathFrom some traitor's hand. That hand, thy father's.Had I ta'en counsel of well-meaning friendsAnd urged my rights, ay, had I moved a step,Thy life and mine had dearly paid for it.D. Pas.How this may be, I know not. If the starsDo really rule our destinies, or ifThy woman's fears but made thee dread contactWith men in power. Have we not the law?Gip. Q.Justice may be bought. The oppressor's starWas then in the ascendant. 'Tis no more.Now mark, and I will show thee how the starsHave worked and ripened for my just revenge.Thou knowest well, 'tis now full many yearsI have lost sight of thee, though I have learnedFrom Father Miguel thou wast still alive;The stars foretold our meeting. Until nowI've waited for thee, and the stars likewisePredicted that almost at the same timeAnother I should meet, whose destinyDid figure so in thy young house of life.D. Pas.What! The Lady Inez?Gip. Q.Ay, even she.D. Pas.Then Heav'n be praised for happier destinyNe'er fell to lot of man.Gip. Q.Nay, not so fast;There're dangers still to pass, and thou must bearThyself right bravely if thou would'st succeed.D. Pas.Dost doubt my courage, mother? My good bladeShall carve me fortune wheresoe'er it turns.Gip. Q.Hot headed youth! Guard well thy strength until'Tis needed. Thou art weak from loss of blood,And need'st repose e'er thou set forth to work.The sun is high in heaven. Ere nightfallThou wilt have need of all thy youthful strength.Ere midnight I will lead thee to a wood,Accompanied by all my followers,From thence we must ascend a rugged pathThat leads to the tyrant's stronghold.D. Pas.What tyrant?Gip. Q.The nameless. Thy rival and thy father.D. Pas.Don Diego! 'Twas he, then, that yester-eveDid snatch the Lady Inez from my breastAs I lay faint and bleeding?Gip. Q.Ay, e'en he;And now he fain would marry her perforce,With or without her answer; he has swornTo wed her straight, scarce struck the midnight hour,And hurries on with most indecent hasteThis mockery of a marriage 'gainst the willAnd inclinations of the girl herself,And also 'gainst the wishes of her sire,Whom, poor man, the tyrant holds in 's power,As hawk doth hold a dove, obliging himTo give consent to this most monstrous matchWith his fair daughter, only late arrivedHome from the convent of St. Ursula(Albeit he knows not, I've the proofs in handOf our real marriage. Read them an you list)
[Handing papers to Don Pascual.
He needs must hasten on his base design,For fear of interruption. Be it oursTo baulk this rabid eagle of his prey,Snatch from his reeking claws the innocent lamb,And rescue chastity from guilt's device.Let this be Pepa's mission upon earth,To succour virtue and avenge the wrong,And thou, Pascual, stand thou me true in this,Let no wrong pass, but quickly search it out,And boldly in the light of day proclaimThe tyrant's wrong, in spite of odds or force.D. Pas.Mother, I swear. Fear not thou'lt find me apt;My sword is at thy service, e'en had INo more incentive to avenge thee thanThe sense of wrong that ever stirs my blood.But now I have my own more selfish endsTo serve. The maid 'fore all most near my heartTo rescue from the talons of a foe;The mother, too, who gave me birth to shieldFrom foul dishonour, and the tyrant whoBegat me, yet fain would dub me bastard,Still to chastise. With these wrongs to redress,Or e'en the half, what coward would not turn brave?What mouse would not turn lion? Rest in peace,This night thou art avenged. Pascual doth swear it.Gip. Q.Spoke like my own true son. And now to rest;Thou needest sleep, to calm thy jaded nerves,And brace thee for the work thou hast to-night.
[They embrace. Pascual throws himself upon his couch. Gipsy Queen sits watching him. Scene changes.
Scene III.—Inez' bedchamber in Don Silvio's castle; an old four posted bed, with faded hangings—old faded tapestry. A prie-dieu in front of a picture of our Lady of Pain. Crucifixes and pious relics adorn the chambers. Don Silvio is discovered pleading earnestly. Inez weeping.
Inez.(Tearing herself away.) Cease, father, cease; I cannot, dare not yield.How can you ask me, after all you've said?What! Wed a man I never saw before,A man whose age, too, full quadruples mine!And at a moment's notice! Fie! for shame!Was it for this then that you call'dst me home,To barter soul and body for mere gold?Is it not thus the lowest of our sex,Led on by glitter to fill Satan's ranks,Fall, ne'er to rise again? Ah! woe is me.Think, father, think. What could such union beBefore the eyes of Heaven? Would it notBe foul adultery, base, incestuous lust?And this you'ld have from me, your only child?Oh, father! 'twas not thus that you once spake.Where are your noble maxims, father, now?Alas! alas! all scattered to the windsBefore the first blast of the tempting fiend.D. Sil.(Aside.) Now this is most just, by Heav'n! that I beThus by my own child humbled and reproved,For falling back from truth in hour of trial.Dear inn'cent soul! How could she yield to termsAlike repugnant to her virgin heartAs mine own conscience? But, then, what to do?Ah! cursed be the hour I gave consentUnto that monstrous pact! What would I giveNow to undo the same, were't in my power?But my inexorable foe has swornTo have his bond, and Diego never jests.Most dire necessity doth bid me saveMyself and household from disgrace and death.Ay, from starvation. Nothing short of thatShould make me recreant to my conscience law.She, young and hopeful, realises notThe want and misery that must ensueTo us on her refusal. Be it so.Occasion presses. Time must not be lost.I will try again, though conscience brand me.(Aloud.)Inez!Inez.Father!D. Sil.Bethink thee, yet, my child.Inez.Parent, no more!D. Sil.What am I, then, to do?I, thy poor agèd father, sent abroadTo beg my bread. No shelter from the windAnd rain. No food; no hospitable roof.Our servants, too, must all our ills endure;And all through thee, through thine own obdurate heart.But 'twill not serve thee. Not one whit, for thoughThou still resist, Don Diego will use force;His myrmidons——Inez.I fear them not, when God is on our side.This is a trial, and we must have faith.D. Sil.(Desperate.) My child! Will nothing move thee? On thy headWill be thy father's blood. My life's at stake.Inez.Think of thy soul, old man, and trust in God.Thou, who didst teach mine infant lips to pray,Canst thou not pray, or wilt thou learn of meNow thou art old? Hast thou no faith, father?D. Sil.Alas! alas! 'Tis many years these kneesHave bowed no more in prayer. When I was young,And yet had faith, 'twas then I used to pray.Inez.But now; Oh, father! Heaven! What can have causedThis falling off of piety in age?For years not bent the knee unto thy God!I wonder not He hath abandoned thee.Come, learn of me. Look here. Gaze on this form,[Snatches a crucifix from the wall, and thrusts it into Don Silvio's unwilling hands.This bleeding image. See this crown of thorns,These nails, that side thrust; and then learn how HeSuffered and died for us. Canst thou not bearOne little pang an 't be the will of Heaven?What is thy grief to His, who suffered moreThan mortal man e'er suffered? Father, prayGod will not desert those who trust in Him.D. Sil.Nay, thou art young and hopeful. I am old.Inez.Kneel, father, kneel; and look not so downcast.Behold the blessed Virgin Mary, piercedAnd sorrowing for our sins. Come, father, kneel.Do as I do, and throw thyself beforeThis blessed image, and repeat these words.[Throws herself on the prie-dieu, and clasps her hands together in front of the picture of our Lady of Pain. Don Silvio still standing.Oh! Holy Virgin, Mother of our Lord;Chosen of God, immaculate, Divine;Thou, who hast promised aye to intercedeWith thy dear Son, the living God of HeavenFor us poor mortals when oppressed with woe,From that high heaven where thou sittest enthroned'Midst glorious angels, mercifully look downUpon thy humble votaries, who groan'Neath the oppression of a tyrant world.Oh! thou who never turnest a deaf earUnto a suppliant's prayer, send down thy grace,And succour her from evil men's designsWho puts her trust in thee. Thwart thou their schemes,And, for the glory of thy holy name,Avenge thy handmaid's wrongs, and punish thoseWho, strong in the abuse of worldly power,Would fain defile the virgin chastityOf her who seeks thy aid; rain down thy grace.Oh! Holy Mother, who canst never seeThe wrong to triumph and the right to fall,Soften my father's heart, and let him kneelTo thee, and join with me in heartfelt prayerAnd supplication, that the evils whichDo threaten us alike may be withdrawn.[Don Silvio drops crucifix, and exit slowly and moodily.Oh, Holy Saints! Oh, Holy Virgin Mother!Look down in pity on this suppliant pair,Who all unworthy are to raise our eyesTo that high Heaven, whence thou art, and seekThy aid and guidance, strengthen us, O Lord!Strengthen our faith, and let our trust in TheeNever abate, e'en in temptation's hour.[Draws forth a rosary, and remains for some time counting her beads. Then rises.I thank thee, Holy Virgin. Thou hast heardThe prayer of faith, and——(looking round her) What! my father gone!Too proud to pray, alas! Oh, Heaven grantMy doting father more humility,More faith, more hope; and aye within this breastKeep thoumyfaith alive, lest Satan sendSome emissary forth to thwart thy will.EnterRodriguez,smiling towardsInez,who starts, looks suspiciously at her, and shudders.Rod.What! my young mistress taken by surprise,And scared at poor Rodriguez! I've no doubtSome transient fever, brought on by the shockYou late have suffered, made you shiver so.Come to old Rodriguez, my pretty bird,Pour forth into old nurse's willing earAll its past troubles. Did the gipsy gangRun off with pretty darling, and insultHer and old Pedro! Sweetest, grieve no moreNow all is over, but take courage fromOld nurse Rodriguez, who was ever wontTo smooth its pillow, and to share its griefs.Inez.Good nurse, Rodriguez, 'tis not, as you think,The gipsy tribe that causes me this dread.I have another and a secret griefI daren't divulge to thee. Nay, leave me, pray.Rod.What! my young mistress has a secret grief;And I, poor old Rodriguez, am debarredFrom sharing it. Leave you alone, forsooth!Leave my young mistress Inez all alone,To brood and mope over her secret grief!Never! You ill know nurse Rodriguez, child.Inez.(Aside.) This is intolerable.Rod.As you say,It cannot be about the gipsy tribeMy darling frets. The danger's gone and past,Thanks to the noble conduct of my lord,The brave and gallant Don Diego, whoAt risk of his own life, with sword in hand,Did rescue you from the dark gipsy gang.'Twas bravely done. And how he wears his years!Just like a stripling—and how fine a man;How courteous, too, and what a merry eyeHe has for all his favourites. I'm sureThat you yourself are one, judging from how[Inez draws back scornfully.He looks at you askance, then turns awayAnd sighs so deeply, little thinking thatRodriguez guesses what he bears within.Inez.Rodriguez, silence! Of this trash no more.Rod.Nay, Mistress Inez; pray not angered beWith poor old nurse. She loves a jest at times.Inez.I'm in no jesting mood, I promise you.I pray you, leave me.Rod.There you are again,Wishing me to leave you alone to mope;But, dear, Rodriguez better knows than leaveHer little mistress all uncomforted.Away with nasty grief, and courage takeFrom kind old nurse, and, like her, merry be.Inez.Your consolation, nurse, is, perhaps, well meant.Albeit, at present, 'tis superfluous.Rod.What! Hoity, toity! child; would'st have me seeMy little Inez pining and downcast,E'en though it be for nought at all; and ne'erSay word to cheer her? Nay, 'tis my dutyTo my mistress. So here I mean to stickUntil I've made you laugh. Come now, madam.Inez.(Aside.) She's insupportable.Rod.Were I a maid once more, I'd show you howI'd laugh and enjoy the world. Not as you,Pent up these years within a convent cell,Till you've grown musty. A pest on convents all!Keep them for cripples and incurables.For those who from birth so ill-favoured are,They find not husbands. These may chant and sing,And moan and fast, an't please them; but, for you,A maid of Lady Inez's beauty, jammedWithin these walls—'tis sacrilege, I ween.Inez.Rodriguez, now you must not lightly talkAgainst those holy women, who have fledAll worldly joys to win the peace of Heaven.Rod.Each to their taste. For me, I love the world.Inez.I know it, nurse; but at your age 'twere fitYou'd higher thoughts.Rod.Atmyage! Pooh! tut, tut!Those with a merry heart are never old.Look at Don Diego, how he bears himself,And all because he has a merry heart.Had he been priest or monk, he had been oldAt thirty. But just look how proud his step,How clear his eye, how red his manly cheek.Were I a maid once more, just of your age,I straight should lose my heart, and that's a fact.Heigh ho!Inez.A truce to this unseemly banter.Nor dare to name that man to me again.Rod.That man! What, poor Don Diego? In what wayHath he offended, that you treat him thus?I'm sure he is not conscious of his fault,Or he would die with grief; the dear, good man,Fond of you as he is, as all can see.Inez.Rodriguez, cease! I'll hear no more, I've said.And let me tell you, nurse, now once for all,It ill becomes thy years and sex, t'enactA part, of all parts most contemptible.Rod.What part, my pretty child? Don't so misjudgePoor nurse Rodriguez as to think that sheCould counsel you for aught but for your goodRemember, you are young, my mistress dear,And have yet to unlearn your convent life,That so ill fits you for our merry world.Your father, poor mistaken man——Inez.Hold there,And reverence my father as thy lord.Rod.Ne'er doubt me, mistress mine, but e'en my lordWould counsel you as I would counsel you.Inez.Thou speak'st of counsel. How would'st counsel me?Rod.Nay, then, nought 'gainst your interests; that's clear.Had I your youth and beauty, and your chance,I'd have a care, nor throw such chance away.Lend not the ear to ev'ry stripling, child,Because he's smooth of mien, but look behindThe outer gloss, and seek for solid gold.Inez.Your counsel, nurse, is mercenary.Rod.Tut, tut.We've got to live; to live we've got to eat;Then comes our dress, our servants, and what elseMay appertain unto a lady born,As was your mother, Lady Dorothea,—Of blessed mem'ry,—when this ancient hallLooked livelier than at the present day.Now hark! my dear young mistress, and attendTo these my words, as were they from the lipsOf your own sainted mother, who looks downFrom her high post, and sees all that we do.What, think you, would your fondest mother say,To see this castle go to rack and ruin,Her darling child descend in social scale,Because she would espouse some popinjay.Whose wealth was all he carried on his back?When she could get a chance to marry one(A goodly man, if more mature in years)A great hidalgo, and of wealth untold,By means of which she could redeem this hall,And make it worthy of its better days;Pay off her father's debts, and thus contentHim and his household, and all else beside.Why, marry, 'twere rank madness to let slipSuch glorious chance, and such a chance have you.Inez.Enough.Rod.Nay, Iwillspeak in duty bound,And tell you, willy-nilly, that the manWho thus would lay his riches at the feetOf my poor master's daughter is none elseThan noble Lord Don Diego.Inez.I have saidI will not have thee mention that man's name;I did divine thy mission from the first,And doubt me not that thou wert amply paidTo play the go-between; but learn for once,Base woman, that my heart must not be bought;The purest gift of Heaven was not madeTo be an article of merchandise.My heart's in mine own keeping, and must ne'erBe given up save to the man I love.Though this pile fall to ruins o'er our heads;Though hunger threaten; though my father's lifeAnd other lives at stake be; nay, e'en thoughThis robe be turned to rags and I be sentAbroad to beg my bread, and from the coldNight storm or tempest ne'er a shelter find;Nay, come what will, nought 'gainst the will of HeavenMust e'er be done to suit the present hour.Rod.Nay, speak not thus, young mistress, but be calm;Rodriguez, too, was once a girl and thought,E'en as you do now.Inez.More's the pity thenThat years, instead of bringing purer thoughts,Should cancel all the purity of youth.Rod.Nay, mistress mine, what I would say is this:That being in youth, even as yourself,More swayed by my heart than my interests,I gave my heart unto the man I loved,Disdaining higher offer, but soon foundCause to repent for having thrown awayA better chance; for Carlos, when he sawThat I had nought, and he had nought, he 'ganTo lose the love he had for me, and thenHe beat me, and we quarrelled. Soon he died.And being left destitute, was fain t'acceptThe place of servant in your father's house.Inez.And by this tale of sorrows thou would'st proveThat we in this life are in duty boundTo sell our souls unto the highest bidder.Away with such foul subtleties, with whichThe arch-fiend baits his hook to tempt God's own.Give me the quiet of a convent cell,Rather than rank and splendour with disgrace.Rod.Disgrace! Nay, honour. When the knot is tiedYou will be held in honour by the world.It is not mere protection that is offered,But legal marriage. There's the difference.Inez.The marriage that 'fore Heaven legal is,Is that in which two souls are joined in one,And not the forced and bitter mockeryBorn of man's interest, by him approved.Such match as thou would'st counsel were no match,But lust and policy combined in one;Most foul adultery in Heaven's eyes,Ay, e'en despite the blessing of the church.But, to cut short this most distasteful theme,Perhaps thou'lt tell me, as an after-clauseIncluded in the pact, should I acceptThis offer that Don Diego deigns to make,'Twere necessary that this match take placeThis night at midnight, without more delay.Rod.Why, some such clause there is, I must confess,A mere caprice. What matters it? But thenThe offer is so splendid. Only think!Inez.In case of my refusing him. What then?Rod.You surely would not think of such a thing,If you knew how he loved you.Inez.Still I ask,What's the alternative should I refuse?Rod.I would not counsel you to brave his ire.He loves you most devotedly, I know,And 'tis for that he'd hasten on the match,'Tis over-eagerness and fear to loseHis prize. A groundless fear, I do admit.But he was ever an eccentric man:A good man though.Inez.So all I have to fearIs but his ire?Rod.I know not though what formHis ire might take. He's powerful and great,Accustomed to obedience, to command,Like all great military leaders whoHold up their heads above their fellow-men.Hemightuse force. I would not you adviseTo thwart his will, but quietly to yield.Inez.And art thou woman, who would'st counsel me,Through fear of violence of mortal man,To so offend against all chastityAs yield obedience to this man's lust?A veteran full four times mine own age,And that, in all hot haste this very night,When I have scarce had time to see his face!Is't this that thou call'st love? Now fie! Now fie!I did think better of thee, nurse Rodriguez,Than that thy tongue could have been bought for goldIn such base cause. But since 'tis come to this—Away from me! and tell the fiend who sent thee,Inez would rather die a thousand deathsThan barter her virtue for all his gold.Rod.I dare not tell him so, my pretty bird.Inez.Then send him here, I'll tell him so myself.I fear no man when God is on my side.Rod.Nay, mistress, dear, forbear. You know him not.Inez.Yet thou would'st have me marry him. For shame!Rod.I know not what to say. 'Twas urgency,Most dire necessity, that made me speak;Fear for your father's life, mine own, and Pedro's,And last, not least, yourself, my darling child.I am bewildered and half gone mad.What shall we do? Oh, Heaven grant us help.Inez.I trust as ever in the help of Heaven.Sustain us, Lord, in our adversity,And let us lack not faith.[A knock at the door.Oh, holy saints!Pedro.(Without.) Rodriguez! What ho! Donna Rodriguez!My lord Don Diego awaiteth thee below.Rod.I come, I come. (Aside.) Ah me! what shall I say?[Exit.Inez.Now, saints protect us! Holy Virgin, thouBe still my guide, nor let me pray in vain.[Inez throws herself half fainting on the prie-dieu, and the scene closes.
Inez.(Tearing herself away.) Cease, father, cease; I cannot, dare not yield.How can you ask me, after all you've said?What! Wed a man I never saw before,A man whose age, too, full quadruples mine!And at a moment's notice! Fie! for shame!Was it for this then that you call'dst me home,To barter soul and body for mere gold?Is it not thus the lowest of our sex,Led on by glitter to fill Satan's ranks,Fall, ne'er to rise again? Ah! woe is me.Think, father, think. What could such union beBefore the eyes of Heaven? Would it notBe foul adultery, base, incestuous lust?And this you'ld have from me, your only child?Oh, father! 'twas not thus that you once spake.Where are your noble maxims, father, now?Alas! alas! all scattered to the windsBefore the first blast of the tempting fiend.D. Sil.(Aside.) Now this is most just, by Heav'n! that I beThus by my own child humbled and reproved,For falling back from truth in hour of trial.Dear inn'cent soul! How could she yield to termsAlike repugnant to her virgin heartAs mine own conscience? But, then, what to do?Ah! cursed be the hour I gave consentUnto that monstrous pact! What would I giveNow to undo the same, were't in my power?But my inexorable foe has swornTo have his bond, and Diego never jests.Most dire necessity doth bid me saveMyself and household from disgrace and death.Ay, from starvation. Nothing short of thatShould make me recreant to my conscience law.She, young and hopeful, realises notThe want and misery that must ensueTo us on her refusal. Be it so.Occasion presses. Time must not be lost.I will try again, though conscience brand me.(Aloud.)Inez!Inez.Father!D. Sil.Bethink thee, yet, my child.Inez.Parent, no more!D. Sil.What am I, then, to do?I, thy poor agèd father, sent abroadTo beg my bread. No shelter from the windAnd rain. No food; no hospitable roof.Our servants, too, must all our ills endure;And all through thee, through thine own obdurate heart.But 'twill not serve thee. Not one whit, for thoughThou still resist, Don Diego will use force;His myrmidons——Inez.I fear them not, when God is on our side.This is a trial, and we must have faith.D. Sil.(Desperate.) My child! Will nothing move thee? On thy headWill be thy father's blood. My life's at stake.Inez.Think of thy soul, old man, and trust in God.Thou, who didst teach mine infant lips to pray,Canst thou not pray, or wilt thou learn of meNow thou art old? Hast thou no faith, father?D. Sil.Alas! alas! 'Tis many years these kneesHave bowed no more in prayer. When I was young,And yet had faith, 'twas then I used to pray.Inez.But now; Oh, father! Heaven! What can have causedThis falling off of piety in age?For years not bent the knee unto thy God!I wonder not He hath abandoned thee.Come, learn of me. Look here. Gaze on this form,
[Snatches a crucifix from the wall, and thrusts it into Don Silvio's unwilling hands.
This bleeding image. See this crown of thorns,These nails, that side thrust; and then learn how HeSuffered and died for us. Canst thou not bearOne little pang an 't be the will of Heaven?What is thy grief to His, who suffered moreThan mortal man e'er suffered? Father, prayGod will not desert those who trust in Him.D. Sil.Nay, thou art young and hopeful. I am old.Inez.Kneel, father, kneel; and look not so downcast.Behold the blessed Virgin Mary, piercedAnd sorrowing for our sins. Come, father, kneel.Do as I do, and throw thyself beforeThis blessed image, and repeat these words.
[Throws herself on the prie-dieu, and clasps her hands together in front of the picture of our Lady of Pain. Don Silvio still standing.
Oh! Holy Virgin, Mother of our Lord;Chosen of God, immaculate, Divine;Thou, who hast promised aye to intercedeWith thy dear Son, the living God of HeavenFor us poor mortals when oppressed with woe,From that high heaven where thou sittest enthroned'Midst glorious angels, mercifully look downUpon thy humble votaries, who groan'Neath the oppression of a tyrant world.Oh! thou who never turnest a deaf earUnto a suppliant's prayer, send down thy grace,And succour her from evil men's designsWho puts her trust in thee. Thwart thou their schemes,And, for the glory of thy holy name,Avenge thy handmaid's wrongs, and punish thoseWho, strong in the abuse of worldly power,Would fain defile the virgin chastityOf her who seeks thy aid; rain down thy grace.Oh! Holy Mother, who canst never seeThe wrong to triumph and the right to fall,Soften my father's heart, and let him kneelTo thee, and join with me in heartfelt prayerAnd supplication, that the evils whichDo threaten us alike may be withdrawn.
[Don Silvio drops crucifix, and exit slowly and moodily.
Oh, Holy Saints! Oh, Holy Virgin Mother!Look down in pity on this suppliant pair,Who all unworthy are to raise our eyesTo that high Heaven, whence thou art, and seekThy aid and guidance, strengthen us, O Lord!Strengthen our faith, and let our trust in TheeNever abate, e'en in temptation's hour.
[Draws forth a rosary, and remains for some time counting her beads. Then rises.
I thank thee, Holy Virgin. Thou hast heardThe prayer of faith, and——(looking round her) What! my father gone!Too proud to pray, alas! Oh, Heaven grantMy doting father more humility,More faith, more hope; and aye within this breastKeep thoumyfaith alive, lest Satan sendSome emissary forth to thwart thy will.
EnterRodriguez,smiling towardsInez,who starts, looks suspiciously at her, and shudders.
Rod.What! my young mistress taken by surprise,And scared at poor Rodriguez! I've no doubtSome transient fever, brought on by the shockYou late have suffered, made you shiver so.Come to old Rodriguez, my pretty bird,Pour forth into old nurse's willing earAll its past troubles. Did the gipsy gangRun off with pretty darling, and insultHer and old Pedro! Sweetest, grieve no moreNow all is over, but take courage fromOld nurse Rodriguez, who was ever wontTo smooth its pillow, and to share its griefs.Inez.Good nurse, Rodriguez, 'tis not, as you think,The gipsy tribe that causes me this dread.I have another and a secret griefI daren't divulge to thee. Nay, leave me, pray.Rod.What! my young mistress has a secret grief;And I, poor old Rodriguez, am debarredFrom sharing it. Leave you alone, forsooth!Leave my young mistress Inez all alone,To brood and mope over her secret grief!Never! You ill know nurse Rodriguez, child.Inez.(Aside.) This is intolerable.Rod.As you say,It cannot be about the gipsy tribeMy darling frets. The danger's gone and past,Thanks to the noble conduct of my lord,The brave and gallant Don Diego, whoAt risk of his own life, with sword in hand,Did rescue you from the dark gipsy gang.'Twas bravely done. And how he wears his years!Just like a stripling—and how fine a man;How courteous, too, and what a merry eyeHe has for all his favourites. I'm sureThat you yourself are one, judging from how[Inez draws back scornfully.He looks at you askance, then turns awayAnd sighs so deeply, little thinking thatRodriguez guesses what he bears within.Inez.Rodriguez, silence! Of this trash no more.Rod.Nay, Mistress Inez; pray not angered beWith poor old nurse. She loves a jest at times.Inez.I'm in no jesting mood, I promise you.I pray you, leave me.Rod.There you are again,Wishing me to leave you alone to mope;But, dear, Rodriguez better knows than leaveHer little mistress all uncomforted.Away with nasty grief, and courage takeFrom kind old nurse, and, like her, merry be.Inez.Your consolation, nurse, is, perhaps, well meant.Albeit, at present, 'tis superfluous.Rod.What! Hoity, toity! child; would'st have me seeMy little Inez pining and downcast,E'en though it be for nought at all; and ne'erSay word to cheer her? Nay, 'tis my dutyTo my mistress. So here I mean to stickUntil I've made you laugh. Come now, madam.Inez.(Aside.) She's insupportable.Rod.Were I a maid once more, I'd show you howI'd laugh and enjoy the world. Not as you,Pent up these years within a convent cell,Till you've grown musty. A pest on convents all!Keep them for cripples and incurables.For those who from birth so ill-favoured are,They find not husbands. These may chant and sing,And moan and fast, an't please them; but, for you,A maid of Lady Inez's beauty, jammedWithin these walls—'tis sacrilege, I ween.Inez.Rodriguez, now you must not lightly talkAgainst those holy women, who have fledAll worldly joys to win the peace of Heaven.Rod.Each to their taste. For me, I love the world.Inez.I know it, nurse; but at your age 'twere fitYou'd higher thoughts.Rod.Atmyage! Pooh! tut, tut!Those with a merry heart are never old.Look at Don Diego, how he bears himself,And all because he has a merry heart.Had he been priest or monk, he had been oldAt thirty. But just look how proud his step,How clear his eye, how red his manly cheek.Were I a maid once more, just of your age,I straight should lose my heart, and that's a fact.Heigh ho!Inez.A truce to this unseemly banter.Nor dare to name that man to me again.Rod.That man! What, poor Don Diego? In what wayHath he offended, that you treat him thus?I'm sure he is not conscious of his fault,Or he would die with grief; the dear, good man,Fond of you as he is, as all can see.Inez.Rodriguez, cease! I'll hear no more, I've said.And let me tell you, nurse, now once for all,It ill becomes thy years and sex, t'enactA part, of all parts most contemptible.Rod.What part, my pretty child? Don't so misjudgePoor nurse Rodriguez as to think that sheCould counsel you for aught but for your goodRemember, you are young, my mistress dear,And have yet to unlearn your convent life,That so ill fits you for our merry world.Your father, poor mistaken man——Inez.Hold there,And reverence my father as thy lord.Rod.Ne'er doubt me, mistress mine, but e'en my lordWould counsel you as I would counsel you.Inez.Thou speak'st of counsel. How would'st counsel me?Rod.Nay, then, nought 'gainst your interests; that's clear.Had I your youth and beauty, and your chance,I'd have a care, nor throw such chance away.Lend not the ear to ev'ry stripling, child,Because he's smooth of mien, but look behindThe outer gloss, and seek for solid gold.Inez.Your counsel, nurse, is mercenary.Rod.Tut, tut.We've got to live; to live we've got to eat;Then comes our dress, our servants, and what elseMay appertain unto a lady born,As was your mother, Lady Dorothea,—Of blessed mem'ry,—when this ancient hallLooked livelier than at the present day.Now hark! my dear young mistress, and attendTo these my words, as were they from the lipsOf your own sainted mother, who looks downFrom her high post, and sees all that we do.What, think you, would your fondest mother say,To see this castle go to rack and ruin,Her darling child descend in social scale,Because she would espouse some popinjay.Whose wealth was all he carried on his back?When she could get a chance to marry one(A goodly man, if more mature in years)A great hidalgo, and of wealth untold,By means of which she could redeem this hall,And make it worthy of its better days;Pay off her father's debts, and thus contentHim and his household, and all else beside.Why, marry, 'twere rank madness to let slipSuch glorious chance, and such a chance have you.Inez.Enough.Rod.Nay, Iwillspeak in duty bound,And tell you, willy-nilly, that the manWho thus would lay his riches at the feetOf my poor master's daughter is none elseThan noble Lord Don Diego.Inez.I have saidI will not have thee mention that man's name;I did divine thy mission from the first,And doubt me not that thou wert amply paidTo play the go-between; but learn for once,Base woman, that my heart must not be bought;The purest gift of Heaven was not madeTo be an article of merchandise.My heart's in mine own keeping, and must ne'erBe given up save to the man I love.Though this pile fall to ruins o'er our heads;Though hunger threaten; though my father's lifeAnd other lives at stake be; nay, e'en thoughThis robe be turned to rags and I be sentAbroad to beg my bread, and from the coldNight storm or tempest ne'er a shelter find;Nay, come what will, nought 'gainst the will of HeavenMust e'er be done to suit the present hour.Rod.Nay, speak not thus, young mistress, but be calm;Rodriguez, too, was once a girl and thought,E'en as you do now.Inez.More's the pity thenThat years, instead of bringing purer thoughts,Should cancel all the purity of youth.Rod.Nay, mistress mine, what I would say is this:That being in youth, even as yourself,More swayed by my heart than my interests,I gave my heart unto the man I loved,Disdaining higher offer, but soon foundCause to repent for having thrown awayA better chance; for Carlos, when he sawThat I had nought, and he had nought, he 'ganTo lose the love he had for me, and thenHe beat me, and we quarrelled. Soon he died.And being left destitute, was fain t'acceptThe place of servant in your father's house.Inez.And by this tale of sorrows thou would'st proveThat we in this life are in duty boundTo sell our souls unto the highest bidder.Away with such foul subtleties, with whichThe arch-fiend baits his hook to tempt God's own.Give me the quiet of a convent cell,Rather than rank and splendour with disgrace.Rod.Disgrace! Nay, honour. When the knot is tiedYou will be held in honour by the world.It is not mere protection that is offered,But legal marriage. There's the difference.Inez.The marriage that 'fore Heaven legal is,Is that in which two souls are joined in one,And not the forced and bitter mockeryBorn of man's interest, by him approved.Such match as thou would'st counsel were no match,But lust and policy combined in one;Most foul adultery in Heaven's eyes,Ay, e'en despite the blessing of the church.But, to cut short this most distasteful theme,Perhaps thou'lt tell me, as an after-clauseIncluded in the pact, should I acceptThis offer that Don Diego deigns to make,'Twere necessary that this match take placeThis night at midnight, without more delay.Rod.Why, some such clause there is, I must confess,A mere caprice. What matters it? But thenThe offer is so splendid. Only think!Inez.In case of my refusing him. What then?Rod.You surely would not think of such a thing,If you knew how he loved you.Inez.Still I ask,What's the alternative should I refuse?Rod.I would not counsel you to brave his ire.He loves you most devotedly, I know,And 'tis for that he'd hasten on the match,'Tis over-eagerness and fear to loseHis prize. A groundless fear, I do admit.But he was ever an eccentric man:A good man though.Inez.So all I have to fearIs but his ire?Rod.I know not though what formHis ire might take. He's powerful and great,Accustomed to obedience, to command,Like all great military leaders whoHold up their heads above their fellow-men.Hemightuse force. I would not you adviseTo thwart his will, but quietly to yield.Inez.And art thou woman, who would'st counsel me,Through fear of violence of mortal man,To so offend against all chastityAs yield obedience to this man's lust?A veteran full four times mine own age,And that, in all hot haste this very night,When I have scarce had time to see his face!Is't this that thou call'st love? Now fie! Now fie!I did think better of thee, nurse Rodriguez,Than that thy tongue could have been bought for goldIn such base cause. But since 'tis come to this—Away from me! and tell the fiend who sent thee,Inez would rather die a thousand deathsThan barter her virtue for all his gold.Rod.I dare not tell him so, my pretty bird.Inez.Then send him here, I'll tell him so myself.I fear no man when God is on my side.Rod.Nay, mistress, dear, forbear. You know him not.Inez.Yet thou would'st have me marry him. For shame!Rod.I know not what to say. 'Twas urgency,Most dire necessity, that made me speak;Fear for your father's life, mine own, and Pedro's,And last, not least, yourself, my darling child.I am bewildered and half gone mad.What shall we do? Oh, Heaven grant us help.Inez.I trust as ever in the help of Heaven.Sustain us, Lord, in our adversity,And let us lack not faith.[A knock at the door.Oh, holy saints!Pedro.(Without.) Rodriguez! What ho! Donna Rodriguez!My lord Don Diego awaiteth thee below.Rod.I come, I come. (Aside.) Ah me! what shall I say?[Exit.Inez.Now, saints protect us! Holy Virgin, thouBe still my guide, nor let me pray in vain.
[Inez throws herself half fainting on the prie-dieu, and the scene closes.
Scene IV.—A Wood of chestnuts. Moonlight. Gipsies in ambush. Don Diego's castle seen towering above the trees.