University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A Room in Calaynos' Castle. Doña Alda.
Doña Alda.
O, weary, weary days, how slow ye pass!
Flow on, flow on, and bring Calaynos home!
Yet why should I desire my lord's return?
His presence makes small difference to me:
Shut up in his dim study, pondering o'er
The yellow leaves of the most learnéd dead,
Short time he gives to me; and when he comes,
With stately step, and quiet, solemn eyes,
He chills the joy that from my heart would burst,
With a most dreary smile, or smiling sigh.
Yet I do love him, or I think I do.—
Pale, melancholy man, thy godlike mind
Was rather formed for multitudes to praise,
Than for a woman's individual love
To spend its wayward feelings on, unawed.
No change, no change! Can I be happy here—
I, running o'er with the hot blood of youth,
Eager for action, sick of dull repose,
That rusts my spirit with unburnished rest?—
I happy! plodding an unvarying round
Of sullen days, that slowly crawl to years?
My life is like a dammed and sluggish pool,
Topped with a scum of foul, green discontent,
Which loads my breast, and keeps the sunlight off.
(A horn sounds. Enter Martina.)
What means that sound?

Martina.
The warder blew the blast;
Your lord and train approach the castle gate.
What quick return from dear Seville he makes!
Had I been he, I 'd staid from home a year.

Doña A.
'T is a strange taste, his love for these old walls:
He oft has said, he passes not an hour,
Which he calls happy, when away from them.

Mar.
Lord! lady, what a speech! Were he well bred,
He 'd say from you no happy hour was passed.
You were included in the walls, I deem,
With sundry other scraps of furniture.
I hate a man who rolls in self-content,
And needs no one to help his happiness!

Doña A.
You hate my lord?

Mar.
O, no! my lady dear;
I spoke, as we unthinking women do,
In o'erstrained phrase, that means not what it says.

Doña A.
In the brief letter I last night received,
He writes, a much-loved friend returns with him,
To share what sports our castle can afford.

Mar.
What sports! what sports!—To see the half-bred Moors
Dance to their pagan drums, on Baptist's day;
And howl and rave, as if the maw of hell
Had cast its devils up to mar our earth!
These are the only sports. The holidays,
Except Saint John's, go off with moody shows,
Which well-nigh make a Christian woman weep.
Who is the friend?

Doña A.
I know not: a young man;
But yet not named.—How old do you suppose him?

Mar.
Thirty in years, and yet a century old!
A heart dried up, like one of Egypt's mummies,
All balmed and spiced in rare philosophy;
A spindle-shanked, lean-visaged, red-eyed youth,
With a most rickety and crooked back,
That got its set o'er Plato; one who fears
To look a pretty woman in the face,
Who would begin his prayers if one came near;
Who with his senses has not lived a day,
Yet ages with his brains.

Doña A.
And I suppose,
A man much like my lord, of earnest mien,
Of grave and reverend looks—incarnate wisdom
Made manifest and pure in earthly form—
A man without a sin, or fault, or stain:
Such must he be whom lord Calaynos loves.

Mar.
Would he had brought a gallant gentleman,
Such as adorns the splendid court of Spain!
A man all smiles and service to us women;
Faultless in dress, with a light, dashing air,
That wins his way to every lady's heart;
A man of wit, in conversation apt,
Ready in trifles, with a thorough knowledge
Of all the little things which women love;
One who can talk of China, or of cats—
Of furs, or frills—of lace, or Cashmere shawls—
And be as learned and absolute in these
As is your lord in metaphysics' lore:
That were a proper man—a man of fashion—
A man of feeling, delicate, refined;
Not a great clumsy, learnéd elephant!

Doña A.
Hark! they are coming.—Get you in, Martina.

Mar.
I'll pass this way; for I must see the guest.

[Exit.]
Calaynos.
(Without.)
Is Doña Alda here?

Mar.
(Without.)
She is, my lord!

(Enter Calaynos, Don Luis, Oliver, and Soto.)
Doña A.
(Embracing Calaynos.)
Welcome, my lord.

Cal.
Dear Alda, in thy joy,
Thou dost forget the guest I bring to thee;
A guest, and therefore to be welcomed first—
A friend, and therefore to be welcomed warmly.

Doña A.
(To Don Luis.)
Pardon me, señor, if I once offend
The courtesy a lady owes her guest.
'T is the first parting we have e'er endured;
Therefore our meeting is a strange delight,
New and most grateful. You are welcome, señor,
Both as a guest, and as my husband's friend.

Don Luis.
Ask me no pardon, where is no offence.—
Your double welcome I accept at heart,
And pray 't may have a long continuance.
How beautiful she is!—Heavens, what a gem
This barbarous castle has shut up in it!
[Aside.]
Why came you not, fair lady, to Seville?—
The court was there, and all was gayety,
Which lacked but you to make the joy complete.

Doña A.
The very man whom last Martina drew.
[Aside.]
'T was not his will. [Pointing to Calaynos.]


Don L.
Ah, then you wished to come?

Doña A.
My lord's will is my wish.

Don L.
Most dutiful!
Would that all ladies could be taught by you—
'T would save us aches!

Doña A.
(To Calaynos.)
My lord, we'll share thy thoughts.

Cal.
Nay, heed me not. I must retire a while.

[Exit.]
Doña A.
Perhaps 't would please you, sir, to view the castle?
No customary qualities it lacks,
Which dignify all huge and antique piles.
On every oaken door and painted window
There rests a legend, magnified by time;
Each tower is tenanted, at evil hours,
By other forms than walk its floors by day;
No stone but has its story. Some are gay,
Some grotesque; some are sad, some horrible.
I'll tell you but the cheerful—shall we walk?

Don L.
Ay, like the Sultan of the Eastern tale,
I'll list a thousand nights with eager ears.

[Exeunt.]
(Oliver and Soto advance.)
Soto.
This is a fine old castle—somewhat musty.

Oliver.
Ay, 't is the mustiest mansion in all Spain.
This castle my lord's race inhabited
Beyond all date.

Soto.
How did they in the flood?

Oli.
O, they were fishes then, and swam unchoked
They were advancing from their primal slime—
Hatched by the sun on some wide river's bank—
Through worms, fish, frogs, and beasts, upward to men.
They lived here monkeys, till their tails wore off,
Then became Moors, and last you find them thus.

Soto.
Why, here 's a pedigree for potentates!
That 's why they quarter beasts upon their shields;
Relations they to all these rampant brutes.
Friend, I shall dread to kill the next mad dog,
For fear I spill some near relation's blood.

Oli.
Fear you to kill a fox! You were a fox—
A cunning, sly, most guilty-minded fox;
Your master was a wolf, a dangerous wolf,
And you, sly fox, were his first counsellor.—
Fear to slay foxes, Soto!

Soto.
What mean you, sir?

Oli.
Merely that men were one time animals.
My master was a lion, king of beasts;
And you two, fox and wolf, once stole his crown,
And thought to wear it.

Soto.
Friend, you speak in riddles.

Oli.
O no, in fables I.

Soto.
Speak plainer, Æsop!

Oli.
I was a dog,—a faithful, patient cur,—
And watched my master while his eyes were closed;—
For you had given the king a sleeping draught,
Made of a flower called Friendship—falsely called!
I slew the fox and wolf, regained the crown,
And placed the golden circle on his brow:—
Now, in the fable, see what beast was I!

[Exit.]
Soto.
This fellow looks through both of us like glass:
He 's keener than my lord, and wiser far.
Some sunny day, we'll both pitch o'er these walls,
And he will be the man that breaks our necks.
Ah! 't is a sad thing, Soto, very sad,
To be knave's knave, e'en though he be a Don!
To take the peril, and do all the work,
Then, at the last, come in for all the kicks.
My lord must know the fable which I heard—
He'll sleep the lighter for it, on my life!

[Exit.]

SCENE II.

Another Room in the Castle. Enter Doña Alda and Don Luis.
Don Luis.
Pray, noble lady, how do you kill time?
The constant sameness of a country life
Must sometimes bear with weight on your high spirit.

Doña Alda.
Kill time, kill time! Ne'er breathe those words again—
At least, not where my lord Calaynos hears—
If on his good opinion you set store.
He uses time as usurers do their gold,
Making each moment pay him double interest;
He sighs o'er what in slumber is consumed;
Robs the lead-lidded god of many an hour,
To swell his heaping stores of curious learning.

Don L.
I hope my words no treason to your ears;
I thought not, gentle lady, to offend.
But I have lived in cities, from my birth,
Where all was noise, and life, and varying scene—
Recurrent news which set all men agape—
New faces, and new friends, and shows, and revels,
Mingled in constant action and quick change—
Which things drive on the wheels of time apace;
Nor, but for scanty periods, have I known
The changeless round of a calm country life.
I have not weighed my minutes in fine scales,
As lapidaries do the diamond's dust;
Content am I to wear life's blazing gem,
Nor care what fragments fall in polishing.

Doña A.
I have not passed my life in gayeties;
Duties, not pleasures, have filled up my days.
My lord's domain is large, and peopled thick;
Though most are prosperous, some are old, some poor.
Those that can hither come, I here relieve;
But the more feeble I ride forth to seek,
Freighted with goods which ease their present wants.
Sometimes, I read old books of chivalry,
And fill my wandering brain with idle fears
Of dwarfs, enchanters, giants, eldridge knights,
That throng the crowded world of old romance.
Sometimes, I prattle with my town-bred maid,
A girl of wit, who longs to see Seville,
And has so filled my ears with her desire,
That I 'd fain go, if but to still her tongue.
Then there are household duties infinite,
Known but to women, which I must discharge.

Don L.
So, then, at times you are an almoner,
At times a romance-reader, next a housewife.
These are grave things to spend a life upon!
But where 's Calaynos in this catalogue?—
Does he not cheer you, in your mournful tasks?

Doña A.
Are you his friend, and ask me this of him?
He is a scholar of the strictest caste;
And from the portal of yon study dim
Seldom comes forth into my little world.
He is a man of grave and earnest mind,
Wrapped up in things beyond my range of thought;
Of a warm heart, yet with a sense of duty—
As how he must employ his powerful mind—
That drives all empty trifles from his brain,
And bends him sternly o'er his solemn tasks.
Things nigh impossible are plain to him:
His trenchant will, like a fine-tempered blade,
With unturned edge cleaves through the baser iron.—
Such is my lord, a man above mankind.

Don L.
And can you feel companionship with him,
An intellectual demigod, removed
From all the sympathies that mark our race?
Can your warm woman's heart outpour its griefs,
Or share its gladness, with a soul like his?
Can you unbidden leap upon his breast,
And laugh or weep, as suits your forward mood?
He must despise all smiles, and mock all tears:
Serene, and cold, and calm—an ice-crowned peak,
Towering supreme amid thought's frozen clouds,
Above the thaws that flood our vales of life.

Doña A.
You 're talking of my husband!

Don L.
Of my friend.
Let me be your friend, lady, I beseech.
I fain would see you live in happiness;
And his strange coldness cannot bring you peace.

Doña A.
Husband and wife need not a go-between.
I did not say I lived unhappily;
Nor that Calaynos wanted in his love.
Señor, you take wild license with my speech,
To twist its meaning to so base an end.
I love him, he loves me.

Don L.
Your pardon, madam:
'T was but the share I take in all affairs,
Wherein my friends are mixed. I meant not ill;
Nor, willingly, your harmless words would wrest
To any sinister or false intent.
'T was a mistake; but such a one might hap
In the warm heart of any loving friend.

Doña A.
Well-meaning ill the generous must forgive.
When next we meet, beware how you uprake
The slumbering ashes in the fane of love,
Lest you come off with withered hands!—farewell.

[Exit.]
Don L.
Farewell, thou type of beauty, whom I'll win—
Farewell, thou guileless seat of embryo love—
Farewell, thou temple of my burning heart—
Thou thief of honor—thou enchantress fair,
Who hast upset my nature by thy art,
And killed the latest seeds of good in me!
Farewell, all gratitude, and friendship's trust!
Come, smiling sin, and pour thy honeyed words
On tongue and lips, but in my heart pour gall!—
Come, thin-robed sin, that show'st thy loveliness,
But hid'st thy wickedness and keen remorse!
That I may win my love, and hate her lord—
O, when had love a conscience or a fear!

[Exit.]

SCENE III.

The Study of Calaynos. Calaynos. reading, Oliver transcribing a manuscript.
Oliver.
(Rising.)
My lord, this learned manuscript has raised
A crowd of strange conjectures in my mind,
That rush and jostle through my wildered brain,
In wild confusion, without settled purpose.

Calaynos.
(Rising.)
What part stirred up this riot in your head?

Oli.
That part in which it hints at God's design
In the creation of the earth and man.
I oft have wondered how omniscient God
Could take delight in forming things like men:
So full of meanness, yet so full of pride—
So strong in thought, and yet so weak in act—
So foul in nature, so o'ergrown with sin,
Yet destined for a sphere 'neath Him alone.
What pleasure finds He in our paltry deeds,
Begot of selfishness and headstrong will?
What feeling moves Him when the puny thing
Lifts up his voice, and boldly rails at Him?
How deems He, when He sees the myriad souls
That speed to death—their destiny forgot,
The purpose of their being unachieved—
Seeking, unawed, a hell of their own choosing?
Why did He form so fair a stage as this,
To dance His trifling puppet, man, upon?
And, last, does not this whole creation seem
'Neath His contempt, so far above it He?

Cal.
Stop, Oliver; you tread on dangerous ground,
A mental bog, that quakes beneath your feet.
These words would seem to come from humbleness,
And low opinion of yourself and man;
Yet are engendered by the rankest pride,
Arrayed in robes of meek humility—
Stop! the next step is infidelity.
Contempt for man begets contempt for God:
He who hates man must scorn the Source of man,
And challenge, as unwise, his awful Maker.
The next step doubt; and then comes unbelief.
Last, you raise man above all else besides,
And make him chiefest in the universe.
So, from a self-contempt, grows impious pride,
That swells your first-thought pigmy to a giant,
And gives the puffed-up atom fancied sway.
God is! Philosophy here ends her flight;
This is the height and term of human reason:
A fact that, like the whirling Norway pool,
Draws to its centre all things, swallows all.
How can you know God's nature to Himself?
How learn His purpose in creating man?
What 's ultimate to man, remains concealed:
Enough for you, to know that here you are—
A thought of God, made manifest on earth.
Ah, yet His voice is heard within the heart;
Faint, but oracular, it whispers there:
Follow that voice, love all, and trust to Him.
O, learn, dear Oliver, to pity one,
Who wanders in this world without a faith
In something greater than his feeble self!

Oli.
Yet thoughts, like these, will rise in spite of me.

Cal.
I know it; 't is the taint of primal sin,
That mingles with each thought, mars every act,
That stains our very good with something ill;
And, like the poison which abounds in plants,
Mingles its portion with our healthiest food.

Oli.
Does not this knowledge of man's sinfulness
Awake a doubt of individuals,
And make you cautious, when you deal with men?

Cal.
No; I have predetermined trust in man,
That never alters, till I find him false.
I am above the common herd in power;
No rogue can wrong, but in my ample purse;
Which I scarce feel, which, had he asked, I 'd given.

Oli.
'T is all in vain! I cannot raise a doubt
In his ingenuous nature.—There 's no hope.
I have but slender grounds to doubt Don Luis;
And my own doubts, perchance, may work me ill—
Yet will I go to death, if he 's not false!
I, from Seville, will gain the facts I want;
Meantime— (Aside.)
My lord, much of your friend you'll see;
For you must hunt, and feast, to pass his time,
And show all courtesies that may befit.

Cal.
Nay; he 's too dear a friend to make a stranger.
I will divide my castle and my wealth;
Let him use each, as suits his present mood.
We will not clash in interests: he may hunt,
I study; thus, each may enjoy his bent.
Then Doña Alda will be much with him.

Oli.
Hum, hum! I like not that, I like not that.

[Aside.]
Cal.
She is so full of life, so fond of change;
They two can put their restless heads together,
Unhood their thoughts at every whim that flies,
And chase the quarry till they bring it down.

Oli.
Heaven grant, these coupled falcons prove not haggards!

[Aside.]
(Calaynos reads, Oliver writes. Scene closes.)

SCENE IV.

A Room in the Castle. Enter Martina.
Martina.
I wonder where the strangers can have gone!
I 've searched the castle o'er, to find them out;
Yet, save the glimpse I caught as they came in,
Have tried, in vain, to get a peep at them.
The master has a gay and courtly air,
Which proves him of high birth, and liberal training.
The man, too, bears himself in proper trim,
And shines, although reflected is his light.
'T is nigh as well to serve a gentleman
As to be gentle born; to catch his ways,
Follow his manners, and imbibe his tastes;
Learn what is graceful, what to be eschewed;
Garner the grain, and fling aside the chaff:
Till, in the end, the copy may become
A finer work than the original.
I 've half a mind to fall headlong in love;
Certes I will, if he show sign of fire.

(Enter Soto.)
Soto.
Good-day, fair maid! We have not met before.

Mar.
Good-day, fair sir!—the better since we meet.
I'll show him I can speak as fair as he.

[Aside.]
Soto.
Are you a dweller 'neath this roof above,
Or but a passing angel here alit?

Mar.
Ay, and a treader of this floor beneath!
Throw off your lofty style.—I'm not a fool,
Nor a plain country maiden, as you think.

Soto.
Plain you are not; that can I truly say—
I hope a maiden.

Mar.
As you are a knave!
What if I'm not a maid?—What if a wife?
I'm still my lady's maid, say what you will.
What if a widow? Would you like me less?

Soto.
Shall I speak plainly?

Mar.
Plainly as you think.

Soto.
Then, if a maid, I hold you 'bove all price.
If you 're a wife, keep your dear husband hence;
I 'd spit the villain, as I would a toad!
If your 're a widow, then I think of you
As of a nut, when all the kernel 's gone—
As of a fruit, when all the juice is dried—
As of a feast, when all the meats are eat—
As fair outside, but rifled all within!
An unclaimed hawk may come to know the lure,
And we may teach the haggard as we list;
But when once broken, by an unskilled hand,
She gains such tricks as training cannot mend.

Mar.
Why, the dog 's mad in love! (Aside.)
I am a maid.

Soto.
Let me catch breath, and thank you for those words!
My blood runs free, that nigh became a mass,
Congealed and stagnant, with my freezing doubts!

Mar.
Come from your stilts. I fain would like you, sir;
But you must be familiar, not too lofty.
You fly your words above my simple ken.
If you'll make love, why, make it like a man,
Not like a demigod. We have enough
Of word-inflated mortals in our house.—
How do you like this place?

Soto.
O, past all bounds—
That is for you; for one thing else I hate it.

Mar.
What thing is that?

Soto.
Be secret—Oliver.

Mar.
You hate him? I do too, most bitterly.
The scurvy fool, who fain would be a sage!

Soto.
The prying knave, who has discovered more
Than his dull lord, with all his learning, could!
Things are at pretty pass, when servants grow
Above their masters—saving you and me.

Mar.
Pray tell me all.

Soto.
Well, let us walk apart:
Some ear, less honest, our discourse might catch.
I'll tell you all, for we both pull one way.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE V.

The Park before the Castle. Enter Don Luis.
Don Luis.
The means, the means!—My love is cold as snow;
I dare not tell her what I burst to say.
But she may change; as Hecla sends forth fire
From out the ice, which hides its burning heart.
But how? Alas, she knows not of my love;
Can take no interest in me, uninformed.
Did she but know, that might arouse her heart;
For half the love of earth from this source springs:
First woman 's flattered at the heat she wakes,
Then falls in love, to rid herself of debt.
I dare not tell her; that might blast the whole,
And drive me from her presence unrepaid.
Yet she must know; but by some other means—
Not know, but doubt it. Let that thought once in,
No band of angels e'er can drive it out,
No force usurp its sway. I'm well convinced
She bears no love for her great booby lord:
If she be secret, he can ne'er suspect—
Too busy up in heaven to think of earth.
There 's Oliver;—I'll give him food for doubts,
Which, if he breathe, I, through the influence
Wielded by me above his heaven-rapt lord,
Will drive the beggar forth. O, friendship dear,
Through thee I'll work, and gain my end at last.

(Enter Soto.)
Soto.
I have been looking for you far and near.
I 've all the castle's secrets on my thumb.

Don L.
What know you, Soto?

Soto.
Nay, what know I not?
I know, my lord, all that one girl could say
In scarce an hour; but what would pose ten men,
And they fast talkers, in a day to tell.

Don L.
Who gossiped thus?

Soto.
Martina.

Don L.
Who is she?

Soto.
The confidential maiden of my lady;
A girl of wit, and most complete in form,
With thoughts and aims above the place she holds.
She, too, abhors the crafty secretary;
And when I told her how I scorned the wretch,
She loosed her eager tongue, told everything
Which she had gathered since she first came here.
At last we fell in love, and there we rest.

Don L.
Go on, good Soto, cram her to the brim,
Love her as you have never loved before;
Or rather make her love you, that were best.
I too have fallen in love.

Soto.
With whom, my lord?

Don L.
With Doña Alda.

Soto.
Are you much in love?

Don L.
In love to death!

Soto.
O, that is nothing strange.
You 've sickened for a score, died for a score;
Till the next passion brought you health and life.
There was Constanza, Clara, Viola,
Maria, Isabella, Phillipa—

Don L.
Peace! you are crying this she-merchandise
As tradesmen do their wares. I tell you, knave,
The love which now I feel gnaws me like hunger!

Soto.
They feed too well to give that figure force
In this fat castle. But a week ago,
When I was thin and famished in Seville,
Such words had drawn forth tears of sympathy.
But there 's the husband loves you 'bove all heights.

Don L.
And here am I, that hate him 'neath all depths.

Soto.
Natural enough; you bear it in your blood.
I lately heard a ballad, ages old—
A scurvy ballad—a foul, lying ballad—
Which told how some great ancestor of his
Drove round Granada's laughter-shaken walls
Kinsman of yours. Not with a manly sword—
No, that were fair—with a base scourge he did it.

Don L.
What mean you?

Soto.
He 's of Moorish blood.

Don L.
You fool!

Soto.
Witness his Moorish name, Calaynos.

Don L.
True.
Who told you this?

Soto.
Martina told me, señor.
'T is a mere taint he bears paternally:
Though very slight, yet, in the pious eyes
Of the hidalgos of Castilian breed,
Worse than all crimes the devil ever did.
'T is a grave secret, not to be divulged.

Don L.
Ah, now I think, I heard it when a boy.
What of his lady—is she Moorish too?

Soto.
No, of the purest blood.

Don L.
Why, this is strange!

Soto.
Her sire was proud, but sunk in poverty;
The lord was rich, but of the unclean blood-;
And so they compromised, and struck a trade.

Don L.
Then the Moor bought her?

Soto.
So Martina says.
That 's why he would not take her to Seville,
For fear she 'd learn what half of Spain well knows.

Don L.
You 're sure she knows it not?

Soto.
Who 'd dare to tell?
He 'd pitch the bold informer in the moat,
To drink his health: he 's more than sovereign here.

Don L.
Now, lovely Alda, I have hold on thee,
Shall draw thee to me, should all else fall short.
[Aside.]
Go, Soto, tell this new-made love of yours
That I'm neck-deep in love for her fair lady.
You need not tell her to be secret.—Go!

Soto.
Here 's mischief brewing. (Aside.)
I obey you, señor.

[Exit.]
Don L.
Thanks, love! This news outgoes my wildest hope.
I doubt no more, the thing is certainty;
The chase is simple, and the conquest sure.
Sure 't is a virtuous deed to set her right;
To show this cozening Moor in all his guilt,
In all the blackness of his foul deceit,
To her dear eyes.—Good Lord! a boy might triumph!
Woe, woe, Calaynos! this sole crime of thine
Shall draw upon thy head a double grief!

[Exit.]

SCENE VI.

A Room in the Castle. Enter Martina and Soto.
Soto.
There bloom twin rose-buds 'twixt your nose and chin,
That I 'd fain taste.

Martina.
Kind sir, beware the thorns!

[Showing her nails.]
Soto.
I 've felt the thorns, they rankle in my heart;
Naught but thy lips can draw their venom out.

[Kisses her.]
Mar.
Your act has bruised the heel of your desire,
So close it treads behind.—Dost love me, sir?

Soto.
Love thee! I love thee past the flight of thought.
Words cannot tell thee—nay, I cannot think,
I cannot truly to myself conceive—
Cannot set bounds to, cannot understand
The one idea which o'er me reigns supreme,
And bows me at thy feet— (Kneels.)
I can but feel
The might of that strong spirit.—Useless words!
[Rises.]
I see thou hat'st me, see thou think'st me mad—
Know thou wilt scorn me—send me from thee far,
To spend my days in mortified despair.
O, what a dolt was I, to tell thee this!
But my full heart drove on my silly tongue.
Farewell, forever!

Mar.
Stay; I hate thee not.

Soto.
But dost thou love me? Say that word, or I—

Mar.
I love thee.

Soto.
Wilt thou ever love me thus?

Mar.
Till soul and body fall apart, I will.

Soto.
O joy, O love! Success beyond my hopes!
I, like a reckless gamester, staked my all
On this last throw, and, see, the game is won!

Mar.
Play not again; or you may lose your winnings.

Soto.
Fear not, dear maid; I'm rich in what I 've won.
But dost thou know, Martina, that we two
Are not the only lovers here?

Mar.
How so?

Soto.
My lord thy lady loves, as I love thee,
And she must love my master, as thou lov'st;
Or we this dismal house can never fly;
Here he'll abide till doomsday.—Dost thou see?
We must contrive to win her to his love?
For, if she fly, then in her train fly we.

Mar.
She loves him not; yet may be brought to it.—
I'll do my utmost; for thy sake, not his.

Soto.
Where dost thou lodge?

Mar.
Just next my lady's room,
And Hymen keeps the key.—Fair sir, good-night!

[Exit.]
Soto.
She 's a brave wench; but somewhat over-prudent.—
Well, if I wed her, I'll not mate a fool.
Now to Don Luis; let him watch his game,
If he will play at hazard with the Moor:
There'll be swords drawn before this cast is o'er.

[Exit.]