University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

The Great Hall in the Castle. Enter Don Luis and Soto.
Don Luis.
Yet I much doubt the power Martina holds.
In small affairs her influence may be great;
But in a matter like the one now toward,
I fear she must come off with sorry grace.
I value virtue, though I have it not,
And know its power to set all wiles at naught;
Heart-rooted good may pass through fire unscathed,
And chastity can keep a fiend at bay,
With its pure, sinless front.

Soto.
Bravo, my lord!
Here 's a fine speech, to come from one like you!

Don L.
Soto, I 've trod all paths of sin and guilt,
And know the wickedness and crimes of men;
Yet would have been a fool, had I not seen
That virtue may exist, though rare indeed.
I tell you, I have met it everywhere,
In halls and hovels; and have oft retired,
Abashed and conquered, from its injured look.

Soto.
My lord, if thus you reason 'gainst yourself,
As if persuading form your first design,
Give up the chase: I'll never counsel guilt.

Don L.
No, by the gods! you misconceive my aim.
Fools come to naught, who follow cheating hope;
I ever look at the dark side of things,
And weigh the chances 'gainst my own success:
So bring to enterprise a wary eye,
Prepared for every stop that balks my way.
Naught but long-suffering good, that triumphs most
When most oppressed by adverse circumstance,
Can 'scape the snares that threaten Alda's feet.

Soto.
Martina calls her weak, of fickle mind,
Curious for change, and discontented here;
Unstable in design, thence easily led.

Don L.
She may be thus, and yet be pure as heaven.

Soto.
Monstrous, my lord! Do you not blush with shame,
To look on virtue, and dissect it thus?
If I e'er thought of good I 'd turn a monk.

Don L.
You say Martina knows no ill of her,
No sin, the slightest—not a hook or loop,
Whereby to lead her on? Mayhap her lord
Has told his Moorish birth, in some soft mood,—
Has reconciled the stain, and won regard.

Soto.
Martina gives but one reply to that;
She says her lady never had a hint
Of how Calaynos wronged her;—rest on this.

Don L.
'T is well, 't is well; the sharper then the stroke,
The keener then the pang, the more she loves.—
Nay, nay, she loves him not—to that I'll swear;
But this will tear respect and awe away.
Martina must contrive we meet to-night;
And you stand ready at the horses' heads.
If you would take your baggage, have her prompt,
And pack her safe upon another horse;
While you ride guard, to hinder all pursuit:
My steed bears double.—See, the lady comes.
(Enter Doña Alda and Martina. Soto and Martina talk apart.)
Lady, I waited to address you here.
I on the morrow for Seville depart.

Doña Alda.
So soon! Calaynos knows not your intent?

Don L.
Not yet. An urgent matter calls me off.
But ere I go—if, lady, you'll permit—
Some words, deep freighted with your happiness,
Must claim a notice.

Doña A.
Speak, sir—I attend.

Don L.
Not now; to-night, if you will meet me here.

Doña A.
Speak now: why wait till night?

Don L.
Nay, bring your maid;
Let her remain in ear-shot, should you call.
I mean no wrong; I fain would do you right.

Doña A.
Sir, on such terms, I grant what you request.

Don L.
Adieu, till then—poor lady!

[Exeunt Don Luis and Soto.]
Doña A.
What means he?
“Poor lady!”—This is strange beyond a dream.
Why does he pity me—why look so sad,
With so much pain and trouble on his brow;
As if he bore a load of secret woe,
That must have birth with many a fearful pang?
I'll seek Calaynos, and entreat advice—
No, no, 't will vex him. Sure he means no wrong
For full-eyed pity never troops with guilt.
Martina, did you mark Don Luis' plight?—
How quick he left, as if to save me pain?

Martina.
He seemed dejected, and o'ercome with grief.

Doña A.
Can you conjecture aught?

Mar.
Not much, nor clearly.

Doña A.
What do you think?

Mar.
I think he is in love.

Doña A.
Pshaw! that 's the offspring of two silly heads—
Soto and you are ridden to death with fancies—
He is too wise to love without a hope.
Men who have known the world as long as he,
But fall in love with great estates or gold—
Taking the encumbrant maiden as an ill;
And not with peril, such as he must brook
Who dares to love the wife of great Calaynos.

Mar.
Yet such things have been.

Doña A.
O, yes; sung in ballads.

Mar.
Ay, and in real life, lady: Queens of Spain
Have had their paramours.

Doña A.
So might it be,
Yet never hap to bride of a Calaynos.
No, no; some solemn mystery bore him down,
Which he must tell, though he 'd fain shun the act.

Mar.
What mystery deeper than an untold love?
What keener pang than telling in despair?
Find me a grief, to rend a loving heart,
More cruel than separation without hope!
Believe me, lady, this is root of all.

Doña A.
Ha! think you so?—Why, then, I meet him not.
I'll not put torture to his tongueless love;
I will not tempt him to dare certain death,
For the poor consolation words afford.

Mar.
I may be wrong—perchance I may be wrong—
Nay, now I think, I cannot but be wrong.
He would conceal his love from outward show
Till the last moment—I am sure I'm wrong:
Yet am I sure he loves you, though he go
Without a sign to show the love he feels.

Doña A.
I will not hate him for the love he bears;
Nor will I fan my secret vanity
With his despairing sighs, as women do:
No man can say whom he will love, whom hate—
The act o'erleaps his will; and a pure heart,
That burns to ashes, yet conceals its pain,
For fear it mar its hopeless source of love,
Is not to be despised, nor lightly held.

Mar.
You are too cruel, to gain and not return.

Doña A.
I am too just to soil Calaynos' honor.

Mar.
I never thought of him.

Doña A.
Ne'er thought of him!
My chiefest spring and stimulant of good,
Before whose face crime takes an humble guise,
And blushes at its meanness—never thought!

Mar.
My love for you admits no rival cares.

Doña A.
And can you separate my lord from me?—
What bears on him, has double weight for me.
Did I not think this coming interview,
Through me, held things of moment to my lord,
I ne'er had granted it; for he shall hear,
Ere I have time for thought, the substance of it.

Mar.
'T is but time lost:—I will not urge her more,
Lest I disgust her with my Soto's lord.
She ever flies from Luis to Calaynos;
And when I name the Don, she bends her thoughts
Full on her lord, and speaks of him alone.
Her admiration has nigh grown to love.
Luis must plead to-night—pray heaven he win!

[Aside.]
Doña A.
What are you muttering, girl?

Mar.
I hummed a tune,
Of a poor squire who loved a noble lady.

Doña A.
Heaven grant the lady was a maid, not wife!

Mar.
I cannot tell.—When comes this interview?

Doña A.
What hour?—O, I forgot.—He named no hour.

Mar.
Well, say at two.

Doña A.
But that is very late.

Mar.
The better; for no listeners will be near.
That base-born cur, that prying Oliver,
Roams o'er the house, like a flushed hound on scent.—
I wonder what the villain would nose out?
He counts us all, but his dear lord, as game.
I vow, I have no peace: at every door,
Through every glass, I see his ugly face.

Doña A.
He is, you know Calaynos' Mercury;
Who, through him, watches that his guest is served.

Mar.
Well, then, I'll say at two.

[Exit hastily.]
Doña A.
Stay, stay, Martina!—
She hears me not. One hour is as another;
'T will be no darker when two strikes than nine.
I would not trust this man at such a time,
Having suspicion that he bears me love,
Did I not hear his virtues told to me,
From morn till eve, by my most thoughtful lord.
If I should ask Calaynos, he 'd say—Go;
There is no fear where good Don Luis comes.
Trust him, my child; for he is honor's soul!
Well, well, I'll go—I marvel what it bodes!

[Exit.]