University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

While VELORA remains in a pensive attitude, THE VICEROY enters unperceived.
THE VICEROY.
She sees me not, absorbed in pensive sorrow;
Anxiety is painted in her eye;
And fear sits panting on her lovely bosom,
Like agitation on the aspin leaf
Trembling at every breeze: I dare not speak—
How may I find a favorable minute
To soothe her angry grief, and melt its rage
To pity and forgiveness?

VELORA,
(starting up.)
Mercy, Heaven!
Thou base assassin! has thy soul the power
To look on the sad orphan, thou hast made?
Dar'st thou approach me? can thy heart so soon
Insult the sanctity of filial sorrow?

THE VICEROY.
Hear me, thou injured fair! by Heaven I vow
My heart is guiltless of thy father's death!
I would not have deprived his honored age
Of one short hour, one moment of existence,
To make my days immortal. Could my blood
Redeem his life, and give him to thy prayers,
I now would pour it freely at thy feet.

VELORA.
Vain penitence! did not thy cruel hand
Tear from his bleeding heart his darling child?

THE VICEROY.
'Twas the wild fear of seeing thee enrich
A rival's arms, 'twas that distracting image,
That drove my maddening soul to cruel force,
Unconscious of the horrors, that have followed:
I feel them now—joined to thy just reproach,
They make me execrate my own existence.
Thou injured orphan! in this wretched bosom
Plunge thy avenging dagger! it will end
Variety of pangs, more keen than all,
My fatal passion has e'er heaped on thee—
Remorse and anguish harrow up my mind;
Yet, while I gaze upon thee, fiercer love
Burns in my frantic heart: all milder thoughts,
Which penitence and pity can suggest,
He drowns; and leaves triumphant in my soul
The mighty madness of his raging fire.

VELORA.
Canst thou pretend to sorrow, to remorse,
And still insult me with licentious passion
In this afflictive hour?

THE VICEROY.
O! my Velora,
There is a tempest in my soul, that robs
My tongue of language, and my thoughts of reason;
But 'tis excess, 'tis agony of love,
Which claims thy pardon, which deserves thy pity.

GARCIA,
(behind the scenes.)
Where is the Viceroy?—slave!—he must be found,
And I will pass thee—

THE VICEROY.
Ha! whose fury dares
Insult our guard?