University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A Street in Seville. Enter a knot of Citizens.
First Citizen.
Her grand-aunt was a conjurer, and made—

Second Citizen.
An ass of you. I see no witchcraft there.

First C.
Why, you—

Third Citizen.
Be civil. Fair words are fair gifts.

First C.
I say, her grand-aunt was a conjurer—

Second C.
So are not you.

Third C.
Well, patience hears long tales:
But let us listen.

First C.
And she made, they say,
A magic girdle—

Second C.
Girth for her said ass—
Being a stumbling beast; and to the girth
She fixed a bladder full of solid lies,
That rattle, like the coxcomb of a fool,
Whene'er the said ass jogs.

Third C.
O! neighbors, neighbors,
Wit is a sword, and wrangling feeds the leech.

First C.
I heed him not.

Second C.
'T is not for lack of ears.
You are a foul kind of chameleon,
Who live upon the floating breath of slander;
You 'd go a journey to bring home a lie,
And be so fattened on it, e'er you came,
Your wife would scarcely know you. You pass life
In raking up such shreds of calumny
As none will own, things men cast out of doors,
With stealthy blushes: yet you treasure them,
And hang your filthy garbage in our sight,
As if the saints had worn it. Give report
Stamp base enough, and 't is your current coin;
While honest gold you smell at, and return.
You 'd believe Judas when he spoke in jest,
Yet doubt the true Apostles on their oaths.
If you had any seeds of goodness in you,
I 'd rake you over, but I 'd make them sprout!

First C.
Pray, have you done, or are you out of breath?

Third C.
Let Satan give instruction to his own.
An angry teacher trains a stupid school;
And so, farewell! Short partings give short pains.

[Going.]
Second C.
Well said, brown wisdom! I will give him o'er,
If you'll return. I'll miss your sentences;
They come like texts into a dull discourse,
Seasoning the matter with a taste of heaven.

Third C.
Thank you 's soon said. Our gossip's patient, too,
And that moves mountains.

Fourth Citizen.
Let us have the tale.

First C.
Nay, if he snub me—

Second C.
I will not, in faith.
Lie on,—I'll listen, if I can't believe.

First C.
Well, the grand aunt of Doña Leonor
Was an enchantress, and could make the stars
Go backward in their orbits.—

Second C.
Did she ever?

First C.
I know not; but she could.

Second C.
I'd have the proof.

Third C.
Apt swearers are apt liars.

Second C.
True, indeed;
I break my promise.

First C.
So, one night, she made
A wondrous girdle, from the inner skin
Of maiden's hearts that broken were of love.—

Second C.
A rare material!

First C.
Then she took the belt,
And held it o'er the infernal fumes, until—

Second C.
She sneezed, and dropped it in?

First C.
No, no, indeed;
Till it became invisible to all—

Second C.
That I believe.

First C.
Save her who wears it. And this girdle she,
In a dark hour, gave Doña Leonor;
Saying, its magic had the power to hold
In abject love whatever man she willed.
She chose Alfonso.—

Second C.
She struck high at once.
But why not choose him, ere he chose the queen?

First C.
The belt was not then fashioned.

Second C.
And they say—
Let me take up your story—that at times,
In the full moon, when fools are very rife,
This magic girdle presses her about,
And doth so burn her with infernal flames,
That she cries out, in direful agony—
Curses her aunt, as if she were no kin,
And says— [Pauses.]


All.
O, Lord! what says she?

Second C.
Things like this—
“I can tell asses, if I hear them bray!”
Who shall want audience for a silly tale?
The loveliest woman on Castilian earth,
The gentlest dame that ever drew our air—
She, the epitome of excellence,
The flowering top and glory of her sex—
She to be rated as a sorceress,
By filthy rascals whose best breath would be
An insult to her presence! Get you home,
And grind your knee-balls to the very bones,
In thanks to her, and prayers for your base selves!—
Foh! you are odious.

[Exit.]
First C.
There 's a fellow for you!—
A very infidel, who scarce believes
In sorcery itself. The rude-tongued fool!
Would I had throttled him! This comes, I trow,
Of home-bred ignorance. I 've been to Rome—
Ay, and to Paris—where I 've seen more witches—
Real sturdy witches, young and old, forsooth—
Burnt at the stake, upon a holiday,
Than I have fingers to these fellow hands.
I tell you, one time—

(Enter a Citizen hastily.)
Fourth C.
What 's the news, good friend?

Fifth Citizen.
Gibraltar is surrounded by the king,
And must surrender ere another week.
The plague has broken out—

All.
The plague! the plague!

Third C.
Who told you so?

Fifth C.
One from Gibraltar.

All.
(Running from him.)
Ha!

First C.
Out of our sight! thou villain, as thou art,
To speak with clean men! Take thy plague away,
Or we'll fall on thee!

Fifth C.
I am sound.

First C.
Thou liest!
Thou 'rt one great sore.

Fifth C.
Indeed, I feel not well.

Third C.
Caution 's a famous doctor: I'll be off.
Better go laughing, than remain to weep.

[Exit.]
Fifth C.
Pray, friends, assist me! I 've a burning pain
Across the temples, and—

All.
The plague! the plague!

First C.
Thou desperate wretch, to issue from thy house
In this condition! Bear thy malady
Back to thy wife and children, like a Christian.
Nay, if thou 'lt not be going, I'll away.

[Exit with the others.]
(Reënter Second Citizen.)
Fifth C.
O! I shall perish!

[Lies down.]
Second Citizen.
What's the matter here?
Ill, and no creature nigh! What is it, friend?

Fifth C.
I tell you frankly, sir, because you speak
From a kind heart, I have the plague.

Second C.
Poh, poh!
You 're clean as snow. I feel no fever here.—

Fifth C.
'Sdeath! do not touch me!

Second C.
What an eye you have!
Clear as a sunbeam. Let me see your tongue.
Thou move compassion by thy false disease—
Stir a man's heart to pity by thy groans!
Thou arrant beggar, art thou not ashamed
To face detection?

Fifth C.
On my life, I feel
A deal improved by your encouragement.
[Rises.]
The pain has left my head.—

Second C.
Not yet a while;
Thou 'lt feel it shortly. (Strikes him.)
Has the fit returned?
Impostor—counterfeit—sham plague!

[Beating him.]
Fifth C.
O!—O!

Second C.
I'll teach thee to act Lazarus in the streets,
For my annoyance! Get thee to thy home,
And play thy pranks before thy intimates;
Or I will cudgel all the flesh from thee,
And drive thee homeward in thy naked bones!
Out, thou flea-bitten, verminating rogue!

[Exit, beating him out.]

SCENE II.

The Same. The Throne-Room in the Alcazar, meanly furnished. Enter Don Pedro and his Page, in poor attire.
Don Pedro.
Offered thee alms!

Page.
Fair alms, a silver crown,
As I was standing at the palace-gate,
Sunning my rags. It would have moved your mirth,
To have seen the dews on Leonor's long lashes,
As she held out the coin, and murmured forth—
“Poor boy!”

Don P.
But when was this?

Page.
A month ago,
Ere she departed.

Don P.
What was your reply?

Page.
A simple bow. For, seeing my best hose
Was somewhat airy, and my doublet's sleeve
Needed a patch, to keep my elbow in,
My cap a roof, to keep the weather out,—
Seeing that crowns, with us, are not so rife
As figs in August,—seeing no one saw,—
I made my bow, and slipped the silver piece
Into my bottomless pocket; whence it slid
Down my rent stocking, without accident,
And firmly settled in my tattered shoe,
From which I drew it.

Don P.
By this merry light,
I'm followed by a beggar!

Page.
Please your grace,
I am the only beggar fool enough
To do such following.

Don P.
Marry, that is truth!
No lighter, though, because it turns a jest.

Page.
If nothing happen, master, we shall starve
Before we reach another crown.

Don P.
In sooth,
I am sick of jesting. Let us fly my hawk.

Page.
The ragged tercel that takes all our wealth—
My rent-roll and your princely revenue—
To keep in sparrows? Master, we'll retrench;
Sell our gray hawk, and buy a hobby-horse.
I'll dance the morrice, and you'll ride the horse,
With an alms-pipkin at your saddle-bow.
Why, come, this looks like living!

Don P.
Leave thy jests,
Or I will fit thee with a cap and bells!

Page.
'T would puzzle you. Besides, I like your offer;
The coxcomb covers many a better head;
And 't is my right. Am I not jester, cousin,
Page, Chamberlain, grand Usher of both wands,
Master of hawks, and Keeper of the robes,
Purveyor of the forests and the floods,
Lord Treasurer, chief Cup-bearer, the Guard—
Captain and soldiers—navy, and what not,
All crammed in one, and salaried at two pence,
In legal coinage of our father's realm;—
Both pennies payable—when I can get them?
Answer that question.

Don P.
Thou 'rt a silly boy;
And I scarce better, for indulging thee.
Here comes the queen, my mother. Look, your tongue
Be on its guard, or you may lose its use.

Page.
And Alburquerque, with his ugly head
Scheming and plotting for the sorry body
That cannot hold it upright. There 's a man
Who'll crawl in hell, if he may strut on earth;
Who sees our nature through his darkened soul,
And charges mankind with more infamy
Than priests impose on Satan. Mark, your grace,
Here 's Alburquerque to the life. (Mimics him.)
Don Pedro,
Go not abroad; there 's a danger in the wind.
Lie not abed; sleep leagues with murderers.
Eat not, nor drink; for so is poison taken.
Smell not a rose; I 've known them venomous.
Stay here with me; and let me tutor you
That all God's blessings really are but curses,
In pleasant masquerade; and that—

(Enter Doña Maria and Alburquerque, behind.)
Alburquerque.
Well, boy!

Page.
Well, man!

Alb.
Go to! you 're pert.

Page.
Not I, my lord:
I only told my master what a world
You and the devil would have made of this,
Had you but shaped it, and not heavenly art.

Alb.
Sirrah!—

Doña Maria.
My lord, leave Pedro to his page:
My son has spoilt him.

Alb.
I'll remember though.
Conspiracy doth cackle in that egg;
'T will walk full-feathered shortly.

Doña M.
If the king—

Alb.
Beseech you, madam, walk aside a step;
The page may overhear us.

Doña M.
No, my lord!
About my wrongs I will be loud enough,
For heaven cries with me. Would that all Castile
Might turn its ear upon its queen's distress,
Till silence, horrified at what it hid,
Found tongues to echo me! Look round you, here:
Know who I am, Queen of Castile and Leon—
Wife to a king, and daughter to a king—
Whose earliest hours knew naught but royal state,
Whose toys were crowns and sceptres, whose young feet
Tottered along the carpet of a throne,
Or slept among its pillows; who was taught
To hold myself a sacred thing, apart
From the pollution of humanity—
A something, stationed between God and man,
Nearer divinity than dust;—then say,
This fiction of a crown, this dearth of power,
This squalid court, this cold neglect, this want
Of the surroundings that belong to me,
Fit the bare title which is mine by right
Of Heaven's bestowing, by my royal birth,
By marriage, and by general consent!

Alb.
Madam, I do not.

Doña M.
No, nor this alone.
Forget my rank, and call me only wife
To a Castilian gentleman; then judge
If there 's a hind, within the scope of Spain,
Whose amours match the shameless insolence
Of Don Alfonso's! Sins like his are done
Under the wicked covering of night,
Or hid in caves and dens from blushing day;
But he—he puts his crown upon his guilt,
And makes it pompous in his regal robes,
Sets up its statue in the market-place,
And calls the world to witness! These things glare;
They are not sobered with a mere regret.
He ranks his haughty bastards in my sight,
Beggars the state to give them revenues,
Commands and titles; while the sole command
He lays on Pedro is to call them brothers!
You, sir, are learned in vices; tell me, now,
Is there his mate in all your histories?

Alb.
Your grace, the actions of a sovereign
Look not to history for precedent,
Nor recognize the rules of private men.
A king—

Doña M.
May turn mankind to hypocrites,
Throw down the barriers between right and wrong,
And root heaven's kingdom from the earth!

Alb.
O, no!
The Church has virtues—

Doña M.
Which it keeps at home,
For fear their fashion has run out of date!
When has the Church took cognizance of this,
Or crooked its finger at the king or her?
That witch of Guzman—pah! it scalds my tongue
To spit her name out—has kept open court,
More dazzling than the Persian's brightest dream,
Crowded with suitors, over-run with wealth:
A place where honor brought his golden spurs,—
Naught valued till they glittered in her eyes,—
Where poets sang, where orators discoursed,
Where learning trimmed and lit his patient lamp,
Where art drew inspiration from fair lips,
Where warriors showed their scars, where gentle peace
Nestled in luxury, where Fame, herself,
Stood, as upon the summit of a hill,
And thence took flight towards heaven. Ah! sir, 't was here
The Church so placidly laid by its cross,
Its austere brow, its awful book of laws,
And entered, gambolling like a reveller,
With looser jests than it could find within.
Thou hear'st this, Pedro?

Don P.
Yes, with sorrow, mother.

Doña M.
No, no; with fury! for thy mother's blood
Burns hot in thee; and all the memories
Of twenty years are smouldering in thy veins,
Against the day of reckoning. When thou 'rt king,
Dole out thy mercies like the summer's dew,
But pour thy vengeance like the winter's hail;
And on these bastards, and their hated dam,
Fall in consuming fire!

Page.
There 's good advice!
Quite motherly and queenly, and designed,
No doubt, for furtherance of the general good.
Would I were old! The coming generation
Have more before them than they reckon on.

[Aside.]
Doña M.
Speak, Pedro, speak!

Don P.
I may do wrong, perhaps,
Out of the nature which belongs to me;
But, on my soul, I will not meditate
My crimes beforehand.

Doña M.
Art thou son of mine?

Alb.
Beware! you tamper with a brand of fire;
Look, at which end you grasp it.

[Apart to Doña Maria.]
Doña M.
True, in faith!
The fruit must ripen ere we press its juice.
[Aside.]
My lord, you had some tidings of the king;
Lay them before us. Lo! I take my state,
Queen of Castile and Leon! (Sits upon a low stool.)
Is it well,
Ha, Pedro? Gentlemen, keep back the press!
Our loyal people crowd so thickly on us,
We have scant breathing-room! Ha! ha! 'fore Heaven,
I can be merry with my misery!
[Laughing.]
Say on, Don Juan.

Alb.
The old news renewed:
Battles and Moors, but always victory.
The infidel holds Spain by one bare rock,
And that seems shaking. Ere the week be out,
We may have tidings of Gibraltar's fall.
There 's little fighting; for the plague has raised
His spotted banner 'twixt the hostile camps,
And both stand still before him, all aghast,
Owning the coward.

Doña M.
Should the plague—Well, well,
I trust the king is—well?

Page.
'T was uttered ill.

[Aside.]
Alb.
Quite well, and confident of victory.

Don P.
Would I were by his side!

Doña M.
Thou, thou, indeed,
A lawfully-begotten son of mine!
Thy birth doth lack the charming quality
Of sinful love. Wert thou a bastard, now,
A brat of Guzman, thou shouldst bear a sword,
And buckle thee in steel, and back a steed;—
Haply, to knock thy legal brother's brains
Out of his crown, some day!

Don P.
O, mother, cease!
This heartless jesting is beneath thy rank.
Come, comrade, let us to the fields again;
The fields have better counsel than the court.
God's breath comes to us on the straying gales,
And whispers peaceful love to us, and all.
There 's something wrong, something at war with Heaven,
In man's society: I know not why,
But still I feel it.

Page.
I could weep a year.
My jests are over, for to-day at least.

(As they are about going, enter a Messenger, hastily. Don Pedro and the Page return.)
Alb.
What news?—what news?

Messenger.
The king is dead.

Doña M.
(Starts up.)
Ha! ha!
[Laughing.]
My hour has come, at last!

Don P.
O, heavens!

[Weeps.]
Page.
Kind saints!
Is that the way our wives receive our deaths?

[Aside.]
Doña M.
Ha! ha! [Laughing.]


Alb.
Dear madam!—

Doña M.
Shall I not laugh out?
This is the hour I 've waited on for years.
For this I bore his insults, and the mock
Of public pity. 'T was for this I bore
My lady Leonor's magnificence,
Her smiles, her nods, her very company—
And did not send my dagger through her heart!
I knew just Heaven would grant it in good time,—
I prayed for it,—and it has come at last!
Shall I not laugh! [Laughing.]


Page.
Does not the devil too?

[Aside.]
Doña M.
Pedro, my son, awake!

Don P.
I am an orphan!

Doña M.
So are the bastards! let that comfort thee.
There 's not a cobweb 'twixt us and our foes.
Now strike! while they are stunned with feeble grief;
And let the blow that blinds them, clear thy sight.

Alb.
Madam, I pray you, leave the king to me;
I'll bend, but you will break him. [Apart to her.]


Doña M.
Yes, the king—
All hail, King Pedro! Thank you for the word!—
I shall go crazy!

[Walks about.]
Page.
Here 's a pretty school
To put a child to! [Aside.]


Alb.
Please, your majesty—

Don P.
The king is dead! [Weeping.]


Alb.
The office never dies:
And it behooves your grace to look abroad,
And see what ground your kingdom stands upon.
I would not urge it, at a time like this,
Were not your kingdom's peace embraced in it.
The sons of Leonor have great estates,
Peopled with warlike vassals, and their mother
Is of a subtle wit, and used to rule.
They'll not go down without a sturdy tug;
And down they must go, or you cannot reign.

Doña M.
Listen, my son.

Don P.
I hear. Let me begin
My novel sway by striking close at hand.
Madam, I charge you, on your loyalty,
To hold my father's memory in respect.

Doña M.
He never loved thee, Pedro.

Don P.
The more cause
Have I to mourn his early taking off:
Time and good actions might have won his love.
Mother, be decent in thy widowhood,
Or I may grieve thee.

Doña M.
Pedro, speak not thus,
With knitted brows and gloomy threats, to me.
Thou art the only thing I truly love.
Through all the sorrows I have passed, thy voice
Was solace to me, and thy growing form
Consoled the dwarfish aspect of my fate.
Thou canst not tell what I endured, to reach
The triumph of the hour that makes thee king—
What anxious days, and what unslumbering nights!
But with my love for thee, another passion—
Sustained by all I saw, or heard, or thought—
Grew side by side; a deadly, blasting hate
For Leonor de Guzman and her brood
Of upstart bastards! Render them to me—
'T is the sole boon I'll ever claim from thee;
Make me their destiny, as they have made
Thy mother their chief victim.

Don P.
Madam, no!
Her children are my brothers, and her fate
Rests on the future actions of her life.

[Walks up with Alburquerque.]
Doña M.
Curse him, just Heaven, and make his mercy turn
To ceaseless torment! May his brothers be
Traitors to him, as he has been to me!—
Gall in his goblet, nightmares in his sleep,
Goads to his crimes, and clogs to his good deeds;
Till restless anguish arm his desperate hand
With fratricidal fury! Grant it, Heaven!—
Nay, gracious saints, undo my impious curse!
My wrongs have maddened me. O, Pedro, Pedro,
Fate chose my bitterest moment from this hour!

Don P.
(Advancing with Alburquerque.)
If 't is your thought that Doña Leonor
May raise the horrors of a civil strife,
'T were prudent you restrained her liberty,
With due respect.

Alb.
O, yes, your majesty,
With due respect.

[Laughs aside]
Doña M.
Will she to prison then?

Alb.
(Drawing Don Pedro aside.)
Besides, I could not answer for her care,
Were she at large. The queen will now have friends,
And friends have daggers, and—

Don P.
No more of this.
Take you her guardianship.

Alb.
As for her sons,
They may be trusted till they show their teeth.
I'll have my spies about them. 'T were not well
To start with too much rigor, till we know
What power we wield. For harshness, please your grace,
Might swell the faction 'gainst yourself, by those
Who now stand neutral, balanced either way,
And easily won by clemency. The mass,
In all great kingdoms, is composed of such;
And parties feel it, when it wills to throw
Its mighty weight into the doubtful scale.
[Don Pedro yawns.]
I weary you?—I see I do, your grace—
Pray, do I not?—I tire you with these things?
If I do not, I miss my own design. [Aside.]


Don P.
'T will be your interest to uphold the throne
Through which you rule; therefore, I trust to you.

Alb.
(Bowing.)
Sage boy! [Aside.]


Don P.
Retain the powers my father gave,
Yet breathe my childish mercy through your acts.
I seem to be the only mourner here;
Let me go grieve.

[Walks apart.]
Doña M.
She will to prison then?
O, bless my fortune, that had this in store!

Alb.
Ay, and forever. See how policy
Wins, piece by piece, that which your heady force
Could never compass. Madam, you must be
More circumspect and gentle with your son.
I know his nature, and can mould its wax
To any shape you purpose. But take heed
Of sudden passions, and displays of wrath.

(Enter Coronel and Cañedo.)
Doña M.
Whom have we here?

Alb.
Alonzo Coronel,
Welcome! What brings you to Seville?

Coronel.
My lord,
I come to be enrolled among your friends.

Alb.
The tide has turned. (Apart to Maria.)
Sir, your alacrity
Is your best commendation. Were you not,
Some time, the Guzman's governor?

Cor.
I was,
Till duty taught me where allegiance lay.

Cañedo.
Poh! how you talk! 'T was simply thus, my lord:
He flung his key at Doña Leonor,
Called Don Enrique bastard, and ran off.
There 's a short story!

Alb.
Its reward shall come.
We here create you lord of Aguilar,
Giving the flag and cauldron of a Don,
With all the privileges of Rico Hombre.

[To Coronel.]
Cor.
Cañedo, this o'ertops the Guzman's wall.
[Apart to him.]
I brought my friend, too—an unsightly thing;
But, then, my lord, I brought him not for show—
As my best offering. He can bite and hold,
A very wolf in battle.

Cañ.
If that be
The character you give before my face,
Heaven save my back, Alonzo!

Alb.
I accept him,
At your good word, and will provide for him.
Who 's governor now?

Cor.
Lara refused the charge.

Alb.
Ha! Lara? This is golden news!

Cor.
And mark,
The lord of Lara following its report.

(Enter Lara and Villena.)
Alb.
Welcome to both! Good gentlemen, your speed
Is cheerful notice of your fair intents.
(A number of Courtiers, Knights, &c., assemble at the back of the scene.)
Madam, the bees are swarming. (Apart to Maria.)
We have need
Of faithful men to fill our offices.
We take it as an honor that such names
As Lara and Villena can be placed
Topmost upon the ranks of government.

Lara.
Thanks, Alburquerque! Though our motives be,
As you may rate them, selfish at the base;
Yet while your government has power to stand,
By our joint efforts, we shall not fall off.

Alb.
Your candor pleases me. Madam, behold,
How one short hour has changed the face of things!
These moths, that flutter round our brightening lamp,
Are, singly, little but mere silk-spinners;
Yet, by a skilful knitting of their work,
I'll form a cable that shall hold Castile
Fast at our anchor. Smile, for Heaven's sake, smile!
Sunshine costs nothing, and its gift may bring
Abundant harvest. [Apart to Maria.]


Doña M.
Smile on these, too, sir?
(Enter Leonor de Guzman and Don Enrique.)
Would that my eyes had venom in their light,
And every glance had power to slay a host!
You should not lesson me in smiling, then,
Even on these. How now, thou sorceress,
Has witchcraft failed thee? Dar'st thou set thy foot,
Insolent minion, in our very court?

Enrique.
Madam!—

Leonor.
Enrique, give me leave to speak.

Doña M.
What, thou wouldst whine of love to King Alfonso,
Gloss o'er thy sins with lying rhetoric,
And set heaven blushing at the gifts it gave!

Leo.
No, madam, no: though something might be said,
Of how the holy law of mutual love
May wipe the slander from a life like mine.
Not for myself I come. The fatal day
That took Alfonso turned my eyes from life,
And the tame hum and bustle of the world.
The hours that lie between me and my grave
I count, as one who waits some great event
Beside a dial, and would urge the shade
That towards his hope creeps tardily along.
Doña Maria, it is not with you
I would discourse, but with his grace, the king.

Doña M.
Doubtless, thou crafty trickster, not with me,—
Who traced thy winding courses, year by year,
Marking each footstep with some wrong of mine,—
But with the king, whose unsuspicious mind
Needs my sad talisman against thy arts.
Thus, as his mother, I arise between
Thy guilty purpose and his gentle heart!

Leo.
I have no purpose but to intercede
For King Alfonso's children; and the voice
Of nature, pleading louder than my own,
Shall win Don Pedro to his brothers.—

Doña M.
Shame!
Hast thou the impudence to call thy crew
Of vipers brothers to my son?

Leo.
Ay, madam,
Haply, if you were honest with the king.

Doña M.
Ha! lady, art thou of so keen a wit?
Arrest her!

En.
(Drawing.)
He who touches but her garb,
I'll hew to atoms!

Alb.
Folly has run mad.
Madam, your—

Doña M.
Treason! Cut the bastard down!

(Alburquerque rushes back to Don Pedro. The Courtiers draw and advance on Leonor and Enrique.)
Don P.
(Mounting the throne.)
Forbear! I am the sovereign in Castile!
And till your treason root me from my seat,
You who thus jet shall flourish under me!

(Courtiers uncover, and fall back.)
Alb.
(To Maria.)
Here is a sermon on my text, your grace.
This headlong course will run you out of breath:
Excessive anger is the blindest thing
That e'er sought vengeance. Patience, patience, madam!
Wait till the reins are fairly in our hands,
And the state ambling gently under us;
I'll show you tricks, then, when the king 's not by
I'll strip these Guzmans for you, root and branch.
But you must smile—a very heavenly smile—
Or shed a tear or two, perhaps, while they
Lie at your feet, and wither in your hate.
Begin, begin!

Doña M.
Don Pedro, pardon me.
The open insult of my fellow-queen—
She who was reigning while I staid at home,
To rock your cradle, and to suckle you—
Moved me a little. And besides, my liege,
There are some years of suffering on my brow,—
Pray, mark my lady's, it is very smooth,—
And some harsh lines of silver in my hair,
While hers is glossy with untroubled ease.
The rose has burned to ashes on my face;—
Yet lives again in her transparent cheek.
She can go through her fingers, and record
A loving child upon each dainty tip;—
I have but one, and he forgets to love!

Don P.
Mother, thou wrong'st me. For the love of grace,
I prithee lay this bitterness aside,
Sweetening thy nature with more holy thoughts.
Enrique, brother, I will not suppose
You are unmindful of the love we shared
In great Alfonso's heart; nor that one grief,
For his untimely loss, together binds us.
While you preserve allegiance to the king,
You shall not suffer for the brother's love.

Leo.
I humbly thank your grace; and to your care
Commit your father's children.

Doña M.
(Apart to Alburquerque.)
Shall she triumph?

Alb.
Can she stop time, or stretch this lucky hour
Out into doomsday?

[Apart to Maria.]
Don P.
My lord Chancellor,
To your safe-keeping we confide the person
Of Doña Leonor. And see no harm
Come to the lady, in whatever shape,
On pain of our displeasure; nor such rights,
As by the law have been allowed to her,
Be now denied her.

En.
How is this, my lord?

Alb.
Reasons of state forbid the liberty—
At least, the perfect liberty, I own—
Of Doña Leonor. His majesty
Fears somewhat for his mother's jealousy,—
Sir, there are knives and poison in the land,—
[Whispers.]
And, therefore, gives her to my custody.

En.
I can protect her, if 't is that you fear.
I like it not. Don Pedro, you undo
Your royal mercy.

Alb.
Condé, be content;
You shall be free to come and go to her.
We do not mean this for imprisonment.

En.
And so you gild the cage! Ah! sir—

Leo.
My son,
Bow with obedience to thy king's command.
It matters little where I dwell to me,
Still less to all the world. Thy liberty
Is warrant for my safety.

En.
Let but a hair—
Look, Alburquerque, what I say to you—
Let but a hair be rent from that fair head,
And I will—

Leo.
Thou art passionate. My lord,
I must intrust my person to your charge;—
For, to be frank, I see no fair escape.
Lord Alburquerque, we are not new friends,
We have met often; and I understand
Your wily policy and cunning turns,
Almost as well as you who practise them.

Alb.
Ward, this is somewhat bluff.

Leo.
But true, my lord.
My children's welfare rests upon my hands,
And I must rise, with all my weight of grief,
To wait upon their fortunes. Be but true,
And I will meet your candor with like truth;
But should you practise on me, art for art,
And scheme for scheme, shall meet you everywhere.
I shall be jealous of your guardianship,
And give the king a fair account of it,
By ways you cannot see.

Alb.
(Aside.)
Ha! ha! my lady,
This looks like brisk employment! Brain to brain
We'll fight our battle: I'll outwit you, though;—
Trust me for that.

Leo.
Don Pedro, many thanks,
For the great kindness you have shown to me,
Now, in my ebb of fortune. Let me be
Among the first to hail you on the throne.—
Long live Don Pedro, King of fair Castile!

All.
Long live the King of Leon and Castile!

[Flourish.]