University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

DON VELASCO and CONDE HARO.
Velasco.
Wretch that thou art!—thou hast debas'd the house,
The noble name—the blood of Don Velasco.

De Haro.
None but thyself, should, with impunity,
Upbraid a man, whose honour ne'er was stain'd
By one base act—whose soul disdains a thought
But what ennobles both thy son and thee.

Velasco.
My son—no, I renounce the claim,
And rase thy memory from thy blasted line;
A mean soul, prostrate at a woman's foot—
A traitoress, both to her God and king,
Was ne'er ally'd to the Velascan blood.

De Haro.
If virtue stands at variance with worth,
Or if true greatness can abuse the wretched,
Then may my father's much revered lip,
With cruel insult, wound the fairest same.
Thou knowest not the lustre that adorns
Maria's soul, and lifts her o'er her sex—
The virtues that combine to make her great:
Her angel form commands profound respect;
Her beauty, grace, her constancy and truth—
Her noble mind and energy of thought,
Would dignify the most illustrious name.

Velasco.
Thy love tales whine in her disdainful ear.
This idle, rapturous pageantry of words,
This play of fancy, fann'd by lustful gales,
These loose, mad ravings of a hot brain'd youth,
Have made me sick of life. Oh! how debas'd
Is honour—duty—gratitude and fame!—
How are thy laurels stain'd, and meanly laid
Beneath the pedestal of wanton love;
A transient beam, shot from a sorc'ress' eye,
Whom mercy yet has spar'd to rave and weep
Her husband's fall—her disappointed pride.
But by the eternal thunderer above,
She shall not triumph thus—
Mine aged arm, inur'd to war and blood,
Is not so worn by time, nor yet so weak,
But it can send her murmuring soul to hell;
Nay, harder still, has strength to grasp the hist,
And plunge this vet'ran sword in thy base breast,
To let out that false blood that taints thy soul
And poisons all my peace.

[Draws.
De Haro.
What means my sire?—

Velasco.
To make thee worthy of thy noble name.—

De Haro.
If death alone entitles to the claim,
I fear it not in any form but this.

[Retires backward, and bows respectfully as going off.
Velasco.
Fly not my vengeance—dastard—villain—slave!—

De Haro.
Hah!—dastard—villain—slave—Oh! heavens!
Can the great God command I should submit
To such reproach—ev'n from a father's lip?—

[Suddenly lays his hand on his sword.
Velasco.
Come, try its point against my wounded breast,
Or hoary head, grown grey in honour's path—
That bends and bows and blushes for his son.

De Haro.
Not the rich sands of Chili or Peru,
Nor all the wealth Potosi has in store,
Shall bribe me from my duty and respect,
My filial love and reverence for thee.

[Bends on his knee.
Velasco.
I do not wish to make thee more a coward.—

De Haro.
A coward—traitor—villain and a slave!—
My honour stain'd by epithets so vile.—
None but thyself within this ample round,
Should dare unite a base, opprobrious term
With Conde Haro's name—but thou'rt my sire—
Then take a life I wish not to preserve.

[Throws his sword from him, and bares his breast.
Velasco.
Take up thy dagger—plunge it in my breast,
Or give thy foolish passion to the winds.

De Haro.
No—neither.—

Velasco.
Bring back the fugitive to justice' arm—
Renounce thy love.—

De Haro.
Never.—

Velasco.
Never!—

De Haro.
Not if Maria hears my faithful vows—
'Tis honour, wealth and empire to my soul.

Velasco.
Fly from my vengeful hand—thou'rt not my son—
I've been deceiv'd—alas! too long deceiv'd.
Thou art some low—some vile imposter—palm'd
Upon my house—and nature feels no pang,
To send thy soul to wander with the dead.

[Makes a furious pass at De Haro, but is so enraged be trembles and drops his sword.
De Haro.
When nature shall cut off thy thread of life,
I'll meet thee there, by thy Zelinda's side—
That angel form that gave a son to thee.

Velasco.
[Enter Don Francis—a bloody sword extended in his hand.

Francis.
—Thou see'st thy duteous son—
The wedded husband of thy lov'd Louisa—
Thou see'st his sword wet with the blood of Pedro,
Who would have robb'd me of my lovely bride;
His coward ghost now murmurs in the shades
And groans repentance for his faithless deeds.

Velasco.
Thy rebel insolence my hand shall crush
When thou hast told by what infernal fiend,
Or hellish arts, thy life's protracted thus,
To plunge my house in infamy and guilt.

Francis.
Thy generous son has sav'd me from the grave;
That noble friend, when, on the verge of death,
Set ope the prison gates, and bade me fly
To mighty Charles, and boldly sue for grace.
Know'st thou thy lov'd Zelinda's bridal ring?—
[Presents it to Velasco.
This precious pledge made thy Louisa mine,
And, often seen upon Velasco's hand,
Procur'd and seal'd a pardon from the emperor.

Velasco.
That guardian angel of my happier days.
Sure hovers here, and guides my sanguine steps;
Protects her children from their father's rage,
And smooths my passions down the vale of life.
Go, Francis, see if yet Louisa lives,
And heaven forgive my cruelty to her!—
Each passion dies but love to my Louisa,
And strong affection to the best of sons.

[Exeunt.