University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

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.]

SCENE II.

The Study of Calaynos. Calaynos and Oliver.
Oliver.
When does Don Luis leave?

Calaynos.
Not soon, I hope.
His visit here has brought the color back
To his wan cheek, and lent a healthy cast
To thoughts that sickened o'er his former woes.
We surely may predict much good of him,
When he returns to mingle with mankind:
He will not rust in ease; he'll speak and act,
And do the utmost God has given him power.
Ah, he who rests in sloth bears half the guilt
Of him who goes about to compass ill;
For heaven has lent him strength to conquer sin,
Which, through disuse, lets evil run unchecked.
He who has power to plant one seed of truth,
And does it not, is nigh as bad as he
Who, with broad hand, sows falsehood through the land.

Oli.
I hope with you; and yet I fear, my lord.

Cal.
Fear what? Speak out.—Again at your suspicions!

Oli.
I have received some letters from Seville,
Which place your guest in no too virtuous light.
They say—

Cal.
Before you speak, pray answer me.—
From whom this news, and how was it obtained?
I said you 'd surfeit doubt, if food you sought;
And here is proof.—Go on; whence came this news?

Oli.
From a fast friend, who loves you as my master:
A man whom anxious guilt would ne'er suspect
Of saying aught beyond the pale of truth.
He gained intelligence from public rumor—
Why, it is broad and common as the sun;
But chiefly from those very creditors
Who got your gold, and then enjoyed the trick.

Cal.
And shall I doubt my friend for knaves so base,
Who thus avow they practised villany?
Did he not tell me of the cunning traps
In which they snared him, in which now you fall?
If they 're so lost to shame, as to confess
That through a trick they wronged my confidence,
How shall I now believe, though seeming true,
The tangled tale they blush not to unfold?

Oli.
Nay, sir, if you fling logic in my teeth,
And reason facts to falsehoods, I have done.

Cal.
Can you not mask your thoughts, if they offend?

Oli.
Next God comes truth, and in that rank I love it!

Cal.
Sir, I have borne unmurmuring, day by day,
Your wily hints, though wounded to the quick.—
I have been vexed by your sly, boyish tricks,
That sought to lead a man of twice your years:
I told you once before, I tell you now,
That guilty cunning which preys on itself,
Content with proof would make a sophist stare,
You have mistaken for wisdom.—Leave me, sir—
To-morrow I shall want a secretary.

Oli.
Good heaven! my lord, you would not cast me off?
You would not thrust me on this evil world?—

Cal.
You will see all the traps, shun all the snares,
And prosper bravely, as the wily do.—
Nay, now I think, I have another house
Beyond the mountains, out of sight and hearing:
Go there and dwell—the pension is the same.

Oli.
Spare me, my lord! Be just, if you are cruel;
Nor taunt me with the pay I never sought.
Have I loved gold, or have I hoarded it?—
Where is the wealth you gave in my command?
If I must go, I go without a coin,
Whose yellow look might curse me with its shame!

Cal.
I never knew in you a sordid wish.

Oli.
O, no! O, no! you knew me from a child;
I sat upon your knee, and called you father;
Played with your tasselled sword—ah, then you smiled,
And kissed my forehead, for that tender name.—
Our cheeks were touching, when you taught me letters;
O, you were patient then, nor roughly chid
Your stammering scholar if he spelled awry.
You did not taunt me with a love of gold;
You did not stand upon your awful power,
And tell your nursling to go forth and die!
Ah, no; you told me e'er to love you thus;
And for that lesson I am wrecked at last!

Cal.
Poor boy! poor boy! Nay, then remain—

Oli.
Not I!
I 'd rather starve than eat unwelcome bread.—
That, too, you taught me, and I thank you, sir.
I value freedom o'er all else besides;
Nor would I be dependent for a throne.
To-morrow you'll be happy—I'll be free.

Cal.
No, no; it shall not be. Come here, my son—
Come close to me—I am again your father;
Nor shall e'en friendship sunder time-knit love.

Oli.
Your blessing, sir,—'t will lighten many a toil.

Cal.
Are you resolved?

Oli.
Ay, though my heart-strings snap!

Cal.
God bless you, son!

Oli.
God keep you from the snares!

Cal.
Away, away! lest you revoke my blessing.
[Exit Oliver.]
He does as I would do. O, stiff-necked pride!
That chokes each avenue to humble love—
That walls the glowing heart with stubborn ice,
And leaves the beds of feeling cold and dry!
Farewell! The first bright link is torn away;
Thus time will rend the reliques one by one.

[Exit.]

SCENE III.

The Great Hall in the Castle. Enter Doña Alda and Martina
Doña Alda.
Has it struck two?

Martina.
'T is near that hour, my lady.

Doña A.
Before or after?

Mar.
Just before, my lady.

Doña A.
We are too soon.—The clock is surely wrong.

Mar.
'T is natural haste. He knows a woman well.

Doña A.
Yes, yes; a woman never waits for ill;
We always meet it.—Did you hear a step?

Mar.
Not I.—Did you?

Doña A.
Perhaps it was my heart.
That beats so painfully against my side.
Would it were over! (Clock strikes.)
Hark! there strikes the clock;
It sounds as if 't would wake the castle up.—
Did you e'er note before how loud it strikes?
This is not right—I feel it is not right.
I'll leave the hall.—See, how those portraits frown!
As if I 'd done some crime, or were about it.

Mar.
You are too late—look, where Don Luis comes!
He means no wrong.—Nay, lady, I'll be near.

Doña A.
Sure never evil wore so smooth a face.

(Enter Don Luis. Martina retires within.)
Don Luis.
Your prompt attention chides my lingering steps.

Doña A.
Speak quickly, sir: I have short time to hear.

Don L.
What, without more delay?

Doña A.
Right to the purpose.

Don L.
O, then prepare your ears to hear a tale
Shall shake your soul, and task your tottering mind
To bear its feeble body firmly up.

Doña A.
With such dread prelude, what must I expect?

Don L.
First, lest it seem 'gainst nature, or to prove
That I am quite devoid of gratitude
Towards him whose kindness I have felt, and feel,
Know the full cause which prompts me to the deed.
Know 't is to see you righted, who are wronged—
Wronged in a way that most concerns your honor—
Wronged by a wretch in whom you have most trust;
But to be righted by a man who loves.
Yes, yes, I love you—love you with a heart
That ne'er before knew love for womankind.
But yet I love you purely as a saint:
I dare but worship, hope not to approach;
I have not thought to win a smile or sign:
I bow in homage; sacrifice a heart,
Though torn and bleeding, spotless as your own.
Nay, more, I pray to have my love forgiven,
Whose adoration may offend your eyes;
For oft devout and reverend worship seems,
In others' sight, no purer than foul sin.
Yet must I tell my love; my dammed up heart
At length has swept each choking fear away,
And caused a flood in which, perchance, I'll drown.
O, spare me, lady!—say you can forgive!

Doña A.
Audacious man, dare you overleap the brink,
Nor know the fearful depth that yawns below?
Have you e'er looked from yonder window's edge,
Down on the grisly rocks that jut beneath,
Ragged and cruel as the chafed boar's fell tusks?
Have you e'er turned your dizzy eyes aloft,
To view the tower which hangs above those crags?
On that same tower, years since, a malpert page
Sighed forth his love to our great-grandsire's daughter;
Next day they found him on the rocks below,
Mangled and dead.—Some said he slipped and fell;
But none knew how, or why.—Beware, fair sir,
If not sure-footed, how you walk that tower!

Don L.
Alas, alas! this is a woful tale,
That one should fall for love!—You pity him?

Doña A.
Not for his love he fell, but telling it:
There was the crime that caused his grievous slip.
Better his fire of love had burned to dust,
Than roused up sleeping justice with its blaze.

Don L.
Have you no feeling for a burning heart,
That cannot quench its fire, except in death?

Doña A.
“Suffer in silence” is the legend graven
Beneath the shield that crowns our castle gate:
When you came here you passed beneath that shield,
Yet have not read the wisdom it contains.

Don L.
Sweet lady, hear me.

Doña A.
Nay, no more of love.
Another word, I'll call Calaynos forth.—
Martina, are you there?

Martina.
(Reëntering.)
I am, my lady.

Don L.
Fool! get you gone.

[Exit Martina.]
Doña A.
Ha! dare you go?—Come back!
Good-night, good-night; I have o'erstaid my time.—
Sir, thank your gentle bearing for your safety.

[Going.]
Don L.
Lady, return; you have not heard me out:
This is but prologue to the tragedy;
Now comes the guilty tale of which I spoke

Doña A.
Nay, there was guilt enough in what you said:
Tax not my ears to bear a weightier load.—
Farewell. [Going.]


Don L.
And you are lost—forever lost!
O, I beseech you listen, on your life!

Doña A.
Proceed—I'll hear; but not a word of love.

Don L.
No, 't is of hate, of most malicious hate—
Hate self-engendered, without cause or motive—
Against you borne by one you dearly trust;
Shown in the heavy wrong 'neath which you live,
Though all unweeting that such crime exists.

Doña A.
Who does me wrong?—One whom I love and trust?
Martina?

Don L.
No; strike nearer to yourself.

Doña A.
Then Oliver; for he is next my lord.

Don L.
Your lord himself.

Doña A.
'T is false! 't is false as sin!
I will not waste a moment on a lie.—
Get hence, you scurvy thing, base hypocrite,
That thus would stab your benefactor's back!—
You dare not face him, coward, and say this,
Lest he should whip you with his undrawn sword!
Get hence! 't was fit you should crawl forth at night,
If you must spit your pent-up venom forth;
But keep your slimy poison from my ear,
Or I may crush you, toad!

Don L.
Be calm, and hear.

Doña A.
Be mad, and rave! I might forgive you then.

Don L.
I tell you, mortal ne'er such wrong endured—

Doña A.
As you dare fling upon me.

Don L.
Hear me out.—
Who do you think your lord, Calaynos, is?

Doña A.
The noblest, greatest, wisest man in Spain!

Don L.
I tell you, lady, he is one half Moor;
His other half holds every baseness in it,
That spots the nature of the lowest white.

Doña A.
A Moor, a Moor—a lie!

Don L.
His name, his name!
Is it not Moorish, from the first to last?—
'T is sung of in our ballads.

Doña A.
Gracious Heaven!
I never thought of that—I never thought—

Don L.
Look at these portraits, dark by blood, not age,
Clad in the Moorish steel from crest to heel.—
Thus scowled they on the ranks of Ferdinand,
When they mowed down the brightest flowers of Spain;
Thus proudly looked they, thus they him defied,
When round these walls his leaguering armies lay;
Thus grimly smiled they, when the baffled king
Was forced to grant them lands he could not hold.
Why, are you purblind, that you see them not,
These dusky founders of his powerful house?

Doña A.
It cannot be; my father then had known—

Don L.
Yes, he was poor, and sold you like a slave—
A precious, fair-skinned slave, to sate a Moor!
You, you, the brightest jewel in all Spain,
Became a thing to fill a miser's chests:—
Why, he 'd have bartered with the devil for you!
Would you have proof?—I'll bring a crowd of it.
This why Calaynos kept you from Seville—
This cause of the secluded life you lead;
Forbid to mingle in the joys of life,
To wrap his damned, black mystery closer up!

Doña A.
O, misery, despair! Where shall I turn?

Don L.
Turn to me, dearest, I will succor you.

Doña A.
Avaunt! you child of hell, you torturer!
Foul, tempting fiend, through you I thus have fallen.
Why came you here, to mar my paradise
With knowledge proffered by the hand of crime?

Don L.
O, then return; go to your darling's bed;
Crawl to his side, and kiss his thick-lipped mouth;
Play with his curly pate, and call him fair;
Pray heaven to bless you with a hybrid race!
O, hug him close, close as fools clasp a sin,
And dream you 're happy; that were wise and kind.
If you have woman's spirit, bear it not!

Doña A.
O, foul—O, foul! and they to do this thing—
Father and husband!—O, my heart will burst!

Don L.
I tell you, you were cheated by this Moor,
Lied to and cozened, made a merchandise,
Sold to the highest bidder—he bid high.
Now he might sell you to some other hand,
If he could get a profit on his ware.—
What worse than this? What worse can come than this?—
Ah, you have breathed deceit, and fed on guilt;
Thought him a saint, who was at heart a fiend.
Poor child, poor child! now could I weep for you;
But anger chokes the kindlier channels up,
With thinking on this base, heart-cheating Moor.—

Doña A.
Spare me!—Calaynos—

[She faints.]
Don L.
But one way remains.
Now nerve me, love, to bear my precious freight.

[He carries her off.]
(After a pause, enter Calaynos.)
Calaynos.
Methought I heard a voice repeat my name;
And then a hurried rush of trampling feet.
No, 't was a fancy; all is still.—These lights—
Why burn they here, at this unwonted hour,
Watching, like grief, the dull, cold midnight through?
This is a strange neglect, unknown before,
And dangerous. I must draw a tighter rein.
These knavish servants—Ha! I heard a noise,
[Opens the casement.]
Like the dull sound a flying courser makes,
When urged to speed along the yielding sod.
Some of the deer have broken through the pale,
And gambol nimbly 'neath the winking stars.
Bright nightly watchers, tell your secrets now;
Unfold to me the mystery of your being;
Say why ye came, how long ye thus have kept
Your faithful vigils o'er this atom, earth!
Were you but formed for man to gaze upon,
To flatter him, and puff his spirit up;
Or in creation's scale do ye hold place
Of more import than sages ever dreamed?
Ye misty pleiads, where has gone the star
That, ages since, among ye disappeared?
How men with wild conjectures vex their minds,
To find what cause could blot that fiery orb!
Yet if a brother mortal leave his sphere,
From this vast human firmament struck out,
They pass the lifeless clay without a thought
Of why he left, or where his elements.
Pale, dusty path, that, in the depths of space,
Hangs like a smoky track behind the wheel
Of some vast burning orb; but, to the sage,
Resolves to starry pebbles paving heaven—
Nay, to great suns, to satellites, to systems,
In myriad numbers whirling on through space—
O, what is far beyond you? Can ye see
The limit that hems in the universe?
O, what remains hid from the prying glass,
Whose added strength looks still on other worlds?
Yet with this awful knowledge, impious man—
Ah, yes, the meanest of the clay-born herd—
Will strut and vapor, as if he alone
Filled the whole universe, and gave it laws.
Lo! meek-eyed morn, like a pale beggar, knocks
With trembling fingers at night's eastern gate.
Poor Oliver, this morn is black to thee!
I must retire. (Knocking.)
What can that knocking mean?—
Where are the sluggish knaves that tend the gate?
[Bell rings.]
Ho, Oliver, come forth! (Enter a Servant.)
Quick, ope the gate!
[Exit Servant.]
This early summons bodes some weighty matter.

(Enter Oliver.)
Oliver.
My lord, you called?

Cal.
Nay, get to sleep again.
I know not why I called—'t was habit—go.

Oli.
You know full well I did not sleep last night.—
'T is useless to attempt it.

(Enter a Forester wounded.)
Cal.
Who are you,
That startle morning ere the cock has crowed?
Wounded and bleeding! If I see aright,
You wear the livery of my foresters.

Forester.
My wound is nothing; but the way it came
May much concern your lordship, if you'll hear.

Cal.
Say on.

For.
Well, señor, as I went my rounds,
Just ere the break of day, to watch the herd,
I saw two horsemen spurring to the blood
Across the park, as if to gain the hills.
The foremost bore a lady in his arms,
Who seemed nigh dead with fear, or dead outright:
Well, this one passed ere I could cross his way.
Beside the second rode a girl I 'd seen—
My lady's maid, I think her name 's Martina;
But who the man was I can scarcely tell.
Well, sir, I threw my staff across his path,
And bade him stand: out came his heavy sword;
With a side blow he struck me down to earth,
And split my skull with this unmanly wound.
The coward! If I 'd had a sword, my lord,
I warrant you I 'd make the fellow leap.
But then you see I was unarmed, my lord,
And it was nearly dark. I stood just so,
With my staff raised—

Cal.
I thank you for your pains.
Here 's gold, to heal your wound.

[Offers money.]
For.
I 'd rather not:
The chance to serve you has been pay enough.

[Exit.]
Cal.
There goes a man, a man without a price,
Who takes no fee for virtue! Oliver.

Oli.
My lord.

Cal.
What think you of this fellow's tale?
Soto has done us service, were it not
That her elopement will sore vex my lady.

Oli.
But who the foremost horseman?—whom bore he?

Cal.
That 's strange indeed. Go call Don Luis up.
[Exit Oliver, hastily.]
Here is brisk gossip for a week or two:
There'll be no grumblers here till this is o'er.
I, too, am rid of one whose wanton breath
Forced into birth my lady's discontent,
To choke her peace with its unhealthy sprouts.

(Reënter Oliver.)
Oli.
Don Luis, sir, ne'er saw his couch last night;
And all his lighter luggage is removed.

Cal.
Call Doña Alda.

Oli.
Sir, I passed her room;
The door was open, not a soul within.

Cal.
What can this mean?—Why bite your trembling lip,
And bend your eyes so sharply on my face?

Oli.
Ah, what sad prophets may our fears become!

Cal.
What do you mean?

Oli.
My lord, I dare not say.

Cal.
'T will not offend—speak out.

Oli.
You promise me?

Cal.
I vow, I will not say or do you ill.

Oli.
The foremost horseman—who was he?

Cal.
Go on.

Oli.
Don Luis.

Cal.
Ha! the lady whom he bore
Was—

Oli.
Pardon me, for she was Doña Alda.

Cal.
Monstrous! And wags the tongue that dare say this?

Oli.
'T is true, my lord, or rend me limb from limb.

Cal.
Rash boy, I will be calm—calm as the storm,
Ere on your head its gathering terrors burst!

(Enter a Servant.)
Servant.
My lord, some laboring men beset the gate,
Who beg to see you; for they boldly say
That, as they went to work, they saw a man,
Mounted and armed like a stout cavalier,
Flying with Lady Alda in his arms.
On foot they could not reach him—

Cal.
Out! begone!
[Exit Servant.]
These torturing fiends are leagued to drive me mad!

Oli.
My lord, my lord!

Cal.
Why stand you there, dull sloth,
And stare upon me with your vacant eyes?
Slay wench and paramour.—Mount, mount, and follow!
(Oliver snatches a sword from the wall.)
Ha! the hot blood of all the Moors is up,
And must have blood to lay it.—Mount, I say!—
You'll not desert me now?

Oli.
Not while my soul
Clings to its wretched clay.—Shall I slay both?

Cal.
Slay both; without a thought of mercy slay!
The shallow fools have fallen in love with death.

Oli.
Murder will blot my soul when I return.

Cal.
The murder of two wolves that tore your lord!

Oli.
Mine to obey;—I question not your mandates.

Cal.
Stay, Oliver; their blood must be on me.

Oli.
No, no; I 'd rather do it.

Cal.
O God, forgive—
Forgive my impious rage! Withhold thy frown,
Till I have sifted, to the very dust,
This hideous matter! Follow, but slay not.
Disguise your form, and seem not what you are—
The more like them who hid their acts as thieves.
Learn all you can, and then return to me:
Slow justice is more certain of its end.
If she repent, and you are moved to pity,
And dare to bring her where I catch a glimpse
Of her repentant features, by the gods,
I'll hurl you from the walls!—Be still, my heart!

[Aside.]
Oli.
I will obey in all.

Cal.
Away, away!
[Exit Oliver.]
Where shall I turn? O, what thing shall I do?
How have I scorned the men of ancient Rome,
Who left their fortunes to a flying bird!
But, now, I 'd hang my doubts upon a die,
Or whirling coin, and follow it like fate.
O, vain philosophy! is this thy aid?
When troubles darken, and the passions rage,
Must the philosopher become a man—
A feeble man, a very fool of impulse?
'T is all in vain, I cannot drive my thoughts
Into their wonted channels; cannot weigh,
Nor calmly speculate upon my grief.
O, Alda, Alda, thoughts of thee come back,
And drive all speculation from my brain!—
Why here am I, who thought to will to do,
Who thought I 'd schooled my passion as a child,
Raving at heaven o'er one of life's poor wrongs!
How brave, how brave in me to teach long suffering,
And, when I suffer, shrink without a tug!
O, Alda, Alda, never love thee more,
Never behold thee, never call thee mine!—
I have a heart that mocks philosophy;
Burst forth, my heart—I'm but a man at last!

[Weeps.]