University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The Great Hall in Calaynos' Castle. Enter Calaynos.
Calaynos.
The strife is vain; I cannot think nor read;
My mind will wander, and my eyes grow dim:
She clings to me like sin! I catch myself,
Involuntary, dreaming o'er the page,
And all my dream of her. Day follows day,
Yet deeper sinks the barb. Each hour my heart,
Like a calmed vessel next a hideous rock,
Heaves near this one idea. I hear her name
Breathed by the air, in every gale that blows;
I feel her hand upon my shoulder laid,
And sigh that sense can cheat. O shame, shame, shame!
Thy slime clings round me, and doth drag me down.
O pride, O o'erblown pride, on which I swam
In life's calm seas, and gayly smiled at fate;—
Thou, in the tempest's hour, dost toss me up,
On the dread top of every howling wave,
To send me thundering in its black abyss!—
Better beneath the choking brine to sink,
And die untortured. Why did she deceive?
Why do this damning act? If thunder roar,
Men look above their heads, to find a cloud;
But I am withered by a scathing shock,
And yet the cause know not. What, Alda false?
I'll not believe it—I am not awake;
I'll wake, ere long, and find her by my side;
Or she'll return, and tell it all to me.
It is a trick to try me. She is hid,
In some odd nook, to watch her jealous lord;
Next thing she'll sally out, and mock my grief.—
She false! I 'd staked my soul upon her truth.
Ah, 't is a trick, a trick—a trick to damn!
What shall I do? Who shall direct me now?
(Turns to the portraits.)
I dare not question you, ye men of blood;
I know your answer—draw the sword and kill!
Fling out our banner, fire the culverins,
Call in the war-bred from their ancient hills,
And let the trembling valleys hear, aghast,
Calaynos wars with man! O, empty threat!
Blood cannot heal the scars which seam my heart.
(Opens the casement.)
The very sky is red,—is red as blood!
Down, tempting devil, down!—I will not murder:
'T is the last print of evening 's fiery foot
That burns in yonder clouds. Ere long, the night
Shall fall as black as memory on my soul—
O heaven! without a hope to light my path,
One starry hope, to lend its guiding beam.
Stumbling, and lost in darkness, on I grope
To death—O yes, to death—to peace and rest.
What dusky clouds o'erclimb yon eastern peaks?
A storm? Come on, I like thy looks, my mate!
Shake thy red lightnings o'er this wicked world—
Strike all the guilty with thy burning hand—
Pour thy cruel hail upon their naked heads—
O'erturn their habitations, root them out—
Drive them, like sheep, before thy angry face!
Nay, let them go: slay all the innocent—
Slay all the sufferers, all that ache 'neath wrongs;
For guilt can live in peace, and smile at them!
(Thunder.)
Alda, awake! the God of heaven is out,
The God of justice!—No, the storm will pass;
Or if it strike, perchance 't will kill a child.
O, what a weary life is mine—strike me,
In mercy strike!
(Enter Oliver.)
Ha! thou 'st returned, my son?
[Embraces him.]
Didst thou see—Speak, I cannot question thee.

Oliver.
Yes, yes, I saw too much.—Alas! my lord,
What dreadful thing has brought this change about?
A month ago I left thee in thy prime,
And, now, thou'rt old and wrinkled.

Cal.
Yes, my son,
My heart is old and wrinkled as my brow.
I have not long to live; I feel it here.
Yet, ere I go, I fain would tidings gain
Of Doña Alda.—Is she happy now?

Oli.
An hour ago, I passed a wretched town;
But, ere I left, a squalid thing of rags
Went by me, yet begged not; though I was clad,
Painted, and bearded like a cavalier.
I gave it, all unasked, it looked so sad—
That thing was Lady Alda.

Cal.
Base-born dog!
And did you dare to give her charity?

Oli.
'T was of your gold I gave.

Cal.
O, pardon me:
The devil in my blood will not be laid.
And did she take it with a courtly grace,
Learned at Seville from her bewitching Don;
Or did she clutch it like a common drab?
Say on; I'm sorrow-proof.

Oli.
Ah, no, my lord;
She hardly felt the gold touch her thin palm;
And then she smiled, so sorrowful, so sweet,
As one unused to kindness.

Cal.
Know'st thou more?
I 'd steeled my heart to hear the blackest tale,
But this doth blacken fancy.

Oli.
Few my words!
Of her dark story much I could not gather;
And what I gained I came at by report.
She fled with thy false friend too well thou know'st;
But why, is known to him and her alone.
From some vague hints, I think the guilt not hers;
But that Don Luis used the foulest means,
And so achieved his wish most treacherously.—
'T is said, and I believe it.

Cal.
Bless thee, Heaven!

Oli.
She lived with him a while, but then she fled;
This, too, a mystery;—though I heard his knave,
His vile familiar, Soto, said in scorn—
“She was too grand a lady for a mistress!”
Since then, she wanders on from town to town,
With death's fell signet stamped upon her brow,
Looking like grief in animated stone.

Cal.
Yet the sun shines, and yet this villain lives!
O, slow, slow justice, must I be thy tool?

(Storm increases.)
Oli.
Mercy, how 't rains!

Cal.
Ay, ay, alike on all.
Dost think poor Alda feels this bitter storm,
Homeless and friendless, without cloak or food?

Oli.
Perchance— (A groan without.)
Hark, hark!

Cal.
Methought I heard a sound,
Like the weak moan of a sick, restless child.

[Another groan.]
Oli.
And there again! It comes from 'neath yon window.

Cal.
Look out and see.

Oli.
(Looking out.)
I saw, by the last flash,
A huddled form that cowered against the wall.
Perchance some helpless child has lost its way,
And cannot find the gate.

Cal.
Go bring it in:
No beast should suffer on a night like this.
[Exit Oliver.]
(Goes to the casement.)
Ay, shake your fiery tresses, dusky clouds;
I have resolved—ye cannot move my mind!
Ye'll spare me for this act—ye love a crime;
Or long ago ye 'd scathed that viper's skin—
Three days from this he dies, and by my hand.
(Thunder.)
Roar on, roar on! I'll plunge my arm in blood
Up to the elbow—he shall bellow too!
Poor Alda, whither roamest thou, sad wretch,
Without a home or comfort!—Spare her, Heaven!
For thou canst soften tempests to a breath,
To succor the shorn lamb—O, she is shorn!

(Reënter Oliver, with servants bearing Doña Alda on a couch.)
Oli.
She has not long to live:—I brought her here.

Cal.
Brought whom?

Oli.
The lady Alda.

Cal.
Gracious heaven!
Why, I am passion's plaything.—Shall I rave?—
Shall I grow drunk on grief, and fire the house?—
Or what most desperate and headlong act
Hast Thou reserved for me? I'm ready—speak!
Say anything; but let me do, not think;
For I with thought grow mad!

Oli.
Look on her, sir.

Cal.
I cannot.

Oli.
Look; more harmless thing ne'er lived.
Ah, she is very still, and cold, and pale;
Scarce a pulse flutters; she is nigh run down;
The balance of her body hardly beats:
Another move, then follows endless rest.

Cal.
Endless! Stand here; I'll look at her once more.
(Approaches the couch.)
Poor wretch, poor wretch! why, grief hath rubbed thee sore!
I see its marks upon thy once smooth brow;
And it has crept among thy tangled hair,
To nestle in its silk. Sad mark of woe,
I'll not believe thy guilt; 't was not thy fault;
That villain Luis, by some hell-hatched lie,
Drove thee past reason. Thou hast a tale, shut up
Within the hollow chamber-of thy breast,
To make avenging falchions bristle earth;
Thou couldst urge stony death to mend his pace,
And strike the monster ere his day.—She moves.
Go to her, Oliver; I cannot stay.
Perchance, she 'd speak, yet has short time for words.

Doña Alda.
Calaynos.

Oli.
Hark! she calls thee, sir.

Cal.
Go, go!

Oli.
Lady, I'm here.

Doña A.
Nay, nay, deceive me not.
I saw a pitying face bent over me,
And it was his. Thou 'rt Oliver. O, sir,
If thou hast trace of feeling in thy nature,
Pray, bring him here. I'm weak, and ill, and fallen:
He would not come for me; for he is proud,
And I have wronged him to the depths of wrong—
Not all myself; but yet he thinks 't was I.—
Go, ere I die, in mercy go, kind sir.

Cal.
(Rushing to her.)
Alda!

Doña A.
Break, heart! I am content to die.

Cal.
O live! O live! I will forgive thee all.—
I will heap kindness on thee, till its top
Shall knock at heaven. We will be friends, true friends;
If not my wife, thou shalt be dearer far.—
If any here shall dare to mock at thee,
I'll hang them from the walls to scare the wind.—
I'll guard thee like a tiger! If the world
Should choose to sneer, why, love, we'll laugh at it;
Or, if thou lik'st, I'll ravage half of Spain.—
Yes, I'll do anything; but live, O live!
Far I can swear thou 'rt guiltless. Tell me all.

Doña A.
O god-like man! thy speech surpasses hope;
I did not look for this from even thee;
I only wished to crawl to thee and die:
For I have shamed thee in the face of man.
I 've made thy name a sneer and mockery;
And fools may spit their slander on thy fame,
To gall thy pride, and shake thy glorious mind.
O fie, O fie! that I should do this act—
This act beneath pollution! Why not curse?
Why not call vengeance on my head like rain?
Why dost not spurn me? Why not cast me forth,
To rot with kindred filth, in some foul place,
Where my rank guilt may not offend thy sense?

Cal.
Alda!

Doña A.
It would be just. And I supposed,
When I set forth to view thy face once more,
That grooms would drive me from thy gates with whips;
For well I knew my guilt deserved no less:—
I sat in judgment on it, all alone,
And that the fiat which my conscience gave.

Cal.
Speak not of this; thou dost o'erstrain thy guilt;
Let me not doubt thee, in this solemn hour.
Tell me thy story; for I think thee wronged.

Doña A.
Yes, foully wronged; but half the fault my own.
There is a packet hidden in my breast,
Which holds the truthful story of my crime;
For thee 't was writ, ere I resolved to come.
Thou 'lt spare the shame of telling thee this thing;
'T would bring a flush upon the face of death,
And drive thee from thy firmness. When I'm dead,
Tear forth the dreadful secret.—O, my lord!—

Cal.
What wouldst thou, Alda?—Cheer thee, love!—bear up!

Doña A.
Thy face is dim; I cannot see thy eyes:
Nay, hide them not; they are my guiding stars.
Have sorrow's drops thus blotted out their light?
Thou dost forgive me, love?—thou 'lt think of me?—
Thou 'lt not speak harshly, when I'm neath the earth?—
Thou 'lt love my memory, for what once I was?

Cal.
Yes, though I live till doom.

Doña A.
O, happiness!
Come closer—this thy hand? Have mercy, Heaven!
Yes, press me closer—close—I do not feel.—

Cal.
O, God of mercy, spare!

Doña A.
A sunny day—
O!— (She faints.)


Cal.
Bear her in—I am as calm as ice.
Come when she wakes: I cannot see her thus.
[Exeunt Oliver and servants, bearing Doña Alda.]
'T is better so; but then the thoughts come back
Of the young bride I welcomed at the gate.—
I kissed her, yes, I kissed her—was it there?
Yes, yes, I kissed her there, and in the chapel—
The dimly-lighted chapel.—I see it all!
Here was old Hubert, there stood Oliver—
The priest, the bridesmaids, groomsmen—every face;
All the retainers that around us thronged,
Smiling for joy, with ribands in their caps.—
And shall they all, all follow her black pall,
With weeping eyes, and doleful, sullen weeds?
For they all love her:—O, she was so kind,
So kind and gentle, when they stood in need;
And never checked them if they murmured at her,
But found excuses for their discontent.—
They'll miss her, for her path was like an angel's,
And every place seemed holier where she came.
Ah me! ah me! I would this life were past!
Stay, love, watch o'er me; I will join thee soon.
(A cry within.)
So quickly gone! and ere I said farewell!

(Rushes to the door.)
(Reënter Oliver.)
Oli.
My lord—

Cal.
Yes, yes, she 's dead—I will go in.

[Exit.]
Oli.
O, dreadful ending to a fearful night!
This shock has shattered to the very root
The strength of his great spirit. Mournful night!
And what will day bring forth?—but woe on woe.
Ah, death may rest a while, and hold his hand,
Having destroyed this wondrous paragon,
And sapped a mind whose lightest thought was worth
The concentrated being of a herd.
Yet shall the villain live who wrought this woe?
By heaven I swear, if my lord kill him not,
I, though a scholar and unused to arms,
Will hunt him down—ay, should he course the earth—
And slay him like a felon!
If this be sin, let fiends snap at my soul,
But I will do it! Lo, where comes my lord,
Bent down and withered, like a broken tree,
Prostrate with too much bearing.

(Reënter Calaynos.)
Cal.
Oliver,
I stole to see her; not a soul was there,
Save an old crone that hummed a doleful tune.
And winked her purblind eyes, o'errun with tears.
O, boy, I never knew I loved her so!
I held my breath, and gazed into her face—
Ah, she was wondrous fair. She seemed to me,
Just as I 've often seen her, fast asleep,
When from my studies cautiously I 've stolen,
And bent above her, and drunk up her breath,
Sweet as a sleeping infant's.—Then perchance,
Yet in her sleep, her starry eyes would ope,
To close again behind their fringy clouds,
Ere I caught half their glory. There 's no breath now,
There 's not a perfume on her withered lips,
Her eyes ope not, nor ever will again.—
But tell me how she died. She suffered not?

Oli.
She scarcely woke from her first fainting here;
Or if she did, she gave no sign nor word.
A while she muttered, as if lost in prayer;
Some who stood close thought once they caught thy name;
But grief had dulled my sense, I could not hear.
Then she slid gently to a lethargy;
And so she died—we knew not when she went.

Cal.
Here is the paper which contains her story:
I fain would clear her name, fain think her wronged.
[Reads.]
O, double-dealing villain!—Moor—bought her!
Impious monster—false beyond belief!
But she is guiltless—hear'st thou, Oliver?
Nay, read; I cannot move thee as she can.
[Oliver reads.]
He called me Moor. True, true, I did her wrong:
The sin is mine; I should have told her that.
I only kept it back to save her pain;
I feared to lose respect by telling her.
I see how he could heighten that grave wrong,
And spur her nigh to madness with his taunts.
She fell, was senseless, without life or reason—
Why, tigers spare inanimated forms—
So bore her off. Then lie on lie—O base!
The guilt all mine. Why did I hide my birth?
Ah, who can tell how soon one seed of sin,
Which we short-sighted mortals think destroyed,
May sprout and bear, and shake its noxious fruit
Upon our heads, when we ne'er dream of ill;
For naught that is can ever pass away!

Oli.
And shall this villain live?

Cal.
No, no, by Heaven!
Those fellows on the wall would haunt me then.
I hear your voices, men of crime and blood,
Ring in my ears, and I obey the call.
[Snatches a sword from the wall.]
How precious is the blade which justice wields,
To chasten wrong, or set a wrong to right!
[Draws.]
Come forth, thou minister of bloody deeds,
That blazed a comet in the van of war,
Presaging death to man, and tears to earth!
Pale, gleaming tempter, when I clutch thee thus,
Thou, of thyself, dost plead that murder 's right,
And mak'st me half believe it luxury!
Thy horrid edge is thirsting for man's gore,
And thou shalt drink it from the point to hilt!—
To horse! to horse! the warrior blood is up;
The tiger spirit of my warlike race
Burns in my heart, and floods my kindling veins.—
Mount, Oliver, ere pity's hand can hide
The bloody mist that floats before my eyes—
To horse! to horse! the Moor rides forth to slay!

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II.

A Street in Seville. Enter Don Miguel and Don Lopez, meeting.
Don Lopez.
Whither so fast, Miguel?

Don Miguel.
To join Don Luis
And all his roaring fellows at a feast.
Are you not going? For a modern feast,
The thing will be as well as they know how.
Would the old times might come to us again,
When men drank sherry from a two-quart cup!
Pshaw! if I had my way, I 'd turn time back.
Now, if I drank at this same scurvy feast,
As we of old could drink without a thought,
The weak-brained boys would point their silly thumbs
And ask their host if there the devil dined?
Plague on these times! Give me the jolly days
When men held mighty flagons in one hand,
And with the other grasped their mightier swords—
None of your toasting-forks; a true Toledo,
Edged at each side, and pointed like a spear:
Why, bah! these boys could scarcely lift such blades.
Those were the glorious days of wine and war!

Don Lop.
May all you giants live to drink a tun;
But pardon me about the rapier, sir.

Don M.
O yes, you'll talk of skill, and all that thing;
But 't was more skill to 'scape a swashing blow,
Than all your thrusts, and tierces, and such trash.

Don Lop.
What a cursed shame, to mince a man to death—
To chop him into slices, break his bones,
When a most gentle and well-mannered thrust
Would do as well—

Don M.
To skewer him, like a fowl,
To puncture him, to make him die of pin-stabs:
'T is like the death that poor Duns Scotus died,
Slaughtered with pen-knives.

Don Lop.
Did you hear the news?

Don M.
Whatever 's new is worse than last. What is it?

Don Lop.
The great Calaynos is again in town.
He came with such a pomp of retinue,
With such barbaric wealth, such trains of men—
All clothed like Paynims of the ancient day—
That wide-mouthed burghers thought Granada's peers
Had scaled their graves, to fight for Spain once more.

Don M.
Ay, ay; what would your modern heroes do,
If this were true, and all the Moors had risen;
Headed by that Calaynos, who one day
Rode post to France, to crop the Paladins,
Just for mere love? They 'd drive you in the sea—
'Sblood! but they 'd make you caper!

Don Lop.
This one, sir,
Is greater far than he of ballad note:
A braver man ne'er buckled on a blade;
And then so generous and polite withal.

Don M.
You should have known his grandsire, as I did.
His was a blade would tire your hip to bear,
E'en in its baldric: and he swung it so!
Just as a child would waft about a feather.—
Here was a drinker for you.—By the gods!
A man like him can never come again;
Earth is too base for such. Ah, he was slain,
Stabbed by an upstart coward, o'er his wine.

Don Lop.
Methinks his drinking came to sorry ends.

Don M.
'T was not his drink; 't was a cursed rapier, sir,
Pinned him across the table.—'Sblood, my life!
A manly blade had blushed at such an act.
Adieu, sir; I must leave you.—Pshaw! what times!

[Exit.]
Don Lop.
Adieu, you drunken dotard! Who comes here?
(Enter Calaynos.)
My lord Calaynos, if I know your face?

Calaynos.
Don Lopez—am I right?

Don Lop.
Your servant, sir.

Cal.
Are you sincere?

Don Lop.
My heart cries shame on words.

Cal.
Then you can do me service 'bove all thanks.
There is a man who wronged me in Seville,
And I would kill him. Do you understand?

Don Lop.
Write out the cartel—'t is a pleasure, sir.

Cal.
That have I done long since; an hour ago
I sent it by my secretary.

Don Lop.
Heavens!
My lord, that act is out of every form:
I wash my hands of this; 't is next to murder.

Cal.
Friend, fear not that; you can escape the law.
Last night I made my will, and there I left,
To whom might be my second, gold enough
To build yon palace. 'T is but just I shield
Him whom my deeds involve. What say you, sir?

Don Lop.
Nay, for the love I bear you, I will do it.
How ran the challenge?

Cal.
What can that import?
Defiance to the death ran through each word.

Don Lop.
Such savage terms are out of date and harsh.
Now, I 'd have written a most gentle billet—
As—Señor So-and-so requests the length
Of my lord So-and-so's best tempered blade;
Or any hint, polite and delicate,
Like that. Believe me, sir, a gentleman
May show much blood in wording of a challenge.

Cal.
So I must bow my opposite to death,
Must kill by line and plummet, to 'scape blame.—
Sir, I'm above polite hypocrisy.

Don Lop.
Well, as you please. What is your rapier's length?

Cal.
Here is my sword. [Gives his sword.]


Don Lop.
'T is a most worthy blade;
But near an inch too short: and next the hilt—
Just here, my lord—an eighth or so too broad,
And nigh a pound too heavy. Yet, for all,
A worthy blade, though somewhat out of fashion.
A true Toledo, if I'm not mistaken?

Cal.
Not so: no man can tell its origin;
But divers quaint and wondrous legends hang
Their superstitions on this mystic steel.
Some say that 'mid the globe's eternal fires,
The laboring gnomes, with many an impious spell,
That made earth shake and stagger from her orbit,
Tempered and forged the metal of this blade.

Don Lop.
A wondrous tale, more wonderful if true.

Cal.
I cannot vouch it.

Don Lop.
Ah, I nigh forgot—
Whom do we fight?

Cal.
Don Luis, sir.

Don Lop.
Don Death!
My lord, the man 's a practised duellist;
Has killed more scores than I have met in fight.
He'll name his thrusts, before he strikes a blow,
And put them home, despite your wariest skill.
Then there 's his trick, a sleight he caught in France—
Thus, thus— (Passes.)
—the shrewdest thrust beneath the guard;
'T is fatal as the plague.

Cal.
Enough of this.
We fight within an hour—you'll find me here.

Don Lop.
Your servant, sir.—Adieu!

[Exit.]
Cal.
They 're all the same,
These grinning courtiers, all smiles and bows,
All rules and etiquette. Such are the men
Who have our monarch's ear, and guide his councils.
(Enter Oliver.)
How sad you look!—Did you not find Don Luis?

Oliver.
Ah, yes, my lord, I found him at a feast,
Drinking and roaring, 'mid the wealth you gave.
He spied me out, and in politest terms
Inquired your lordship's health. Then turned again,
And of my lady asked with blandest voice:
No feature moved when I proclaimed her dead.
With that he rose, and, smiling towards his friends,
Proposed your lordship's health. 'T was not in fear,
But at the act I shook, and my chilled blood
Crawled coldly backward on its quivering source,
To see such baseness lodged in human form.
I flung your challenge in the monster's face,
And came to seek you here.

Cal.
The mocking villain!—Well, well, let that go.
I'm nigh to death, or I should hate mankind.

Oli.
O say not so; there may be days of peace—

Cal.
His sword will not rob life of many hours.
When I left home I felt I 'd ne'er return;
All things appeared so mournful to my view.
The old trees shook their dark green heads above,
And waved their branches as if taking leave;
The grass was bending with the morning dew,
And dropped its woful tribute as I passed;
Ay, and the very flowers, the little flowers,
Turned on me their soft eyes o'errun with tears.
When we had gained the pass between the hills,
Whose windings shut my castle from the sight,
I paused to take one last, long look at home.
Alas! the very castle seemed to move,
And beckon sadly in the flickering air;
The old gray turrets wavered to and fro,
Nodding their hoary heads as if in grief.
I could not choose but weep; the man broke down,
And my heart fluttered like a timid girl's.
Ah! since her death, a cloud has crossed the earth,
And everywhere I see it. But thou 'lt return:
Now swear to me, if thou dost love me yet,
To do what I command.

Oli.
I swear, my lord.

Cal.
Thou know'st my latter days have chiefly past
In patient labors of philosophy;
And from my toil a studious book was born,
Whose gathered wisdom was designed for man—
Swear to destroy it!

Oli.
Pray forgive me this;
I cannot, dare not. What, that mighty book
O'er which I 've bent until the stars grew dim,
And morning caught me o'er the magic page;
Forgetful of my task, my pen all dry,
Enrapt in reading what I should have copied?
O, pardon me, my lord; 't would be a crime
Worse than oath-breaking, worse than blasphemy!

Cal.
Didst thou love Doña Alda, Oliver?

Oli.
Past love, my lord; but now I love her more.

Cal.
And wouldst thou see some scribbler drag her name,
Coupled to infamy and red-cheeked shame,
Or slimed with pity of a vulgar mind,
Into the preface of a book you love?—
Wouldst see her live in misery immortal,
Preserved for time coldly to comment on?—
Wouldst have her memory, which you hold so dear,
Bandied about, the scoff and jest of fools?
No, no; before this bitter thing shall be,
Let my name perish from the thoughts of men.

Oli.
And wouldst thou die in very name, my lord?

Cal.
Only in name,—no further can I die.

Oli.
We know not that.

Cal.
Know not! then vain is knowledge.
All nature cries—Whatever is, must be!
Earth's forms may change, but time can ne'er destroy
The smallest atom in the universe;
Much less this life of intellect, the soul,
Whose very form is changeless.—Death is not!
Serene, and calm, and indestructible,
Above the touch of chance, or sin, or time,
On these heaven-scaling attributes shall soar,
In infinite progression towards their source:—
In death is knowledge!

Oli.
I will do it, sir.

Cal.
Enough, I shall die happy. Get thee hence,
And have my servants near the meeting place,
To bear me from the field. But, on their lives,
Let them not interfere till all is o'er;
And should Don Luis kill me, let him pass.

Oli.
They may, but I will not. (Aside.)
I'll see 't is done.

[Exit.]
(Enter Don Lopez.)
Don Lopez.
The terms are all agreed; though, I declare,
I had some trouble with that old Miguel—
He is Don Luis' second. By this light!
He 'd mounted you, with lances in your hands,
To run a tilt like Quixotes. Tell me, sir,
Does the first blood decide the combat o'er.

Calaynos.
The first death, sir, decides this combat o'er.

Don Lop.
Of course, of course; but death is out of date:
'T is not the way we fight in these fair days:
Now gentlemen may fight without a scratch.
I do assure you, sir, that in a duel
Life is as safe as if you sat in church;
You have the honor without fear of harm.—
Will not the first blood do?

Cal.
I'm of a race
Who seldom drew a sword except to kill;
They never bled, like leeches, nor will I:
Death, and not honor, is the thing I wish.
This duel, friend, did not originate
From treading on a toe without excuse.

Don Lop.
'T is out of date; but as you please, my lord.
Have you e'er fought before?

Cal.
No, not of late:
But, in my youth, through Salamanca's school
I fought my way, and lost no credit there.

Don Lop.
Ah, yes; I 've heard, they ever held your blade
The foremost steel in Salamanca's walls:
'T is a good school.—But watch his French device—
The thrust beneath the guard. 'T is nigh the time.

Cal.
Then, sir, lead on. 'T is ne'er too soon for me.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III.

The Fields near Seville. Enter Don Luis and Don Miguel, meeting Calaynos, Don Lopez, and Oliver.
Don Lopez.
Stand here, my lord.

Calaynos.
Let there be no delay.

Don Miguel.
(To Don Luis.)
Stand here, my boy.

Don Luis.
(Aside.)
He 's ill; I'll kill him easily.

(Don Lopez and Don Miguel advance.)
Don Lop.
'T is a fine day, and this a glorious ground.

Don M.
Yes, for a fight with good old-fashioned blades.

Don Lop.
Excuse me, sir, but we must follow custom.

Don M.
Yes, afar off.—Here is Don Luis' skewer.

[Gives the sword.]
Don Lop.
(Measuring.)
'T is full an inch too long.—I sent the measure—
There 's no excuse—they cannot fight to-day.

Don M.
What cares a man against an inch or two?
Bah! on your forms! His grandsire, in his day,
Would draw his dagger 'gainst an ashen spear.

Don Lop.
I have a name, sir, among gentlemen,
Which I'll not hazard on so grave a thing.

Oliver.
(Advancing.)
Why pause you, gentlemen? My lord is ill,
And loses strength by standing such a time.

Don Lop.
Don Luis' blade is full an inch too long.

Oli.
The murderous coward! [Aside.]

[Goes to Calaynos and returns.]
Go on, gentlemen;
If 't is a foot too long, my lord cares not.

Don M.
Said like his grandsire:—there the old blood spoke!

Don Lop.
Well, as he wills; but I again protest—
You'll bear me witness, sir, before the world?

Don M.
Yes, yes. Stand here, my friend.

[To Don Luis.]
Don Lop.
Stand here, my lord.
[To Calaynos.]
Draws, sirs—advance—guard—

Don M.
God defend the right!

Don Lop.
Heavens! what queer phrases has this antique man!
[Aside.]
(Calaynos and Don Luis fight.)
My man fights well.

Don M.
He fights too much for blood:
He'll catch a wound.

Don Lop.
There 's his French trick—I knew it!

(Calaynos is wounded.)
Lopez and Miguel.
Hold, gentlemen!

Cal.
Stand back—beware Calaynos!

Don M.
Thus spoke his grandsire when his blood was up.

Don Lop.
Again!

(Calaynos is wounded.)
Lopez and Miguel.
Hold, gentlemen—forbear, forbear!

(They rush between.)
Don Lop.
Are you not satisfied?

Don Luis.
I am, for one.

Cal.
I came to die, or be that villain's death!—
Stand from between us; or, by heaven's great king,
I'll make a path across your carcasses!

Don Lop.
Well, well, go on—but this is bloody work!

(They fight: Calaynos disarms Don Luis.)
Cal.
Turn dog, and fly!

Don Luis.
Now while I 've legs to stand

Cal.
Down, down, and beg!

Don Luis.
No, never to a Moor!

Cal.
Ha, wretch! [Kills Don Luis.]


(Calaynos staggers and falls.)
Oli.
My lord, you 're wounded.

Cal.
Yes, to death.
Come nearer, son—I have short time to live.—
Why dost thou weep?

Oli.
O, why do I not die?

Cal.
Nay, live, dear Oliver, to think of us—
Of poor, poor Alda, and her buried lord:
Thou 'lt come at sun-down o'er the dewy grass,
And kneel beside us, and thou 'lt pray for her.
Was she not wronged?—but pure, but pure as heaven!

Oli.
Most pure, my lord.

Cal.
O bless thee, for those words!
Come close, my son: thou wert my only friend,
And next to Alda in my heart thou stoodst.
Wilt thou forgive me the harsh words I said,
For that false man—by Heaven's arm smote, not mine?

Oli.
O woe! O woe!—Nay, nay, 't was all my fault.

Cal.
Not so—come nearer. Thou wilt bury me
Next to dear Alda.—Now sweet death draws on:
I feel his icy breath upon my cheek—
The gates of knowledge lift to let me in—
Already, half the mystery of life
Rolls from my soul, like a divided veil!
The secrets of the universe unclose,
And I am filled with light!

Oli.
O, mighty soul!

Cal.
Stand from before me—give me air—I choke.
Next Alda—next my wife—wife—O!

[Dies.]
Oli.
The stony world may smile at broken hearts;
But there lies one cracked to the very core.
(Enter Servants, and group round the body.)
Tread softly—here is death!