University of Virginia Library

Scene III.

A Room in Urrea's House.—Enter Blanca and Violante in travelling dress, meeting.
Blan.
How happy am I that so fair a guest
Honours my house by making it her own,
And me her servant!
To welcome and to wait on Violante
I have thus far intruded.

Viol.
Nay, Donna Blanca,
Mine is the honour and the happiness,
Who, coming thus to Arragon a stranger,
Find such a home and hostess. Pardon me
That I detain you in this ante-room,
My own not ready yet.

Blan.
You come indeed
Before your people look'd for you.

Viol.
But not
Before my wishes, lady, I assure you:
Not minding on the mountains to encounter
Another such a risk.

Blan.
There was a first then?

Viol.
So great that I assure you (and too truly, (aside)

My heart yet beats with it.

Blan.
How was't?

Viol.
Why, thus:
In wishing to escape the noon-day sun,
That seem'd to make both air and land breathe fire,
I lighted from my litter in a spot
That one might almost think the flowers had chosen
To tourney in, so green and smooth the sward
On which they did oppose their varied crests,
So fortified above with closing leaves,
And all encompass'd by a babbling stream.
There we sat down to rest; when suddenly
A company of robbers broke upon us,
And would have done their worst, had not as suddenly
A young and gallant gentleman, their captain,
Arrested them, and kindly—but how now?
Why weep you, Donna Blanca?

Blan.
Weeping, yes,
My sorrows with your own—But to your tale.

Viol.
Nay, why should I pursue it if my trouble
Awake the memory of yours?

Blan.
Your father,
Saw he this youth, this robber cavalier
Who grac'd disgrace so handsomely?

Viol.
Indeed,
And owes his life and honour to him.

Blan.
Oh!
He had aton'd for many a foregone crime
By adding that one more! But I talk wild;
Pardon me, Violante.
I have an anguish ever in my breast
At times will rise, and sting me into madness;
Perhaps you will not wonder when you hear
This robber was my son, my only son,
Whose wicked ways have driv'n him where he is,
From home, and law, and love!

Viol.
Forgive me, lady,
I mind me now—he told us—
But I was too confus'd and terrified
To heed to names. Else credit me—

Enter Urrea and Mendo.
Urr.
Largess! a largess, wife! for bringing you
Joy and good fortune to our house, from which
They have so long been banisht.

Blan.
Long indeed!

Urr.
So long, methinks, that coming all at once
They make me lose my manners. (To Violante.)
This fair hand
Must, as I think it will, my pardon sign;
Inheriting such faculty. Oh, Blanca,
I must not let one ignorant moment slip—
You know not half our joy.
Don Mendo, my old friend, and our now guest,
Grac'd at the very threshold by the King
With the Chief-Justiceship of Arragon,
Points his stern office with an act of mercy,
By pardoning your Lope—whom we now
Shall have once more with us, I trust, for ever.
Oh join with me in thanking him!

Blan.
I am glad,
Don Mendo, that we meet under a roof
Where I can do you honour. For my son,
I must suppose from what your daughter says,
You would, without our further prayer or thanks,
Have done as you have done.

Mend.
Too true—I know—
And you still better, lady—that, all done,
I am your debtor still.

Enter Elvira.
Elv.
Madam, your room is ready.

Viol.
May I then
Retire?

Blan.
If I may wait upon you thither.

Urr.
Nay, nay, 'tis I that as a grey-hair'd page
Must do that office.

Mend.
Granted, on condition
That I may do as much for Donna Blanca.

Viol.
As master of the house, I must submit
Without condition.

[Exeunt Violante and Urrea.
Blan.
You were going, sir?—

Mend.
To wait upon you, Blanca.

Blan.
Nay, Don Mendo,
Least need of that.

Mend.
Oh, Blanca, Heaven knows
How much I have desir'd to talk with you!

Blan.
And to what purpose, sir?
No longer in your power—perhaps, nor will—
To do as well as talk.

Mend.
If but to say
How to my heart it goes seeing you still
As sad as when I left you years ago.

Blan.
“As sad?—as when you left me years ago”—
I understand you not—am not aware
I ever saw you till to-day.

Mend.
Ah, Blanca,
Have pity!

Blan.
Nay, Don Mendo, let us cease
A conversation, uselessly begun,
To end in nothing. If your memory,
Out of some dreamt-of fragments of the past,
Attach to me, the past is dead in time;
Let it be buried in oblivion.

Mend.
Oh, with what courage, Blanca, do you wield
Your ready woman's wit!

Blan.
I know not why
You should say that.

Mend.
But I know.

Blan.
If't be so,
Agree with me to say no more of it.

Mend.
But how?

Blan.
By simple silence.

Mend.
How be silent
Under such pain?

Blan.
By simple suffering.

Mend.
Oh, Blanca, how learn that?

Blan.
Of me—and thus.
Beatrice!

Enter Beatrice.
Beat.
Madam?

Blan.
Light Don Mendo to
His chamber. Thus be further trouble sped.

Mend.
Nay, rather coals of fire heap'd on my head!

[Exeunt severally.