ACT I

Scene I.—Country near Zalamea.

Enter Rebolledo, Chispa, and Soldiers.

Reb. Confound, say I, these forced marches from place to place, without halt or bait; what say you, friends?

All. Amen!

Reb. To be trailed over the country like a pack of gipsies, after a little scrap of flag upon a pole, eh?

1st Soldier. Rebolledo’s off!

Reb. And that infernal drum which has at last been good enough to stop a moment stunning us.

2nd Sold. Come, come, Rebolledo, don’t storm: we shall soon be at Zalamea.

Reb. And where will be the good of that if I’m dead before I get there? And if not, ’twill only be from bad to worse: for if we all reach the place alive, as sure as death up comes Mr. Mayor to persuade the Commissary we had better march on to the next town. At first Mr. Commissary replies very virtuously, ‘Impossible! the men are fagged to death.’ But after a little pocket persuasion, then it’s all ‘Gentlemen, I’m very sorry: but orders have come for us to march forward, and immediately’—and away we have to trot, foot weary, dust bedraggled, and starved as we are. Well, I swear if I do get alive to Zalamea to-day, I’ll not leave it on this side o’ sun-rise for love, lash, or money. It won’t be the first time in my life I’ve given ’em the slip.

1st Sold. Nor the first time a poor fellow has had the slip given him for doing so. And more likely than ever now that Don Lope de Figueroa has taken the command, a fine brave fellow they say, but a devil of a Tartar, who’ll have every inch of duty done, or take the change out of his own son, without waiting for trial either.[9]

Reb. Listen to this now, gentlemen! By Heaven, I’ll be beforehand with him.

2nd Sold. Come, come, a soldier shouldn’t talk so.

Reb. I tell you it isn’t for myself I care so much, as for this poor little thing that follows me.

Chis. Signor Rebolledo, don’t you fret about me; you know I was born with a beard on my heart if not on my chin, if ever girl was; and your fearing for me is as bad as if I was afeard myself. Why, when I came along with you I made up my mind to hardship and danger for honour’s sake; else if I’d wanted to live in clover, I never should have left the Alderman who kept such a table as all Aldermen don’t, I promise you. Well, what’s the odds? I chose to leave him and follow the drum, and here I am, and if I don’t flinch, why should you?

Reb. ’Fore Heaven, you’re the crown of womankind!

Soldiers. So she is, so she is, Viva la Chispa!

Reb. And so she is, and one cheer more for her, hurrah! especially if she’ll give us a song to lighten the way.

Chis. The castanet shall answer for me.

Reb. I’ll join in—and do you, comrades, bear a hand in the chorus.

Soldiers. Fire away!

Chispa sings.

1st Sold. Look, look, comrades—what between singing and grumbling we never noticed yonder church among the trees.

Reb. Is that Zalamea?

Chis. Yes, that it is, I know the steeple. Hurrah! we’ll finish the song when we get into quarters, or have another as good; for you know I have ’em of all sorts and sizes.

Reb. Halt a moment, here’s the sergeant.

2nd Sold. And the captain too.

Enter Captain and Sergeant.

Capt. Good news, gentlemen, no more marching for to-day at least; we halt at Zalamea till Don Lope joins with the rest of the regiment from Llerena. So who knows but you may have a several days’ rest here?

Reb. and Solds. Huzzah for our captain!

Capt. Your quarters are ready, and the Commissary will give every one his billet on marching in.

Chis. (singing). Now then for

[Exit with Soldiers.

Capt. Well, Mr. Sergeant, have you my billet?

Serg. Yes, sir.

Capt. And where am I to put up?

Serg. With the richest man in Zalamea, a farmer, as proud as Lucifer’s heir-apparent.

Capt. Ah, the old story of an upstart.

Serg. However, sir, you have the best quarters in the place, including his daughter, who is, they say, the prettiest woman in Zalamea.

Capt. Pooh! a pretty peasant! splay hands and feet.

Serg. Shame! shame!

Capt. Isn’t it true, puppy?

Serg. What would a man on march have better than a pretty country lass to toy with?

Capt. Well, I never saw one I cared for, even on march. I can’t call a woman a woman unless she’s clean about the hands and fetlocks, and otherwise well appointed—a lady in short.

Serg. Well, any one for me who’ll let me kiss her. Come, sir, let us be going, for if you won’t be at her, I will.

Capt. Look, look, yonder!

Serg. Why, it must be Don Quixote himself with his very Rosinante too, that Michel Cervantes writes of.

Capt. And his Sancho at his side. Well, carry you my kit on before to quarters, and then come and tell me when all’s ready.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.—Zalamea, before Crespo’s House.

Enter Don Mendo and NuÑo.

Men. How’s the gray horse?

NuÑ. You may as well call him the Dun; so screw’d he can’t move a leg.

Men. Did you have him walk’d gently about?

NuÑ. Walk’d about! when it’s corn he wants, poor devil!

Men. And the dogs?

NuÑ. Ah, now, they might do if you’d give them the horse to eat.

Men. Enough, enough—it has struck three. My gloves and tooth-pick!

NuÑ. That sinecure tooth-pick!

Men. I tell you I would brain anybody who insinuated to me I had not dined—and on game too. But tell me, NuÑo, haven’t the soldiers come into Zalamea this afternoon?

NuÑ. Yes, sir.

Men. What a nuisance for the commonalty who have to quarter them!

NuÑ. But worse for those who haven’t.

Men. What do you mean, sir?

NuÑ. I mean the squires. Ah, sir; if the soldiers aren’t billeted on them, do you know why?

Men. Well, why?

NuÑ. For fear of being starved—which would be a bad job for the king’s service.

Men. God rest my father’s soul, says I, who left me a pedigree and patent all blazon’d in gold and azure, that exempts me from such impositions.

NuÑ. I wish he’d left you the gold in a more available shape, however.

Men. Though indeed when I come to think of it, I don’t know if I owe him any thanks; considering that unless he had consented to beget me an Hidalgo at once, I wouldn’t have been born at all, for him or any one.

NuÑ. Humph! Could you have help’d it?

Men. Easily.

NuÑ. How, sir?

Men. You must know that every one that is born is the essence of the food his parents eat.

NuÑ. Oh! Your parents did eat then, sir? You have not inherited that of them, at all events.

Men. Which forthwith converts itself into proper flesh and blood—ergo, if my father had been an eater of onions, for instance, he would have begotten me with a strong breath; on which I should have said to him, ‘Hold, I must come of no such nastiness as that, I promise you.’

NuÑ. Ah, now I see the old saying is true.

Men. What is that?

NuÑ. That hunger sharpens wit.

Men. Knave, do you insinuate—

NuÑ. I only know it is now three o’clock, and we have neither of us yet had any thing but our own spittle to chew.

Men. Perhaps so, but there are distinctions of rank. An Hidalgo, sir, has no belly.

NuÑ. Oh Lord! that I were an Hidalgo!

Men. Possibly; servants must learn moderation in all things. But let me hear no more of the matter; we are under Isabel’s window.

NuÑ. There again—If you are so devoted an admirer, why on earth, sir, don’t you ask her in marriage of her father? by doing which you would kill two birds with one stone; get yourself something to eat, and his grandchildren squires.

Men. Hold your tongue, sir, it is impious. Am I, an Hidalgo with such a pedigree, to demean myself with a plebeian connexion just for money’s sake?

NuÑ. Well, I’ve always heard say a mean father-in-law is best; better stumble on a pebble than run your head against a post. But, however, if you don’t mean marriage, sir, what do you mean?

Men. And pray, sir, can’t I dispose of her in a convent in case I get tired of her? But go directly, and tell me if you can get a sight of her.

NuÑ. I’m afraid lest her father should get a sight of me.

Men. And what if he do, being my man? Go and do as I bid you.

NuÑ. (after going to look). Come, sir, you owe one meal at least now—she’s at the window with her cousin.

Men. Go again, and tell her something about her window being another East, and she a second Sun dawning from it in the afternoon.

(Isabel and Ines come to the window.)

Ines. For heaven’s sake, cousin, let’s stand here and see the soldiers march in.

Isab. Not I, while that man is in the way, Ines; you know how I hate the sight of him.

Ines. With all his devotion to you!

Isab. I wish he would spare himself and me the trouble.

Ines. I think you are wrong to take it as an affront.

Isab. How would you have me take it?

Ines. Why, as a compliment.

Isab. What, when I hate the man?

Men. Ah! ’pon the honour of an Hidalgo, (which is a sacred oath,) I could have sworn that till this moment the sun had not risen. But why should I wonder? when indeed a second Aurora—

Isab. Signor Don Mendo, how often have I told you not to waste your time playing these fool’s antics before my window day after day!

Men. If a pretty woman only knew, la! how anger improved its beauty! her complexion needs no other paint than indignation. Go on, go on, lovely one, grow angrier, and lovelier still.

Isab. You shan’t have even that consolation; come, Ines.

[Exit.

Ines. Beware of the portcullis, sir knight.

(Shuts down the blind in his face.)

Men. Ines, beauty must be ever victorious, whether advancing or in retreat.

Enter Crespo.

Cres. That I can never go in or out of my house without that squireen haunting it!

NuÑ. Pedro Crespo, sir!

Men. Oh—ah—let us turn another way; ’tis an ill-conditioned fellow.

As he turns, enter Juan.

Juan. That I never can come home but this ghost of an Hidalgo is there to spoil my appetite.

NuÑ. His son, sir!

Men. He’s worse. (Turning back.) Oh, Pedro Crespo, good day, Crespo, good man, good day.

[Exit with NuÑo.

Cres. Good day indeed; I’ll make it bad day one of these days with you, if you don’t take care. But how now, Juanito, my boy?

Juan. I was looking for you, sir, but could not find you; where have you been?

Cres.

Juan. Alas, sir, I can’t answer in so good rhyme or reason. I have been playing at fives, and lost every bout.

Cres. What signifies if you paid?

Juan. But I could not, and have come to you for the money.

Cres.

Juan. Good advice, sir, no doubt, that I shall lay by for its own sake as well as for yours. Meanwhile, I have also heard say,

Cres. ’Fore Heaven, thou pay’st me in my own coin. But—

Enter Sergeant.

Serg. Pray, does one Pedro Crespo live hereabout?

Cres. Have you any commands for him, if he does?

Serg. Yes, to tell him of the arrival of Don Alvaro de Ataide, captain of the troop that has just marcht into Zalamea, and quartered upon him.

Cres. Say no more; my house and all I have is ever at the service of the king, and of all who have authority under him. If you will leave his things here, I will see his room is got ready directly; and do you tell his Honour that, come when he will, he shall find me and mine at his service.

Serg. Good—he will be here directly.

[Exit.

Juan. I wonder, father, that, rich as you are, you still submit yourself to these nuisances.

Cres. Why, boy, how could I help them?

Juan. You know; by buying a patent of Gentility.

Cres. A patent of Gentility! upon thy life now dost think there’s a soul who doesn’t know that I’m no gentleman at all, but just a plain farmer? What’s the use of my buying a patent of Gentility, if I can’t buy the gentle blood along with it! will any one think me a bit more of a gentleman for buying fifty patents? Not a whit; I should only prove I was worth so many thousand royals, not that I had gentle blood in my veins, which can’t be bought at any price. If a fellow’s been bald ever so long, and buys him a fine wig, and claps it on; will his neighbours think it is his own hair a bit the more? No, they will say, ‘So and so has a fine wig; and, what’s more, he must have paid handsomely for it too.’ But they know his bald pate is safe under it all the while. That’s all he gets by it.

Juan. Nay, sir, he gets to look younger and handsomer, and keeps off sun and cold.

Cres. Tut! I’ll have none of your wig honour at any price. My grandfather was a farmer, so was my father, so is yours, and so shall you be after him. Go, call your sister.

Enter Isabel and Ines.

Oh, here she is. Daughter, our gracious king (whose life God save these thousand years!) is on his way to be crowned at Lisbon; thither the troops are marching from all quarters, and among others that fine veteran Flanders regiment, commanded by the famous Don Lope de Figueroa, will march into Zalamea, and be quartered here to-day; some of the soldiers in my house. Is it not as well you should be out of the way?

Isab. Sir, ’twas upon this very errand I came to you, knowing what nonsense I shall have to hear if I stay below. My cousin and I can go up to the garret, and there keep so close, the very sun shall not know of our whereabout.

Cres. That’s my good girl. Juanito, you wait here to receive them in case they come while I am out looking after their entertainment.

Isab. Come, Ines.

[Exeunt.

Enter Captain and Sergeant.

Serg. This is the house, sir.

Capt. Is my kit come?

Serg. Yes, sir, and (aside) I’ll be the first to take an inventory of the pretty daughter.

[Exit.

Juan. Welcome, sir, to our house; we count it a great honour to have such a cavalier as yourself for a guest, I assure you. (Aside.) What a fine fellow! what an air! I long to try the uniform, somehow.

Capt. Thank you, my lad.

Juan. You must forgive our poor house, which we devoutly wish was a palace for your sake. My father is gone after your supper, sir; may I go and see that your chamber is got ready for you?

Capt. Thank you, thank you.

Juan. Your servant, sir.

[Exit.

Enter Sergeant.

Capt. Well, sergeant, where’s the Dulcinea you told me of?

Serg. Deuce, take me, sir, if I haven’t been looking everywhere in parlour, bed-room, kitchen, and scullery, up-stairs and down-stairs, and can’t find her out.

Capt. Oh, no doubt the old fellow has hid her away for fear of us.

Serg. Yes, I ask’d a serving wench, and she confess’d her master had lock’d the girl up in the attic, with strict orders not even to look out so long as we were in the place.

Capt. Ah! these clodpoles are all so jealous of the service. And what is the upshot? Why, I, who didn’t care a pin to see her before, shall never rest till I get at her now.

Serg. But how, without a blow-up?

Capt. Let me see; how shall we manage it?

Serg. The more difficult the enterprise, the more glory in success, you know, in love as in war.

Capt. I have it!

Serg. Well, sir?

Capt. You shall pretend—but no, here comes one will serve my turn better.

Enter Rebolledo and Chispa.

Reb. (to Chispa). There he is; now if I can get him into a good humour—

Chis. Speak up then, like a man.

Reb. I wish I’d some of your courage; but don’t you leave me while I tackle him. Please your Honour—

Capt. (to Sergeant). I tell you I’ve my eye on Rebolledo to do him a good turn; I like his spirit.

Serg. Ah, he’s one of a thousand.

Reb. (aside). Here’s luck! Please your Honour—

Capt. Oh, Rebolledo—Well, Rebolledo, what is it?

Reb. You may know I am a gentleman who has, by ill luck, lost all his estate; all that ever I had, have, shall have, may have, or can have, through all the conjugation of the verb ‘to have.’ And I want your Honour—

Capt. Well?

Reb. To desire the ensign to appoint me roulette-master to the regiment, so I may pay my liabilities like a man of honour.

Capt. Quite right, quite right; I will see it done.

Chis. Oh, brave captain! Oh, if I only live to hear them all call me Madam Roulette!

Reb. Shall I go at once and tell him?

Capt. Wait. I want you first to help me in a little plan I have.

Reb. Out with it, noble captain. Slow said slow sped, you know.

Capt. You are a good fellow; listen. I want to get into that attic there, for a particular purpose.

Reb. And why doesn’t your Honour go up at once?

Capt. I don’t like to do it in a strange house without an excuse. Now look here; you and I will pretend to quarrel; I get angry and draw my sword, and you run away up-stairs, and I after you, to the attic, that’s all; I’ll manage the rest.

Chis. Ah, we get on famously.

Reb. I understand. When are we to begin?

Capt. Now directly.

Reb. Very good. (In a loud voice.) This is the reward of my services—a rascal, a pitiful scoundrel, is preferred, when a man of honour—a man who has seen service—

Chis. Halloa! Rebolledo up! All is not so well.

Reb. Who has led you to victory—

Capt. This language to me, sir!

Reb. Yes, to you, who have so grossly insulted and defrauded—

Capt. Silence! and think yourself lucky if I take no further notice of your insolence.

Reb. If I restrain myself, it is only because you are my captain, and as such—but ’fore God, if my cane were in my hand—

Chis. (advancing). Hold! Hold!

Capt. I’ll show you, sir, how to talk to me in this way.

(Draws his sword.)

Reb. It is before your commission, not you, I retreat.

Capt. That shan’t save you, rascal!

(Pursues Rebolledo out.)

Chis. Oh, I shan’t be Madam Roulette after all. Murder! murder!

[Exit, calling.

Scene III.—Isabel’s Garret. Isabel and Ines.

Isab. What noise is that on the stairs?

Enter Rebolledo.

Reb. Sanctuary! Sanctuary!

Isab. Who are you, sir?

Enter Captain.

Capt. Where is the rascal?

Isab. A moment, sir! This poor man has flown to our feet for protection; I appeal to you for it; and no man, and least of all an officer, will refuse that to any woman.

Capt. I swear no other arm than that of beauty, and beauty such as yours, could have withheld me. (To Rebolledo.) You may thank the deity that has saved you, rascal.

Isab. And I thank you, sir.

Capt. And yet ungratefully slay me with your eyes in return for sparing him with my sword.

Isab. Oh, sir, do not mar the grace of a good deed by poor compliment, and so make me less mindful of the real thanks I owe you.

Capt. Wit and modesty kiss each other, as well they may, in that lovely face. (Kneels.)

Isab. Heavens! my father!

Enter Crespo and Juan with swords.

Cres. How is this, sir? I am alarmed by cries of murder in my house—am told you have pursued a poor man up to my daughter’s room; and, when I get here expecting to find you killing a man, I find you courting a woman.

Capt. We are all born subjects to some dominion—soldiers especially to beauty. My sword, though justly raised against this man, as justly fell at this lady’s bidding.

Cres. No lady, sir, if you please; but a plain peasant girl—my daughter.

Juan (aside). All a trick to get at her. My blood boils. (Aloud to Captain.) I think, sir, you might have seen enough of my father’s desire to serve you to prevent your requiting him by such an affront as this.

Cres. And, pray, who bid thee meddle, boy? Affront! what affront? The soldier affronted his captain; and if the captain has spared him for thy sister’s sake, pray what hast thou to say against it?

Capt. I think, young man, you had best consider before you impute ill intention to an officer.

Juan. I know what I know.

Cres. What! you will go on, will you?

Capt. It is out of regard for you I do not chastise him.

Cres. Wait a bit; if that were wanting, ’twould be from his father, not from you.

Juan. And, what’s more, I wouldn’t endure it from any one but my father.

Capt. You would not?

Juan. No! death rather than such dishonour!

Capt. What, pray, is a clodpole’s idea of honour?

Juan. The same as a captain’s—no clodpole no captain, I can tell you.

Capt. ’Fore Heaven, I must punish this insolence. (About to strike him.)

Cres. You must do it through me, then.

Reb. Eyes right!—Don Lope!

Capt. Don Lope!

Enter Don Lope.

Lope. How now? A riot the very first thing I find on joining the regiment? What is it all about?

Capt. (aside). Awkward enough!

Cres. (aside). By the lord, the boy would have held his own with the best of ’em.

Lope. Well! No one answer me? ’Fore God, I’ll pitch the whole house, men, women, and children, out of windows, if you don’t tell me at once. Here have I had to trail up your accursed stairs, and then no one will tell me what for.

Cres. Nothing, nothing at all, sir.

Lope. Nothing? that would be the worst excuse of all: but swords aren’t drawn for nothing; come, the truth?

Capt. Well, the simple fact is this, Don Lope; I am quartered upon this house; and one of my soldiers—

Lope. Well, sir, go on.

Capt. Insulted me so grossly I was obliged to draw my sword on him. He ran up here where it seems these two girls live; and I, not knowing there was any harm, after him; at which these men, their father or brother, or some such thing, take affront. This is the whole business.

Lope. I am just come in time then to settle it. First, who is the soldier that began it with an act of insubordination?

Reb. What, am I to pay the piper?

Isab. (pointing to Reb.). This, sir, was the man who ran up first.

Lope. This? handcuff him!

Reb. Me! my lord?

Capt. (aside to Reb.). Don’t blab, I’ll bear you harmless.

Reb. Oh, I dare say, after being marcht off with my hands behind me like a coward. Noble commander, ’twas the captain’s own doing; he made me pretend a quarrel, that he might get up here to see the women.

Cres. I had some cause for quarrel, you see.

Lope. Not enough to peril the peace of the town for. Halloa there! beat all to quarters on pain of death. And, to prevent further ill blood here, do you (to the Captain) quarter yourself elsewhere till we march. I’ll stop here.

Capt. I shall of course obey you, sir.

Cres. (to Isabel). Get you in. (Exeunt Isab. and Ines.) I really ought to thank you heartily for coming just as you did, sir; else, I’d done for myself.

Lope. How so?

Cres. I should have killed this popinjay.

Lope. What, sir, a captain in his Majesty’s service?

Cres. Ay, a general, if he insulted me.

Lope. I tell you, whoever lays his little finger on the humblest private in the regiment, I’ll hang him.

Cres. And I tell you, whoever points his little finger at my honour, I’ll cut him down before hanging.

Lope. Know you not, you are bound by your allegiance to submit?

Cres. To all cost of property, yes; but of honour, no, no, no! My goods and chattels, ay, and my life—are the king’s; but my honour is my own soul’s, and that is—God Almighty’s!

Lope. ’Fore God, there’s some truth in what you say.

Cres. ’Fore God, there ought to be, for I’ve been some years saying it.

Lope. Well, well. I’ve come a long way, and this leg of mine (which I wish the devil who gave it would carry away with him!) cries for rest.

Cres. And who prevents its taking some? the same devil I suppose, who gave you your leg, gave me a bed (which I don’t want him to take away again, however) on which your leg may lie if it like.

Lope. But did the devil, when he was about it, make your bed as well as give it?

Cres. To be sure he did.

Lope. Then I’ll unmake it—Heaven knows I’m weary enough.

Cres. Heaven rest you then.

Lope. (aside). Devil or saint alike he echoes me.

Cres. (aside). I and Don Lope never shall agree.

ACT II

Scene I.—In Zalamea.

Enter Don Mendo and NuÑo.

Men. Who told you all this?

NuÑ. Ginesa, her wench.

Men. That, whether that riot in the house were by accident or design, the captain has ended by being really in love with Isabel.

NuÑ. So as he has as little of comfort in his quarters as we of eatable in ours—ever under her window, sending her messages and tokens by a nasty little soldier of his.

Men. Enough, enough of your poisoned news.

NuÑ. Especially on an empty stomach.

Men. Be serious, NuÑo. And how does Isabel answer him?

NuÑ. As she does you. Bless you, she’s meat for your masters.

Men. Rascal! This to me! (Strikes him.)

NuÑ. There! two of my teeth you’ve knockt out, I believe: to be sure they weren’t of much use in your service.

Men. By Heaven, I’ll do so to that captain, if—

NuÑ. Take care, he’s coming, sir.

Men. (aside to NuÑo). This duel shall be now—though night be advancing on—before discretion come to counsel milder means. Come, and help me arm.

NuÑ. Lord bless me, sir, what arms have you got except the coat over the door?

Men. In my armoury I doubt not are some pieces of my ancestors that will fit their descendant.

[Exeunt.

Enter Captain, Sergeant, and Rebolledo.

Capt. I tell you my love is not a fancy; but a passion, a tempest, a volcano.

Serg. What a pity it is you ever set eyes on the girl!

Capt. What answer did the servant give you?

Serg. Nay, sir, I have told you.

Capt. That a country wench should stand upon her virtue as if she were a lady!

Serg. This sort of girls, captain, don’t understand gentlemen’s ways. If a strapping lout in their own line of life courted them in their own way, they’d hear and answer quick enough. Besides, you really expect too much, that a decent woman should listen after one day’s courtship to a lover who is perhaps to leave her to-morrow.

Capt. And to-day’s sun setting!

Serg. Your own love too, but from one glance—

Capt. Is not one spark enough for gunpowder?

Serg. You too, who would have it no country girl could be worth a day’s courtship!

Capt. Alas, ’twas that was my ruin—running unawares upon a rock. I thought only to see a splay-footed gawky, and found a goddess. Ah, Rebolledo, could you but get me one more sight of her!

Reb. Well, captain, you have done me one good turn, and though you had like to run me into danger, I don’t mind venturing again for you.

Capt. But how? how?

Reb. Well, now, look here. We’ve a man in the regiment with a fair voice, and my little Chispa—no one like her for a flash song. Let’s serenade at the girl’s window; she must, in courtesy or curiosity, look out; and then—

Capt. But Don Lope is there, and we mustn’t wake him.

Reb. Don Lope? When does he ever get asleep with that leg of his, poor fellow? Besides, you can mix along with us in disguise, so as at least you won’t come into question.

Capt. Well, there is but this chance, if it be but a faint one; for if we should march to-morrow!—come, let us set about it; it being, as you say, between ourselves that I have any thing to do with it.

[Exeunt Captain and Sergeant.

Enter Chispa.

Chis. He’s got it, at any rate.

Reb. What’s the matter now, Chispa?

Chis. Oh, I mark’d his face for him.

Reb. What, a row?

Chis. A fellow there who began to ask questions as to my fair play at roulette—when I was all as fair as day too—I answered him with this. (Showing a knife.) Well, he’s gone to the barber’s to get it dressed.

Reb. You still stand kicking when I want to get to the fair. I wanted you with your castanets, not your knife.

Chis. Pooh! one’s as handy as the other. What’s up now?

Reb. Come with me to quarters; I’ll tell you as we go along.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.—A trellis of Vines in Crespo’s garden.

Enter Crespo and Don Lope.

Cres. Lay the table here. (To Lope.) You’ll relish your supper here in the cool, sir. These hot August days at least bring their cool nights by way of excuse.

Lope. A mighty pleasant parlour this!

Cres. Oh, a little strip my daughter amuses herself with; sit down, sir. In place of the fine voices and instruments you are used to, you must put up with only the breeze playing on the vine leaves in concert with the little fountain yonder. Even the birds (our only musicians) are gone to bed, and wouldn’t sing any the more if I were to wake them. Come, sit down, sir, and try to ease that poor leg of yours.

Lope. I wish to heaven I could.

Cres. Amen!

Lope. Well, I can at least bear it. Sit down, Crespo.

Cres. Thank you, sir. (Hesitating.)

Lope. Sit down, sit down, pray.

Cres. Since you bid me then, you must excuse my ill manners. (Sits.)

Lope. Humph! Do you know, I am thinking, Crespo, that yesterday’s riot rather overset your good ones.

Cres. Ay?

Lope. Why how else is it that you, whom I can scarce get to sit down at all to-day, yesterday plump’d yourself down at once, and in the big chair too?

Cres. Simply because yesterday you didn’t ask me. To-day you are courteous, and I am shy.

Lope. Yesterday you were all thistle and hedgehog; to-day as soft as silk.

Cres. It is only because you yourself were so. I always answer in the key I’m spoken to; yesterday you were all out of tune, and so was I. It is my principle to swear with the swearer, and pray with the saint; all things to all men. So much so as I declare to you your bad leg kept me awake all night. And, by the by, I wish, now we are about it, you would tell me which of your legs it is that ails you: for, not knowing, I was obliged to make sure by swearing at both of mine: and one at a time is quite enough.

Lope. Well, Pedro, you will perhaps think I have some reason for my tetchiness, when I tell you that for thirty years during which I have served in the Flemish wars through summer’s sun, and winter’s frost, and enemy’s bullets, I have never known what it is to be an hour without pain.

Cres. God give you patience to bear it!

Lope. Pish! can’t I give it myself?

Cres. Well, let him leave you alone then!

Lope. Devil take patience!

Cres. Ah, let him! he wants it; only it’s too good a job for him.

Enter Juan with Table, etc.

Juan. Supper, sir!

Lope. But what are my people about, not to see to all this?

Cres. Pardon my having been so bold to tell them I and my family would wait upon you, so, as I hope, you shall want for nothing.

Lope. On one condition then, that as you have no fear of your company now, your daughter may join us at supper.

Cres. Juan, bid your sister come directly.

[Exit Juan.

Lope. My poor health may quiet all suspicion on that score, I think.

Cres. Sir, if you were as lusty as I wish you, I should have no fear. I bid my daughter keep above while the regiment was here because of the nonsense soldiers usually talk to girls. If all were gentlemen like you, I should be the first to make her wait on them.

Lope (aside). The cautious old fellow!

Enter Juan, Isabel, and Ines.

Isab. (to Crespo). Your pleasure, sir?

Cres. It is Don Lope’s, who honours you by bidding you to sup with him.

Lope (aside). What a fair creature!—Nay, ’tis I that honour myself by the invitation.

Isab. Let me wait upon you.

Lope. Indeed no, unless waiting upon me mean supping with me.

Cres. Sit down, sit down, girl, as Don Lope desires you.

[They sit at table. Guitar heard within.

Lope. Music too!

Cres. None of ours. It must be some of your soldiers, Don Lope.

Lope. Ah, Crespo, the troubles and dangers of war must have a little to sweeten them betimes. The uniform sits very tight, and must be let out every now and then.

Juan. Yet ’tis a fine life, sir.

Lope. Do you think you would like to follow it?

Juan. If I might at your Excellency’s side.

Lope (aside). Pebbles thrown up at the window too! But I’ll say nothing, for all sakes. (Aloud.) What foolery!

Cres. Boys! Boys! (Aside.) To call her very name too! If it weren’t for Don Lope—

Juan (going). I’ll teach them—

Cres. Holloa, lad, whither away?

Juan. To see for a dish—

Cres. They’ll see after that. Sit still where thou art.

Isab. (aside). How have I deserved this?

Lope (knocking over his chair). This is not to be borne!

Cres. (upsetting the table). No more it is!

Lope. I meant my leg.

Cres. And I mine.

Lope. I can eat no more, and will to bed.

Cres. Very good: so will I.

Lope. Good-night, good-night, to you all.

All. Good-night, sir.

Lope (aside). I’ll see to them.

[Exit.

Cres. (aside). I’ll shut the girls up, and then look after ’em. (Aloud.) Come, to bed. (To Juan) Holloa, lad, again! This is the way to thy room, is it not?

[Exeunt severally.

Scene III.—Outside Crespo’s House.

The Captain, Sergeant, Rebolledo, Chispa, etc., with guitars. At one corner, Mendo in old armour, with NuÑo, observing them. It is dark.

Men. (aside to NuÑo). You see this?

NuÑ. And hear it.

Men. I am bloodily minded to charge into them at once, and disperse them into chaos; but I will see if she is guilty of answering them by a sign.

Capt. No glance from the window yet!

Reb. Who’d stir for a sentimental love song? Come, Chispa, you can give us one that would make her look out of the grave.

Chis. Here am I on my pedestal. Now for it. (She sings.)

Reb. Asonante to ‘happen’ you know.

Chis. Don’t put me out, Rebolledo—— (Sings.)

(During Chorus, Don Lope and Crespo have entered at different sides with swords, and begin to lay about them.)

(The soldiers are driven off.)

Lope. Well, we’re quit of them, except one. But I’ll soon settle him.

Cres. One still hanging about. Off with you!

Lope. Off with you, rascal! (They fight.) By Heaven, he fights well!

Cres. By Heaven, a handy chap at his tool!

Enter Juan with sword and torch.

Juan. Where is Don Lope?

Lope. Crespo!

Cres. Don Lope!

Lope. To be sure, didn’t you say you were going to bed?

Cres. And didn’t you?

Lope. This was my quarrel, not yours.

Cres. Very well, and I come out to help you in it.

Re-enter Captain and Soldiers with swords.

1st Sold. We’ll soon settle them.

Capt. Don Lope!

Lope. Yes, Don Lope. What is all this, sir?

Capt. The soldiers were singing and playing in the street, sir, doing no offence to any one, but were set upon by some of the town’s people, and I came to stop the riot.

Lope. You have done well, Don Alvaro, I know your prudence; however, as there is a grudge on both sides, I shall not visit the town’s people this time with further severity; but, for the sake of all parties, order the regiment to march from Zalamea to-morrow—nay, to-day, for it is now dawn. See to it, sir: and let me hear of no such disgraceful riots hereafter.

Capt. I shall obey your orders, sir.

[Exit with soldiers, etc.

Cres. (aside). Don Lope is a fine fellow! we shall cog together after all.

Lope (to Crespo and Juan). You two keep with me, and don’t be found alone.

[Exeunt.

Re-enter Mendo, and NuÑo wounded.

Men. ’Tis only a scratch.

NuÑ. A scratch? Well, I could well have spared that.

Men. Ah, what is it compared to the wound in my heart!

NuÑ. I would gladly exchange for all that.

Men. Well, he did lay upon your head handsomely, didn’t he?

NuÑ. Ah, and on my tail too; while you, under that great shield of yours,—

(Drum.)

Men. Hark! what’s that?

NuÑ. The soldiers’ reveille. I heard say they were to leave Zalamea to-day.

Men. I am glad of it, since they’ll carry that detestable captain off with them at all events.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.—Outside Zalamea.

Enter Captain, Sergeant, Rebolledo, and Chispa.

Capt. March you on, Sergeant, with the troop. I shall lie here till sun-down, and then steal back to Zalamea for one last chance.

Serg. If you are resolved on this, sir, you had better do it well attended, for these bumpkins are dangerous, once affronted.

Reb. Where, however, (and you ought to tip me for my news,) you have one worst enemy the less.

Capt. Who’s that?

Reb. Isabel’s brother. Don Lope and the lad took a fancy to each other and have persuaded the old father to let him go for a soldier; and I have only just met him as proud as a peacock, with all the sinew of the swain and the spirit of the soldier already about him.

Capt. All works well; there is now only the old father at home, who can easily be disposed of. It only needs that he who brought me this good news help me to use it.

Reb. Me do you mean, sir? So I will, to the best of my power.

Capt. Good; you shall go with me.

Serg. But if Don Lope should happen on you?

Capt. He is himself obliged to set off to Guadalupe this evening, as the king is already on the road. This I heard from himself when I went to take his orders. Come with me, Sergeant, and settle about the troops marching, and then for my own campaign.

[Exeunt Captain and Sergeant.

Chis. And what am I to do, Rebolledo, meanwhile? I shan’t be safe alone with that fellow whose face I sent to be stitcht by the barber.

Reb. Ah, how to manage about that? You wouldn’t dare go with us?

Chis. Not in petticoats; but in the clothes of that run-away stable boy? I can step into them free of expense.

Reb. That’s a brave girl.

Chis. (singing).

[Exeunt.

Scene V.—Crespo’s Garden Porch.

Don Lope, Crespo, Juan.

Lope. I have much to thank you for, Crespo, but for nothing so much as for giving me your son for a soldier. I do thank you for that with all my heart.

Cres. I am proud he should be your servant.

Lope. The king’s! the king’s—my friend. I took a fancy to him from the first for his spirit and affection to the service.

Juan. And I will follow you to the world’s end, ] sir.

Cres. Though you must make allowance for his awkwardness at first, sir, remembering he has only had ploughmen for teachers, and plough and pitchforks for books.

Lope. He needs no apology. And now the sun’s heat abates towards his setting, I will be off.

Juan. I will see for the litter.

[Exit.

Enter Isabel and Ines.

Isab. You must not go, sir, without our adieu.

Lope. I would not have done so; nor without asking pardon for much that is past, and even for what I am now about to do. But remember, fair Isabel, ’tis not the price of the gift, but the good will of the giver makes its value. This brooch, though of diamond, becomes poor in your hands, and yet I would fain have you wear it in memory of Don Lope.

Isab. I take it ill you should wish to repay us for an entertainment—

Lope. No, no, no repayment; that were impossible if I wished it. A free keepsake of regard.

Isab. As such I receive it then, sir. Ah, may I make bold to commit my brother to your kindness?

Lope. Indeed, indeed, you may rely on me.

Enter Juan.

Juan. The litter is ready.

Lope. Adieu, then, all.

All. Adieu, adieu, sir.

Lope. Ha, Peter! who, judging from our first meeting, could have prophesied we should part such good friends?

Cres. I could, sir, had I but known—

Lope (going). Well?

Cres. That you were at once as good as crazy. (Exit Lope.) And now, Juan, before going, let me give thee a word of advice in presence of thy sister and cousin; thou and thy horse will easily overtake Don Lope, advice and all. By God’s grace, boy, thou comest of honourable if of humble stock; bear both in mind, so as neither to be daunted from trying to rise, nor puffed up so as to be sure to fall. How many have done away the memory of a defect by carrying themselves modestly; while others again have gotten a blemish only by being too proud of being born without one. There is a just humility that will maintain thine own dignity, and yet make thee insensible to many a rub that galls the proud spirit. Be courteous in thy manner, and liberal of thy purse; for ’tis the hand to the bonnet and in the pocket that makes friends in this world; of which to gain one good, all the gold the sun breeds in India, or the universal sea sucks down, were a cheap purchase. Speak no evil of women; I tell thee the meanest of them deserves our respect; for of women do we not all come? Quarrel with no one but with good cause; by the Lord, over and over again, when I see masters and schools of arms among us, I say to myself, ‘This is not the thing we want at all, How to fight, but Why to fight? that is the lesson we want to learn.’ And I verily believe if but one master of the Why to fight advertised among us he would carry off all the scholars. Well—enough—You have not (as you once said to me) my advice this time on an empty stomach—a fair outfit of clothes and money—a good horse—and a good sword—these, together with Don Lope’s countenance, and my blessing—I trust in God to live to see thee home again with honour and advancement on thy back. My son, God bless thee! There—And now go—for I am beginning to play the woman.

Juan. Your words will live in my heart, sir, so long as it lives. (He kisses his father’s hand.) Sister! (He embraces her.)

Isab. Would I could hold you back in my arms!

Juan. Adieu, cousin!

Ines. I can’t speak.

Cres. Be off, else I shall never let thee go—and my word is given!

Juan. God bless you all!

[Exit.

Isab. Oh, you never should have let him go, sir.

Cres. (aside). I shall do better now. (Aloud.) Pooh, why, what the deuce could I have done with him at home here all his life—a lout—a scape-grace perhaps. Let him go serve his king.

Isab. Leaving us by night too!

Cres. Better than by day, child, at this season—Pooh!—— (Aside.) I must hold up before them.

Isab. Come, sir, let us in.

Ines. No, no, cousin, e’en let us have a little fresh air now the soldiers are gone.

Cres. True—and here I may watch my Juan along the white, white road. Let us sit.

(They sit.)

Isab. Is not this the day, sir, when the Town Council elects its officers?

Cres. Ay, indeed, in August—so it is. And indeed this very day.

(As they talk together, the Captain, Sergeant, Rebolledo, and Chispa steal in.)

Capt. (whispering). ’Tis she! you know our plan; I seize her, and you look to the others.

Isab. What noise is that?

Ines. Who are these?

(The Captain seizes and carries off Isabel—the Sergeant and Rebolledo seize Crespo.)

Isab. (within). My father! My father!

Cres. Villains! A sword! A sword!

Reb. Kill him at once.

Serg. No, no.

Reb. We must carry him off with us then, or his cries will rouse the town.

[Exeunt, carrying Crespo.

ACT III

Scene I.—A Wood near Zalamea. It is dark.

Enter Isabel.

Isab. Oh never, never might the light of day arise and show me to myself in my shame! Oh, fleeting morning star, mightest thou never yield to the dawn that even now presses on thy azure skirts! And thou, great Orb of all, do thou stay down in the cold ocean foam; let night for once advance her trembling empire into thine! For once assert thy voluntary power to hear and pity human misery and prayer, nor hasten up to proclaim the vilest deed that Heaven, in revenge on man, has written on his guilty annals! Alas! even as I speak, thou liftest thy bright, inexorable face above the hills! Oh! horror! What shall I do? whither turn my tottering feet? Back to my own home? and to my aged father, whose only joy it was to see his own spotless honour spotlessly reflected in mine, which now—And yet if I return not, I leave calumny to make my innocence accomplice in my own shame! Oh that I had stayed to be slain by Juan over my slaughtered honour! But I dared not meet his eyes even to die by his hand. Alas!—Hark! What is that noise?

Crespo (within). Oh in pity slay me at once!

Isab. One calling for death like myself?

Cres. Whoever thou art—

Isab. That voice!

[Exit.

Scene II.—Another place in the Wood. Crespo tied to a tree.

Enter to him Isabel.

Isab. My father!

Cres. Isabel! Unbind these cords, my child.

Isab. I dare not—I dare not yet, lest you kill before you hear my story—and you must hear that.

Cres. No more, no more! Misery needs no remembrancer.

Isab. It must be.

Cres. Alas! Alas!

Isab. Listen for the last time. You know how, sitting last night under the shelter of those white hairs in which my maiden youth had grown, those wretches, whose only law is force, stole upon us. He who had feigned that quarrel in our house, seizing and tearing me from your bosom as a lamb from the fold, carried me off; my own cries stifled, yours dying away behind me, and yet ringing in my ears like the sound of a trumpet that has ceased!—till here, where out of reach of pursuit,—all dark—the very moon lost from heaven—the wretch began with passionate lies to excuse his violence by his love—his love!—I implored, wept, threatened, all in vain—the villain—But my tongue will not utter what I must weep in silence and ashes for ever! Yet let these quivering hands and heaving bosom, yea, the very tongue that cannot speak, speak loudliest! Amid my shrieks, entreaties, imprecations, the night began to wear away and dawn to creep into the forest. I heard a rustling in the leaves; it was my brother—who in the twilight understood all without a word—drew the sword you had but just given him—they fought—and I, blind with terror, shame, and anguish, fled till—till at last I fell before your feet, my father, to tell you my story before I die! And now I undo the cords that keep your hands from my wretched life. So—it is done! and I kneel before you—your daughter—your disgrace and my own. Avenge us both; and revive your dead honour in the blood of her you gave life to!

Cres. Rise, Isabel; rise, my child. God has chosen thus to temper the cup that prosperity might else have made too sweet. It is thus he writes instruction in our hearts: let us bow down in all humility to receive it. Come, we will home, my Isabel, lean on me. (Aside.) ’Fore Heaven, an’ I catch that captain! (Aloud.) Come, my girl! Courage! so.

Voice (within). Crespo! Peter Crespo!

Cres. Hark!

Voice. Peter! Peter Crespo!

Cres. Who calls?

Enter Notary.

Not. Peter Crespo! Oh, here you are at last!

Cres. Well?

Not. Oh, I’ve had a rare chase. Come—a largess for my news! The corporation have elected you Mayor.

Cres. Me!

Not. Indeed. And already you are wanted in your office. The king is expected almost directly through the town; and, beside that, the captain who disturbed us all so yesterday has been brought back wounded—mortally, it is thought—but no one knows by whom.

Cres. (to himself). And so when I was meditating revenge, God himself puts the rod of justice into my hands! How shall I dare myself outrage the law when I am made its keeper? (Aloud.) Well, sir, I am very grateful to my fellow-townsmen for their confidence.

Not. They are even now assembled at the town-hall, to commit the wand to your hands; and indeed, as I said, want you instantly.

Cres. Come then.

Isab. Oh, my father!

Cres. Ay, who can now see that justice is done you. Courage! Come.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.—A room in Zalamea.

Enter the Captain wounded, and Sergeant.

Capt. It was but a scratch after all. Why on earth bring me back to this confounded place?

Serg. Who could have known it was but a scratch till ’twas cured? Would you have liked to be left to bleed to death in the wood?

Capt. Well, it is cured however: and now to get clear away before the affair gets wind. Are the others here?

Serg. Yes, sir.

Capt. Let us be off then before these fellows know; else we shall have to fight for it.

Enter Rebolledo.

Reb. Oh, sir, the magistrates are coming!

Capt. Well, what’s that to me?

Reb. I only say they are at the door.

Capt. All the better. It will be their duty to prevent any riot the people might make if they knew of our being here.

Reb. They know, and are humming about it through the town.

Capt. I thought so. The magistrates must interfere, and then refer the cause to a court martial, where, though the affair is awkward, I shall manage to come off.

Cres. (within). Shut the doors; any soldier trying to pass, cut him down!

Enter Crespo, with the wand of office in his hand, Constables, Notary, etc.

Capt. Who is it dares give such an order?

Cres. And why not?

Capt. Crespo! Well, sir. The stick you are so proud of has no jurisdiction over a soldier.

Cres. For the love of Heaven don’t discompose yourself, captain; I am only come to have a few words with you, and, if you please, alone.

Capt. Well then, (to soldiers, etc.) retire awhile.

Cres. (to his people.) And you—but hark ye; remember my orders.

[Exeunt Notary, Constables, etc.

Cres. And now, sir, that I have used my authority to make you listen, I will lay it by, and talk to you as man to man. (He lays down the wand.) We are alone, Don Alvaro, and can each of us vent what is swelling in his bosom; in mine at least, till it is like to burst!

Capt. Well, sir?

Cres. Till last night (let me say it without offence) I knew not, except perhaps my humble birth, a single thing fortune had left me to desire. Of such estate as no other farmer in the district; honoured and esteemed (as now appears) by my fellow-townsmen, who neither envied me my wealth, nor taunted me as an upstart; and this even in a little community, whose usual, if not worst, fault it is to canvass each other’s weaknesses. I had a daughter too—virtuously and modestly brought up, thanks to her whom heaven now holds! Whether fair, let what has passed—But I will leave what I may to silence—would to God I could leave all, and I should not now be coming on this errand to you! But it may not be:—you must help time to redress a wound so great, as, in spite of myself, makes cry a heart not used to overflow. I must have redress. And how? The injury is done—by you: I might easily revenge myself for so public and shameful an outrage, but I would have retribution, not revenge. And so, looking about, and considering the matter on all sides, I see but one way which perhaps will not be amiss for either of us. It is this. You shall forthwith take all my substance, without reserve of a single farthing for myself or my son, only what you choose to allow us; you shall even brand us on back or forehead, and sell us like slaves or mules by way of adding to the fortune I offer you—all this, and what you will beside, if only you will with it take my daughter to wife, and restore the honour you have robbed. You will not surely eclipse your own in so doing; your children will still be your children if my grandchildren; and ’tis an old saying in Castile, you know, that, “’Tis the horse redeems the saddle.” This is what I have to propose. Behold, (he kneels,) upon my knees I ask it—upon my knees, and weeping such tears as only a father’s anguish melts from his frozen locks! And what is my demand? But that you should restore what you have robbed; so fatal for us to lose, so easy for you to restore; which I could myself now wrest from you by the hand of the law, but which I rather implore of you as a mercy on my knees!

Capt. You have done at last? Tiresome old man! You may think yourself lucky I do not add your death, and that of your son, to what you call your dishonour. ’Tis your daughter saves you both; let that be enough for all. As to the wrong you talk of, if you would avenge it by force, I have little to fear. As to your magistrate’s stick there, it does not reach my profession at all.

Cres. Once more I implore you—

Capt. Have done—have done!

Cres. Will not these tears—

Capt. Who cares for the tears of a woman, a child, or an old man?

Cres. No pity?

Capt. I tell you I spare your life, and your son’s: pity enough.

Cres. Upon my knees, asking back my own at your hands that robbed me?

Capt. Nonsense!

Cres. Who could extort it if I chose.

Capt. I tell you you could not.

Cres. There is no remedy then?

Capt. Except silence, which I recommend you as the best.

Cres. You are resolved?

Capt. I am.

Cres. (rising and resuming his wand). Then, by God, you shall pay for it! Ho there!

Enter Constables, etc.

Capt. What are these fellows about?

Cres. Take this captain to prison.

Capt. To prison! you can’t do it.

Cres. We’ll see.

Capt. Am I a bon fide officer or not?

Cres. And am I a straw magistrate or not? Away with him!

Capt. The king shall hear of this.

Cres. He shall—doubt it not—perhaps to-day; and shall judge between us. By the by, you had best deliver up your sword before you go.

Capt. My sword!

Cres. Under arrest, you know.

Capt. Well—take it with due respect then.

Cres. Oh yes, and you too. Hark ye, (to Constable, etc.) carry the captain with due respect to Bridewell; and there with due respect clap on him a chain and hand-cuffs; and not only him, but all that were with him, (all with due respect,) respectfully taking care they communicate not together. For I mean with all due respect to examine them on the business, and if I get sufficient evidence, with the most infinite respect of all, I’ll wring you by the neck till you’re dead, by God!

Capt. Set a beggar on horseback!

[They carry him off.

Enter Notary and others with Rebolledo, and Chispa in boy’s dress.

Not. This fellow and the page are all we could get hold of. The other got off.

Cres. Ah, this is the rascal who sung. I’ll make him sing on t’other side of his mouth.

Reb. Why, is singing a crime, sir?

Cres. So little that I’ve an instrument shall make you do it as you never did before. Will you confess?

Reb. What am I to confess?

Cres. What passed last night.

Reb. Your daughter can tell you that better than I.

Cres. Villain, you shall die for it!

[Exit.

Chis. Deny all, Rebolledo, and you shall be the hero of a ballad I’ll sing.

Not. And you too were of the singing party?

Chis. Ah, ah, and if I was, you can’t put me to the question.

Not. And why not, pray?

Chis. The law forbids you.

Not. Oh, indeed, the law? How so pray?

Chis. Because I’m in the way ladies like to be who love Rebolledo.

[Exeunt, carried off, etc.

Scene IV.—A Room in Crespo’s House.

Enter Juan pursuing Isabel with a dagger.

Isab. Help, help, help!

[Exit.

Juan. You must not live!

Enter Crespo, who arrests him.

Cres. Hold! What is this?

Juan. My father! To avenge our shame—

Cres. Which is to be avenged by other means, and not by you. How come you here?

Juan. Sent back by Don Lope last night, to see after some missing soldiers, on approaching the town I heard some cries—

Cres. And drew your sword on your officer, whom you wounded, and are now under arrest from me for doing it.

Juan. Father!

Cres. And Mayor of Zalamea. Within there!

Enter Constables.

Take him to prison.

Juan. Your own son, sir?

Cres. Ay, sir, my own father, if he transgressed the law I am made guardian of. Off with him! (They carry off Juan.) So I shall keep him out of harm’s way at least. And now for a little rest. (He lays by his wand.)

Lope. (calling within). Stop! Stop!

Cres. Who’s that calling without? Don Lope!

Enter Lope.

Lope. Ay, Peter, and on a very confounded business too. But at least I would not put up any where but at your friendly house.

Cres. You are too good. But, indeed, what makes you back, sir, so suddenly?

Lope. A most disgraceful affair; the greatest insult to the service! One of my soldiers overtook me on the road, flying at full speed, and told me—Oh, the rascal!

Cres. Well, sir?

Lope. That some little pettifogging mayor of the place had got hold of a captain in my regiment, and put him in prison! In prison! ’Fore Heaven, I never really felt this confounded leg of mine till to-day, that it prevented me jumping on horseback at once to punish this trumpery Jack-in-office as he deserves. But here I am, and, by the Lord, I’ll thrash him within an inch of his life!

Cres. You will?

Lope. Will I!

Cres. But will he stand your thrashing?

Lope. Stand it or not, he shall have it.

Cres. Besides, might your captain happen to deserve what he met with?

Lope. And, if he did, I am his judge, not a trumpery mayor.

Cres. This mayor is an odd sort of customer to deal with, I assure you.

Lope. Some obstinate clodpole, I suppose.

Cres. So obstinate, that if he’s made up his mind to hang your captain, he’ll do it.

Lope. Will he? I’ll see to that. And if you wish to see too, only tell me where I can find him.

Cres. Oh, close here.

Lope. You know him?

Cres. Very well, I believe.

Lope. And who is it?

Cres. Peter Crespo. (Takes his wand.)

Lope. By God, I suspected it.

Cres. By God, you were right.

Lope. Well, Crespo, what’s said is said.

Cres. And, Don Lope, what’s done is done.

Lope. I tell you, I want my captain.

Cres. And I tell you, I’ve got him.

Lope. Do you know he is the king’s officer?

Cres. Do you know he ravished my daughter?

Lope. That you are out-stripping your authority in meddling with him?

Cres. Not more than he his in meddling with me.

Lope. Do you know my authority supersedes yours?

Cres. Do you know I tried first to get him to do me justice with no authority at all, but the offer of all my estate?

Lope. I tell you, I’ll settle the business for you.

Cres. And I tell you I never leave to another what I can do for myself.

Lope. I tell you once more and for all, I must have my man.

Cres. And I tell you once more and for all, you shall—when you have cleared him of the depositions.

Lope. The depositions! What are they?

Cres. Oh, only a few sheets of parchment tagged together with the evidence of his own soldiers against him.

Lope. Pooh! I’ll go myself, and take him from the prison.

Cres. Do, if you like an arquebuss ball through your body.

Lope. I am accustomed to that. But I’ll make sure. Within there!

Enter Orderly.

Have the regiment to the market-place directly under arms, I’ll see if I’m to have my prisoner or not.

[Exit.

Cres. And I—Hark ye!

[Exit, whispering to a Constable.

Scene V.—Before the Prison in Zalamea. A Street in the centre.

Enter on one side Don Lope with Troops; at the other, before the Prison, Labourers, Constables, etc. armed: and afterward, Crespo.

Lope. Soldiers, there is the prison where your captain lies. If he be not given up instantly at my last asking, set fire to the prison; and, if further resistance be made, to the whole town.

Cres. Friends and fellow-townsmen, there is the prison where lies a rascal capitally convicted—

Lope. They grow stronger and stronger. Forward, men, forward! (As the Soldiers are about to advance, trumpets and shouts of ‘God save the King,’ within.)

Lope. The king!

All. The king!

Enter King Philip II. through centre Street, with Train, etc. Shouting, Trumpets, etc.

King. What is all this?

Lope. ’Tis well your Majesty came so suddenly, or you would have had one of your whole towns by way of bonfire on your progress.

King. What has happened?

Lope. The mayor of this place has had the impudence to seize a captain in your Majesty’s service, clap him in prison, and refuses to surrender him to me, his commander.

King. Where is this mayor?

Cres. Here, so please your Majesty.

King. Well, Mr. Mayor, what have you to offer in defence?

Cres. These papers, my Liege: in which this same captain is clearly proved guilty, on the evidence of his own soldiers, of carrying off and violating a maiden in a desolate place, and refusing her the satisfaction of marriage though peaceably entreated to it by her father with the endowment of all his substance.

Lope. This same mayor, my Liege, is the girl’s father.

Cres. What has that to do with it? If another man had come to me under like circumstances, should I not have done him like justice? To be sure. And therefore, why not do for my own daughter what I should do for another’s? Besides, I have just done justice against my own son for striking his captain; why should I be suspected of straining it in my daughter’s favour? But here is the process; let his Majesty see for himself if the case be made out. The witnesses are at hand too; and if they or any one can prove I have suborned any evidence, or any way acted with partiality to myself, or malice to the captain, let them come forward, and let my life pay for it instead of his.

King (after reading the papers). I see not but the charge is substantiated: and ’tis indeed a heavy one. Is there any one here to deny these depositions? (Silence.) But, be the crime proved, you have no authority to judge or punish it. You must let the prisoner go.

Cres. You must send for him then, please your Majesty. In little towns like this, where public officers are few, the deliberative is forced sometimes to be the executive also.

King. What do you mean?

Cres. Your Majesty will see. (The prison gates open, and the Captain is seen within, garrotted in a chair.)

King. And you have dared, sir!—

Cres. Your Majesty said the sentence was just; and what is well said cannot be ill done.

King. Could you not have left it for my imperial Court to execute?

Cres. All your Majesty’s justice is only one great body with many hands; if a thing be to be done, what matter by which? Or what matter erring in the inch, if one be right in the ell?

King. At least you might have beheaded him, as an officer and a gentleman.

Cres. Please your Majesty, we have so few Hidalgos hereabout, that our executioner is out of practice at beheading. And this, after all, depends on the dead gentleman’s taste; if he don’t complain, I don’t think any one else need for him.

King. Don Lope, the thing is done; and, if unusually, not unjustly—Come, order all your soldiers away with me toward Portugal; where I must be with all despatch. For you—— (to Crespo) what is your name?

Cres. Peter Crespo, please your Majesty.

King. Peter Crespo, then, I appoint you perpetual Mayor of Zalamea. And so farewell.

[Exit with Train.

Cres. (kneeling). God save your Highness!

Lope. Friend Peter, his Highness came just in time.

Cres. For your captain, do you mean?

Lope. Come now—confess, wouldn’t it have been better to have given up the prisoner, who, at my instance, would have married your daughter, saved her reputation, and made her wife of an Hidalgo?

Cres. Thank you, Don Lope, she has chosen to enter a convent and be the bride of one who is no respecter of Hidalgos.

Lope. Well, well, you will at least give me up the other prisoners, I suppose?

Cres. Bring them out. (Juan, Rebolledo, Chispa, brought out.)

Lope. Your son too!

Cres. Yes, ’twas he wounded his captain, and I must punish him.

Lope. Come, come, you have done enough—at least give him up to his commander.

Cres. Eh? well, perhaps so; I’ll leave his punishment to you.