ACT I

Scene—Don Lorenzo's study, octagon form. Fire lighting, over mantel-piece a large mirror in black frame L. Below, a door. Door and window R. Principal entrance in background. Book-shelves well filled R and L. Writing-desk and arm-chair L, sofa R. Scattered about in orderly confusion books and objects of art. Mounting severe and rich. A winter afternoon.

SCENE I

Don Lorenzo. [Seated at table reading attentively.] 'Mercy, my niece,' replied Don Quixote, 'is that which God this moment has shown me, despite my sins. Already my mind is clear and free, unclogged of the obscurities of ignorance, which my unhappy and incessant readings of those detestable books of chivalry cast upon me like a heavy shadow. Already have I sounded the depth of their delusions and absurdities, and I now regret nothing but that this awakening should have come so late that I have no longer time to seek compensation in reading those other books which are the light of the soul. I feel myself on the point of death, dear niece. I should like to depart in such a way that my life would not appear so evil as to obtain for me the reputation of madness; that, though it is true I have been mad, my death should not confirm its truth.' [Stops reading, and remains a while in thought.] Folly! To struggle without truce or rest in this fierce battle of life for justice as Cervantes' immortal hero struggled in the world of his imagining! Folly! To love with an infinite love, and with the divine beauty of our desire ever beyond our reach, as was the Dulcinea he so passionately loved! Folly! To walk with the soul ever fronting the ideal, along the rough and prosaic path of human realities, which is like running after one of heaven's stars through crags and rocky places. Folly! Yes, so the doctors tell us; but of so inoffensive a form, and, upon the face of it, so little likely to prove contagious, that, to make an end of it, we do not need another Quixote. [Pause. Rises and walks to the middle of the stage, where he stands thinking.]

SCENE II

Don Lorenzo, DoÑa Ángela, and Dr. TomÁs. The latter two stand at door on R., half-hidden by the curtains, and watch Don Lorenzo, whose back is toward them.

DoÑa Ángela. Look at him! as usual, reading and thinking.

Dr. TomÁs. Madam, your husband is a sage, but wisdom may be overdone. For, if the tenser be the cord, the more piercing its notes, so the much easier is it to break. And when it breaks, to the divine note succeeds eternal silence. While the brain works in sublime spasms, madness is on the watch—don't forget it. [Pause.]

Don Lorenzo. Strange book! Book of inspiration! How many problems Cervantes, unknowing perhaps, has propounded therein! The hero was mad, yes, mad [pause], he who only gave ear to the voice of duty upon the march of life; he who ceaselessly subjugated his passions, silenced his affections, and knew no other rule than justice, no other law than truth—and to truth and justice conformed each action: who, with a sacrilegious ambition, strove to attain the perfection of God above. What a singular being he would appear in any human society! A new Quixote among so many Sanchos! Having to condemn the greed of this one, the vanity of that, the good fortune of this other, the uncontrolled appetites of another, and the frailties of all; in his own family, like the Knight Errant's housekeeper and niece; in his own friends not differing from the priest, the barber, and Samson Carrasco. And strong men and maidens, dukes and inn-keepers, Moors and Christians with one voice declaring him mad, until he himself should end by taking himself as such, or dying, feign to think so, that at least he might be left to die in peace.

Dr. TomÁs. [Approaches Lorenzo, and places an arm on his shoulder. DoÑa Ángela also comes near.] Lorenzo!

Don Lorenzo. [Turning round.] TomÁs!—Ángela!—you were here?

Dr. TomÁs. Yes; we were listening to part of your philosophical monologue. What has provoked these sublime self-revealings of my good friend?

Don Lorenzo. I have been reading Don Quixote, and it has gone to my head, and there got mixed with the other tags of modern philosophy which are floating about, as my hard-hearted doctor would say, in the cells of grey substance.

Dr. TomÁs. So would anybody else say who wished to talk the language of reason.

DoÑa Ángela. How dreadful! Are you two going to begin one of your interminable discussions on positivism, idealism, and all the other isms of the dictionary, which are so many abysses for common sense?

Dr. TomÁs. Don't be afraid, madam. I have something more interesting to say to Lorenzo.

Don Lorenzo. [To Dr. TomÁs.] And I have also something more urgent to ask you.

DoÑa Ángela. I should think so indeed. Our child's health is surely more interesting and urgent than the follies and delusions with which your head is crammed.

Don Lorenzo. [Anxiously.] How is my beloved girl to-day?

DoÑa Ángela. Yes, how do you find InÉs? [Pause.]

Don Lorenzo. Do tell us. Don't keep us in suspense. [Pause. Dr. TomÁs shakes his head ominously.]

DoÑa Ángela. For heaven's sake, doctor, tell me if there be any danger.

Don Lorenzo. What are you saying, Ángela? Don't pronounce the word.

Dr. TomÁs. Softly, softly. You go too far. I don't, however, say that it is nothing serious.

Don Lorenzo. What do you mean?

DoÑa Ángela. Oh, what do you mean?

Don Lorenzo. What is the matter with her? Has the illness a name?

DoÑa Ángela. What are the remedies?—for I suppose it is curable. Oh, Dr. TomÁs, you must indeed cure my child.

Dr. TomÁs. What is her malady? One of those that causes the greatest misfortune to mankind. What is its name? The poets call it love—we doctors give it another name. How is it cured? This very day, with the aid of the priest; and so excellent a specific is this, that after a month's appliance neither of the wedded pair retain a vestige of remembrance of the fatal sickness.

DoÑa Ángela. What nonsense you do talk, Dr. TomÁs! You had almost emptied my veins of their blood.

Dr. TomÁs. Well, to be serious. Given the condition of the young lady, her nervous temperament, her extreme susceptibility, and her romantic passion, the malady must be regarded as grave. And if you don't very speedily seek a remedy in the sweet security of marriage, my friend, I am grieved to say it, but duty compels me to inform you, that you need not count upon InÉs. [Gravely.]

Don Lorenzo. TomÁs!

DoÑa Ángela. You really believe——

Dr. TomÁs. I believe that InÉs has inherited her father's excitable and fantastical imagination. To-day the fever of love runs like a fiery wave in her veins. If you don't marry her to Edward,—and that very soon—and she should be given to understand that her hopes are not destined to be realised, though I cannot predict in what way, I unhappily know that the delirium of fantasy, and the violence of her affection will eventually kill her.

Don Lorenzo. Good God!

DoÑa Ángela. My poor child!

Dr. TomÁs. You have my opinion, and I have given it in plain language as the urgency of the case demands, as well as my friendship for you, and our joint affection for the innocent child.

DoÑa Ángela. [To Don Lorenzo in a resolute tone.] You have heard? We must marry InÉs to Edward.

Don Lorenzo. I would like it well indeed, Ángela. Edward is a good fellow, very intelligent, and passionately attached to our girl, but——

DoÑa Ángela. But what? Are we not also noble, and why should Edward's mother, the Duchess of Almonte, oppose the union? And what matter if she does, since it is he, and not she, that is to be married?

Don Lorenzo. Ángela, think well upon it. Ought we to encourage a son in revolt against his mother?

DoÑa Ángela. You think well upon it. Lorenzo, ought we to sacrifice our child to that woman's vanity?

Don Lorenzo. It is easy enough to lament vanity and misfortune. The important thing is to find a remedy against evil.

DoÑa Ángela. Why not speak to the duchess? They say she is a kind woman, apart from her aristocratic pretensions, and that she idolises Edward. Let us go to her, and beseech and implore her.

Don Lorenzo. I beseech! I implore! Humiliate myself! It is certainly not my place to entreat for her son's hand. She it is who should come to my house and beg for that of my daughter. Social convention, the respect of woman, and my own honour ordain it so.

DoÑa Ángela. Here you see the philosopher, the sage, the perfect man overflowing with vanity and pride. [Goes over to Dr. TomÁs who is standing at table reading.]

Don Lorenzo. You are unjust, Ángela. It is not pride, but common dignity—yes, dignity. It is not honourable to us to go a-begging on InÉs' behalf the ducal coronet another family chooses to withhold from her—she who wears herself a far fairer crown. I repeat, it would not be to our credit to go from door to door, still less to emblazoned doors, with hands held out for the alms of a name, when InÉs bears my name, as good, as untarnished and honourable as any other, however great it may be.

Dr. TomÁs. Lorenzo is right—you, too, madam, are right.

DoÑa Ángela. Never mind, you need not go. Preserve intact your dignity of sage and philosopher. I who am only a poor mother will go. It will not hurt me to go from door to door a-begging, not coronets, nor coats of arms, but the life and happiness of my child.

Don Lorenzo. Nor will it me, Ángela. You it is who are right. Let the world say what it will. Let the duchess think what she will, I will go. [To Dr. TomÁs.] It is my duty, is it not? Your judgment is upright and austere, and you can pronounce dispassionately. Give me your frank opinion.

DoÑa Ángela. Ah, what a man! Now don't stay to discuss whether or no you ought to go. These things, my lord philosopher and husband, are decided by the heart, and not by the head. It is something to be thankful for that you have not gone back to your books to seek solution of the problem. It is a wonder you are not hunting among the German metaphysicians, or the Greek classics, or in that unintelligible tangle of mathematics, to see if any author by chance has treated of the future marriage of Miss InÉs de AvendaÑa with Edward de Almeida, Duke of Almonte, proving the insuperable difficulties by a plus b, and for the sake of a plus b you would meanwhile let my poor child die.

Don Lorenzo. Don't turn me into ridicule, Angela. You know I adore InÉs.

SCENE III

Don Lorenzo, Ángela, Dr. TomÁs, and InÉs. InÉs enters by door on R. as Don Lorenzo utters these words, and stands still on hearing her own name.

Don Lorenzo. For her life! For her happiness! Why, to dry one tear of her eyes would I give all those my own could shed. For one bright hour for my InÉs would I gladly turn all the remaining hours of my life into martyrdom. [InÉs, without being seen by the rest, holds out her arms to her father lovingly, and kisses her hand to him.] There, say no more upon the subject. This very day will I go and see the duchess. I will implore, supplicate, humiliate myself if necessary, and she must yield. She won't? [Joyous movement of InÉs. DoÑa Ángela effusively takes her husband's hand.] Well, if I have not got titles, I have at least a name, which, though I may not be able to make it illustrious by work and study——

Dr. TomÁs. It is illustrious, my dear fellow.

Don Lorenzo. Illustrious, no—but respectable, yes. Besides, I have some millions that I have inherited, and which I will make over to the duchess and to Edward, that they may be enabled thereby to renovate a coronet somewhat the worse for wear. So you may be sure of it. InÉs will be happy, and her happiness will be ours.

DoÑa Ángela. And yours—also ours, who live in you—you, my husband, who are, when science does not blunt your sense, the best, the kindest, and most loving of men.

InÉs. Oh, heavens! [Gives signs of faintness, and leans against door.]

DoÑa Ángela. [Rushes over to her.] InÉs, my child.

Don Lorenzo. InÉs, InÉs! What's the matter?

Dr. TomÁs. [Approaching.] Come, girl, what nonsense is this?

InÉs. [Sits down on sofa R., the rest stand around her.] Nothing. It's nothing—it is only—I feel I would like to laugh, and tears instantly rise to my eyes—and then I want to cry, and I feel so glad, so happy that I cannot. It is because I am fond, very fond of you, father. [Embraces him affectionately.] How kind you are, and how good God has made you! I am happy, very happy. [Throws herself sobbingly into her mother's arms.]

DoÑa Ángela. That's it, my girl, weep. It will do you good. See how kind your father is. You must love him dearly.

InÉs. With all my heart. When are you going? To-day? Is it not so?

Dr. TomÁs. [Laughing at her fond assurances.] Ah, selfish girl! We are very fond of papa when he does something to please us? But if he did not go to the duchess's, should we be quite so fond of him—quite!—as now?

InÉs. Just the same.

Dr. TomÁs. [Doubtingly.] Quite the same?

InÉs. [Maliciously.] It is possible I should be so sad that I might not think of saying it.

Dr. TomÁs. I thought so.

InÉs. Before, I felt something weigh upon my breast, and choke me. Now, without any effort—thus—spontaneously—as delicious tears of happiness flow—endearing words break from me. Before, I was only able to say: 'unhappy I, father!' Now, I don't think of myself, I think of him, and my heart rises to my lips upon a cry of love—'how dear you are to me!' [Again embraces her father.]

Don Lorenzo. InÉs, my daughter!

InÉs. And you also, mother, you also. [Embraces DoÑa Ángela. Don Lorenzo and Dr. TomÁs move away from sofa, where DoÑa Ángela and InÉs remain seated, and come to the middle of the stage.]

Dr. TomÁs. Poor philosopher! Neither of those two has read a single page of all your books, and both know more than you do. You think yourself strong, and in their hands you are as soft as wax. You think yourself a sage, and in their arms you are an innocent, not to say a fool. You think yourself just and uncorruptible, and upon the will of those two women you could be led into any injustice or weakness.

Don Lorenzo. No, TomÁs. When I am sustained by principle my will is iron.

Dr. TomÁs. I don't say 'we shall see,' because they are both angels—but, alas! if they were other! Permit me to parody the great poet, and exclaim with him: 'Temptation, thy name is woman!'

Don Lorenzo. [Energetically.] 'Words, words, words,' he said before that, doubtless, in prescience of the parody.

Dr. TomÁs. There you are, up on the rostrum already.

InÉs. Don't tease papa.

Don Lorenzo. The doctor's sallies don't annoy me, child.

Dr. TomÁs. This is where we stand—that for affection, for friendship, for love, for what you call the mysterious attraction of one soul for another, we can and should arrive at——

Don Lorenzo. Even sacrifice—yes. But never do wrong.

Dr. TomÁs. A pretty maxim for a book on morality.

Don Lorenzo. A still better one for the conscience.

Dr. TomÁs. And are there no cases in which, to prevent greater misfortunes, one may compromise with this Cato's conscience, for just a little, a very little fault, hardly as big as a grain of sand?

Don Lorenzo. Once accepted, your grain would quickly weigh as heavily as a mountain of granite.

Dr. TomÁs. Now, you are up the mountains. The rostrum does not suffice.

InÉs. That will do, Dr. TomÁs. You mustn't say such things to papa.

Dr. TomÁs. Let us sum up the matter. It is war to the knife against all evil under any form or disguise whatsoever. Not so?

Don Lorenzo. So it is.

Dr. TomÁs. Then let us instantly apply your theory. But truly I had forgotten it, and it is quite a romance. Lend me your attention. Listen, ladies. [DoÑa Ángela and InÉs approach.]

Don Lorenzo. What is it?

Dr. TomÁs. To-day a woman begged me to take you in her name——

Don Lorenzo. What?

Dr. TomÁs. A kiss.

DoÑa Ángela. To him?

Don Lorenzo. To me?

Dr. TomÁs. Yes. [To DoÑa Ángela.] But don't be alarmed, dear madam. It is the kiss of an aged dame, and it comes drenched in tears. 'Tis but the last and dolorous contraction of dying lips,—the final adieu of a being who, in a few brief hours, will have breathed her last.

Don Lorenzo. I cannot imagine——

Dr. TomÁs. She—this poor woman—sent for me this morning. I mounted to the garret where she lies dying. She named herself, otherwise I should never have recognised her. She swore she was innocent, and all the same begged me to intercede with you for her pardon.

Don Lorenzo. You are talking a language not one word of which do I understand.

Dr. TomÁs. Do you remember your mother's death?

Don Lorenzo. What a question! I never knew my father. He died when I was an infant. But my mother! Ah, poor mother! [With emotion.]

Dr. TomÁs. Do you remember how, suddenly feeling herself in the throes of death, she wanted to speak to you and could not; and then in a kind of convulsion seized the locket she always wore round her neck and put it into your hands, fixing you with the supreme anguish of her gaze already dimmed with the eternal shadow?

Don Lorenzo. Yes, I remember. Continue.

Dr. TomÁs. Finally, you remember that upon your mother's death you lost consciousness, when the locket disappeared. You have not forgotten who was accused of the robbery?

Don Lorenzo. She! It is she? my poor nurse, Juana!

Dr. TomÁs. Yes, it is indeed that same Juana who is dying a few yards off in a miserable garret—Juana who implores your pardon in the sad kiss she sends you.

Don Lorenzo. Juana, my second mother, who for twenty-five years was a real mother to me. But why do you speak of pardon? What compromise can there be here with wrong? Forgiveness is no compromise, nor does the poor old creature need my forgiveness. She capable—impossible!

Dr. TomÁs. Not so impossible. When the maid who had care of your mother's jewels notified the loss of the magnificent locket in diamonds to the police, and the first investigation was made, Juana denied having it, and yet it was subsequently discovered that she had taken it from you when you fainted. Two days afterwards she was surprised concealing it behind a porcelain vase. She was arrested, you remember, condemned, and suffered imprisonment for the robbery, and only through your influence and strong recommendation, recovered, if not her lost honour, at least her liberty.

Don Lorenzo. [Firing.] All the same, I persist in saying that Juana accused, Juana on the bench of infamy, Juana in shameful seclusion, was innocent, and that human justice erred.

Dr. TomÁs. Appearances——

Don Lorenzo. Not infrequently deceive.

Dr. TomÁs. Then how do you explain it?

Don Lorenzo. There must be an explanation. There is some mystery which we do not understand.

Dr. TomÁs. [To DoÑa Ángela.] Now he is off on the hunt of mysteries—in a search for a supernatural explanation of an act that to my mind finds a very natural and simple explanation in human frailty.

Don Lorenzo. But I know that my poor nurse was incapable of an action so base. I would have defended her if the illness that prostrated me after my mother's death had not prevented me. And as soon as I obtained her freedom, the poor woman disappeared, which fact caused me many a bitter tear. God knows how unweariedly I sought her everywhere. God knows how I longed for her return to me—and she!—how cruel of her! Why did she not come back? No, Juana, my good friend, you must not die until I have clasped you once more in my arms, until I have given you back your farewell kiss. [With increasing agitation touches a bell and servant in livery appears.] Say—a carriage—at once—instantly—I am going to bring her back here—this very moment. Do you not feel that it is my duty, Ángela—and you, too, InÉs?

DoÑa Ángela. In any case it is a work of charity.

Don Lorenzo. It is a just reparation. [Exit by door L.]

Dr. TomÁs. He is the best of men, and the most credulous. He will believe, as an article of faith, anything that the poor old creature may tell him. He will even help her to invent some extravagant tale. Ah, madam, we ought to make an examination of this library like that great and witty one the priest and barber made of the ingenious hidalgo's library.

DoÑa Ángela. Oh, if I only could.

Don Lorenzo. Well, I'm off. You will come too, to help me to bring her back. [To Dr. TomÁs.]

Dr. TomÁs. I am yours to command.

Don Lorenzo. Do you think it safe to move her?

Dr. TomÁs. The unfortunate woman is sinking rapidly. She is just as likely to die in her garret as on the cushions of your carriage, or crossing the threshold of this, to her, enchanted palace. It is, however, quite possible that joy may revive her, and lend her another few hours of existence.

Don Lorenzo. Then come along. Good-bye, Ángela; good-bye, InÉs.

InÉs. Good-bye. [Caressingly.] And afterwards you will go to see the duchess, won't you?

Don Lorenzo. Yes, child, afterwards. You can wait, but not so that poor woman. She comes first, InÉs.

DoÑa Ángela. [Apart to Dr. TomÁs.] Can you assure me that my daughter runs no risks if we marry her?

Dr. TomÁs. Only those of marriage, madam, which are none of the slightest.

[Exeunt DoÑa Ángela and Dr. TomÁs by door C. talking together. Behind them, Don Lorenzo takes leave of InÉs at the door.]

InÉs. He will speak this very day to the duchess. He has promised, and he may be relied upon, for he never breaks his word. That is settled, then. He will see her, and my father speaks so well! Why, is he not a man of vast learning? He is certain to convince her. If such a man as he were not able to persuade the duchess that Edward and I ought to be married, of what avail his having studied so much? Why possess so many books in French, in Italian, in German, and even in Greek? Such futile learning! But no, he will twist her round his finger. Besides, they all say that she is a saint. How could she be anything else, being Edward's mother? A saint, do they say? But if, being such, she refused to allow Edward to marry me, what sort of sanctity would her's be? and of what its use? What nonsense! of course we shall be married—why, we must, and it is I who say it. [Pause.] It seems impossible—like a dream. Good gracious, if it should prove a dream, then let me never awake. But it is no dream. This is my father's study. Those are his books. [Approaches the bookcase.] Newton, Kant, Hegel, Humboldt, Shakespeare, Lagrange, Plato, St. Thomas—It is very certain that if it were a dream I should not remember all those names, for what do I know of such illustrious gentlemen? [Looks over balcony.] I can be sure that it is no dream, for there is rain falling, falling. What a delightful thing rain is! The air seems converted into little bars of crystal. And in yonder mirror I can see myself. [Goes over to looking-glass with coquettish play.] It is certainly myself whom I know so well. I, with my oval face, which Edward finds so perfect. Fancy his taste! with my hazel eyes, which Edward finds so lovely. Was there ever such another as he for telling pretty lies? But truly at this moment, what with delight and the heat of the fire, my eyes do shine with an extraordinary brightness. I should like to be pretty—prettier than ever—for his sake, for his dear sake. But why does he not come? It is very late. Now that I want so much to see him, he won't come. You see he won't come—men are so selfish and horrid.

SCENE V

Ines. [Going toward him.] Edward, Edward!

Edward. My darling.

Ines. How late you are!

Edward. [Submissively.] I always come at two o'clock.

Ines. It is now three.

Edward. Is it possible? [Looks at his watch.] No, my beloved, it is only a quarter to two.

Ines. [Authoritatively.] It is three o'clock.

Edward. [Shows her his watch.] A quarter to two. Are you convinced? [Points to the clock on mantelpiece.] And look there—it is the same hour.

Ines. [Offended.] Well, I suppose you are right. What an accomplished lover to haggle over minutes! It is always too early to come, too late to stay with his InÉs, and he subjects the beats of his heart to the measurements of his time-piece.

Edward. [Beseechingly.] InÉs.

Ines. Go away, go away. It is not yet two—it still wants fifteen minutes to the hour. Go and take a turn about the streets, and look at the people, and come back at two sharp.

Edward. InÉs!

InÉs. That is your hour for coming. A nice thing indeed if you were to come earlier. What would the Astronomical Observatory think of that?

Edward. Do forgive me—I was wrong.

InÉs. No, the error was mine. Desire hastens onward the hours for me, and you, to punish me, come and hold up a watch before my eyes. [Makes a quick movement and seems to hold something to his face.] What a poetic lover!

Edward. I confess my fault. I repent and humbly beg your pardon.

InÉs. Ah, you admit it. That is better.

Edward. You see I was so happy and delighted to come that I quite lost knowledge of what I was saying, and even now I scarcely know what it is I am saying.

InÉs. It was also wrong of me to scold you so, Edward. But I was so gay, so wild with eagerness in my desire to see you, that the moments seemed centuries to me.

Edward. Ah, I have to tell you, my own——

InÉs. [Pays no heed to him.] I have such great news for you.

Edward. [Also does not heed her.] At last we are within reach of bliss.

InÉs. I should think so—for life.

Edward. How improbable it looks!

InÉs. My father has promised this day—this very day—you understand?—But you are not listening.

Edward. [Still not heeding her.] My mother——

InÉs. Your mother! What?

Edward. She is coming here in half an hour to propose our marriage.

InÉs. The duchess!

Edward. [With comic gravity.] Her grace, the Duchess of Almonte, will have the honour to beg this white hand [takes her hand] of Mr. and Mrs. AvendaÑa for her son Edward, although that same Edward has long since possessed himself of it, and holds it warm against his heart, and I have small faith in his being persuaded to relinquish it, even should it be refused him.

InÉs. She! really—she is coming! Ah, every one was right to call that woman a saint.

Edward. That woman is my mother. She loves me with all her heart, and this morning I besought her with tears in my eyes, and she, with answering tears, flung her arms round me and yielded to my prayer. She attaches first importance to the glorious deeds of her ancestors, and worships honour fanatically, and would far sooner see me dead than my name linked with one that bore the slightest stain. But she fully appreciates the worth of Don Lorenzo, his scientific renown—which is another kind of glory—and his——

InÉs. That will do. We have enough of the tale—the conclusion is that she comes here to-day, that we are to be married, and that we are going to be immeasurably happy—is it not so? That is the chief thing—at least it is so for me—I cannot answer for you.

Edward. Ungrateful girl! Do you doubt me?

InÉs. I do not doubt you. But how lucky it is for me that your mother has consented!——if not! You love me dearly, I know—but you——a mother has a claim upon your obedience. If she said 'No,' like a good son, Edward—not so?—you would have spared her pain, and despite your soul's deep sorrow, you would have left your poor InÉs, who so tenderly loves you. Don't listen, bad boy! Let nobody hear the whisper—but, indeed, I do love you so much that without you—see how foolish I am!—I should have died of grief.

Edward. Dearest!

InÉs. So you see how grateful I ought to be to your mother, since it is not to you but to her that I owe my happiness.

Edward. You cruel girl! Don't you know what I should have done in spite of every obstacle? You feel it.

InÉs. Yes. You would have obeyed and given me up.

Edward. Never,—for nothing, for nobody.

InÉs. Will you swear it?

Edward. I swear it by all that is holy.

InÉs. There, I am content.

Edward. And I most blissful.

SCENE VI

InÉs, Edward, Juana, Don Lorenzo, and Dr. TomÁs. Juana appears in door C. supported by Don Lorenzo and Dr. TomÁs, stands for breath and then slowly advances; is poorly and darkly clad.

Edward. [Turning round.] What a sombre group! Why does this black cloud come to dim the azure of our heaven?

InÉs. It is Juana, my father's nurse. Oh, it is quite a story. I will tell it to you afterwards.

Don Lorenzo. Easy, Juana, easy——

Juana. Who is that young lady?

Don Lorenzo. InÉs, my daughter. Come hither, InÉs. [InÉs approaches, followed by Edward.]

Juana. How very lovely! She looks like an angel. To find such a creature at one's side in the hour of eternal darkness would seem a presage of heaven.

Don Lorenzo. Another step.

Dr. TomÁs. One more effort—the last. [They help her to the sofa, where she sits down. The rest stand round her.]

Juana. I should like to kiss her. [Points to InÉs, who comes nearer. Juana takes her hand and draws her to her.] No, your hand is warm and my breath is ice. I may not kiss you! It would be to give you the kiss of death. [Pushes her gently away and lets her hand fall.] Not with the lips, but in thought do I kiss you.

Dr. TomÁs. [To Edward and InÉs.] Come away. The poor woman wants to be alone with him. [To Juana.] Till later, and courage. Your pains are over.

Juana. Yes, those of this world.

InÉs. Poor woman! [Stands and looks at her.]

Edward. Come, my darling.

SCENE VII

Juana. [After a pause.] Have they already gone?

Don Lorenzo. Yes, dear Juana. We are alone.

Juana. At last. At last has come the hour so long desired. All things come—and all things pass! Listen to me, Lorenzo. Life is slipping from me so quickly, so quickly, and I have still so many things to say to you. The first is—I am innocent. I did not think—I did not want—I did——[Tears interrupt her.]

Don Lorenzo. I know it, Juana—I know it.

Juana. You do not know. Everything is against me—everything.

Don Lorenzo. I beg you not to worry yourself in this way. Forget all, and rest.

Juana. Forget, yes. I shall soon enough forget. Rest! I have so much time before me for resting that to-day I desire to live—although I suffer, although I weep. I would carry with me into the grave even the tears and sobs along with the kisses—that its silence and solitude might be filled with some remembrance of life. [Pause.] That is why I want to tell you something. But how can I without preparing you? Now, so that doubt may not come first before revelation, and before doubt suspicion, and before suspicion presentiment, and before presentiment that nameless something, the shadow cast upon the soul by that which comes from afar? You do not understand me, and I do not know how to explain myself, though it is now twenty years since I first harboured the one idea. Judge if I ought to be able to explain it well.

Don Lorenzo. Tell me anything you like, only do not get excited over it.

Juana. Yes, I will tell you all. How could I die without doing so? In the first place, if only to prove to you that I am not a miserable—thief. [Hides her face.]

Don Lorenzo. Hush, hush! Do not pronounce the word.

Juana. And then—the sole consolation left me is to open my heart to you. Forgive me, Lorenzo. The dying are so selfish. For you it will be a horrible shock—while for me it will be a supreme benediction.

Don Lorenzo. If it were so for you, my dear Juana, how could it be a horrible shock for me?

Juana. How! But so it will be—so it will be, my son. My son! Give me leave to name you such. You are not angry with me?—truly?

Don Lorenzo. I beseech you, Juana!

Juana. Well, then, my son will I call you, and you too must call me mother. Call me mother, once. Let it please heaven or hell, mother you must name me.

Don Lorenzo. Mother!

Juana. Not so—not in that way. Cruel boy! [Leans to embrace him. Jerks herself back and falls on sofa.]

Don Lorenzo. Poor woman! She is delirious.

SCENE VIII

Juana, Don Lorenzo, and InÉs. InÉs rushes in C. in high spirits and approaches her father. She is excited and can hardly speak.

InÉs. Father, father—the duchess—is coming. She is coming here—can't you guess?

Don Lorenzo. The duchess!

InÉs. Yes—to speak to you about—Edward has persuaded——

Don Lorenzo. What good news, my dearest girl! At last God wills——

InÉs. You are pleased?

Don Lorenzo. [Caresses her.] And you?

InÉs. Yes, if you are also. Come, come quickly.

Juana. [Seizes Don Lorenzo's arm.] No, I cannot let you go. Don't leave me.

Don Lorenzo. [To InÉs.] I will be with you presently.

InÉs. Don't delay—oh, be sure and not delay.delay. If you offend her——

Don Lorenzo. You need not fear. Let Ángela receive her in the drawing-room with all ceremony. I will carry Juana up to her room, and join you in a moment.

Don Lorenzo. [Tries to lift Juana and she resists.] Come, Juana, come and rest. Afterwards we will talk as much as you like.

Juana. Afterwards, no. Suppose I should die before!

Don Lorenzo. [Impatiently.] Nonsense; you mustn't think of such a thing.

Juana. It is twenty years since I have seen you, and now they won't leave us together an instant. It is very cruel of them.

Don Lorenzo. [Again tries to raise her.] Afterwards, my good Juana.

Juana. And you too want to leave me—you too! Ah, I can compel you to stay with me.

Don Lorenzo. Juana!

Juana. Listen—one word, and then you are free, if you still wish to leave me. It was I, I myself, who stole the locket.

Don Lorenzo. You!

Juana. Yes.

Don Lorenzo. What for?

Juana. So that you might not see it.

Don Lorenzo. Why?

Juana. Because there was a paper in it containing something your mother had written that I did not want you to see.

Don Lorenzo. What was it?

Juana. I know the words by heart. They were: 'Lorenzo, my son, in the casket which lies at the head of my bed there is hidden a paper under a sealed envelope. When I am dead, open it, and read what I wrote during a night of sharp remorse. Forgive me, and may God inspire you.'

Don Lorenzo. [In surprise.] 'Forgive me, and may God inspire you.' She wrote that?

Juana. Yes.

Don Lorenzo. You also made strange mention of remorse. [With increasing curiosity.]

Juana. Remorse was the word. Now go away if you like.

Don Lorenzo. [Thinking.] No. [Pause.] And that paper?

Juana. It was no secret for me that your mother had written it. Where it was hidden was what I did not know. That there was something hidden in the locket a vigilance so alert as mine had easily discovered, and what the paper contained misgiving helped me to divine. That was why I took the locket. It was mine by right. It had cost me twenty years of tears and anguish, than which none more bitter or intolerable have ever been shed.

Don Lorenzo. Forgiveness, remorse, a secret—and my mother! I cannot imagine what you would say. Confused shades gather and drift before my mind, and pain strikes my heart in lightning flashes. You are raving, and you make me rave too.

Juana. No, no.

Don Lorenzo. But that secret paper in the casket——

Juana. It was mine, and you did not see it because it was not right you should see it. Since your mother was dead, what could it matter to her? Have I not said it,—there is nothing more selfish than death?

Don Lorenzo. That paper——

Juana. I have it.

Don Lorenzo. Here?

Juana. Here. [Lifts her hand to her bosom.] Look, it is but a sheet of paper, and yet it weighs so heavily upon my heart.

Don Lorenzo. I must see it.

SCENE X

Dr. TomÁs. Lorenzo, Lorenzo!

Don Lorenzo. [Impatiently.] What do you want?

Dr. TomÁs. The duchess has come.

Don Lorenzo. An appropriate hour.

Dr. TomÁs. [Aside.] What a tone! [Aloud.] Come and receive her.

Don Lorenzo. Yes, I'll go.

Juana. Don't leave me, for Christ's sake. By all that is most sacred to you I implore you to stay. [Aside.] If he only knew.

Dr. TomÁs. Are you coming?

Don Lorenzo. Yes,—yes; but don't worry me. I've told you before, I'll go.

Juana. Do not leave me. I will tell you everything, everything. I will give you that paper—which your mother wrote twenty years ago—her letter—her signature—you will see. But only don't leave me yet.

Dr. TomÁs. [Angrily.] Come, Lorenzo.

Don Lorenzo. I said I would go—but afterwards. I know when I ought to go. Now leave us. [To Juana.] Give me the paper.

Juana. As soon as that man goes away.

Don Lorenzo. [Violently.] Will you go!

Dr. TomÁs. But the duchess——

Don Lorenzo. Let her wait. Has she never kept others waiting in her ante-chambers? Well, then, mine are at least as good as hers.

Dr. TomÁs. Are you out of your senses?

Don Lorenzo. I am in them well enough, but not in yours, where I should be ill at ease. Leave me at once.

Dr. TomÁs. What can be the matter, Lorenzo? [Approaches him eagerly.]

Don Lorenzo. Nothing, nothing. I am tired of hearing you. For heaven's sake leave me alone.

Dr. TomÁs. Very well, very well. But what the deuce has come over the man?

SCENE XI

Don Lorenzo. Now we are alone.

Juana. Lorenzo!

Don Lorenzo. What is it? Do you distrust me? Then I will go away. Promise to give me that paper. My child's happiness awaits me yonder, and nevertheless a hand of iron, the hand of implacable fate retains me here by your side. Consider, Juana, if I am resolved to probe this secret.

Juana. Lorenzo!

Don Lorenzo. The paper! Since it was written by my mother, it is mine.

Juana. Don't be angry with me, Lorenzo, dear one. It is here. [Takes it from her bosom.] This is it.

Don Lorenzo. [Tries to seize it.] Give it me.

Juana. Wait, wait. I will read it myself. I will read it more slowly than you—and thus you will be spared a too sudden knowledge of the truth.

Don Lorenzo. Then read on, and let us see.

Juana. Yes, dear, but do not look at me. Only listen. [Holds the paper so that Don Lorenzo shall not see the contents; reads.] 'Lorenzo, my son, forgive me——'

Don Lorenzo. Again!

Juana. [Reading.] 'I feel that the end of life is near for me, and remorse has taken hold of me.' [Pause.]

Don Lorenzo. Continue.

Juana. 'I wish to tell you the truth, and I love you too greatly to do so. Read the secret of your existence in these lines stained by my tears, and do then as you will.'

Don Lorenzo. The secret of my existence! Give it me. [Tries to snatch the paper from her.]

Juana. No.

Don Lorenzo. What nightmare is this, Juana? You seem to have encircled my head with a band of iron that presses intolerably across my temples. Give me that paper.

Juana. No. God help me!

Don Lorenzo. You must. [Seizes the paper, and reads with intense emotion.] 'Your father was rich, very rich. He possessed millions. I was very poor. We had no children——' We had no children, she says——

DoÑa Ángela. [Enters precipitately.] The duchess!

Don Lorenzo. [Angrily, while Juana tears paper from him, and conceals it.] Again! leave me alone. What do you want?

DoÑa Ángela. Lorenzo, Lorenzo.

Edward. [Rushes in.] Don Lorenzo!

Don Lorenzo. You, also—go away, go all of you.

DoÑa Ángela. Mercy upon us, what is this? What can it mean? What is the matter with you, Lorenzo? do be sensible.

Don Lorenzo. Away, away! I implore, if needs be I am ready to kneel to you, but only leave me. Oh, human selfishness! They think there is nothing else besides their passions and interests. TomÁs, Ángela, Edward, the duchess—all of them. Ah, it is the dropping of water on the skull.

Edward. But, sir, my mother is coming——

DoÑa Ángela. Yes, the duchess, tired of waiting, is coming.

Edward. She says she is coming herself to seek the sage in his den.

Don Lorenzo. Then let her come. But leave me, leave me all of you, if you would not drive me wild.

DoÑa Ángela. [To Edward.] It is impossible for your mother to see him in this state.

Edward. Come, madam, we will go and keep her in the gallery to gain time. Perhaps InÉs will be able to soothe him in a little while.

SCENE XIII

Don Lorenzo. The paper! that accursed paper! Where is it? You have it.

Juana. [Showing it.] Yes.

Don Lorenzo. Then give it me. 'We had no children,' she said. [Makes an unsuccessful effort to read.] Where is it? I don't know. The letters swim before me. My eyes are dim. 'We had no children!' I cannot read, I can't. Do me the kindness to read it for me. [Juana takes the paper.] Ah, there, where it says: 'We had no children.'

Juana. [Reads.] 'My husband knew that an incurable disease was rapidly undermining his health. Death went with him, nestled in his heart. Mad with love for me, he wished to secure me all his fortune, and I—it was wrong, I know now, it was wrong, for he had a father living, but I,—oh, forgive me, Lorenzo, you who are so kind and honourable—I accepted.' [Pause.]

Don Lorenzo. Continue, continue.

Juana. 'We looked about for a child. I cannot write any more. Juana knows the secret. She will tell you all. Once more, I implore you to forgive me. Farewell, Lorenzo, and may God counsel you. I loved you like a son, though you were no child of ours.'

Don Lorenzo. I—I—was not—what does it mean? Not her son? I bear a name that is not mine! For forty years have I enjoyed a fortune that belonged to others. I have robbed everything—social position, name and wealth. All, all! Even my mother's caresses, since she was not my mother,—even her kisses, since I was not her son. No, no. This is not possible. I am not so base. Juana, Juana, for the love you bear the God above, tell me the truth. Look, it is not for my own sake—what does it matter what happens to me?—but for my family's sake—for those unfortunate women—for my dear child's sake, my beloved InÉs, who will die of it, and you see, I cannot let her die. [Bursts into desperate sobs.]

Juana. That is true. But hush! Who need know of it? and then it will not matter.

Don Lorenzo. But if it be true?

Juana. [In a low voice.] It is true.

Don Lorenzo. It seems a lie. That woman who cherished me so tenderly was not my mother?

Juana. No. Your mother loved you still more.

Don Lorenzo. Who was she, then?

Juana. Lorenzo!

Don Lorenzo. What was her name?

Juana. Look at me without anger, and I will tell you.

Don Lorenzo. Where is she?

Juana. In strife with the torments of hell.

Don Lorenzo. Is she also dead?

Juana. She is dying. [Towards the end of this dialogue Juana raises herself, and both stand in nervous agitation, staring wildly. When she utters the last word, she falls back again powerless upon the sofa.]

Don Lorenzo. Juana!

Juana. [Contorted with pain.] Not that name!

Don Lorenzo. Mother!

Juana. Yes, call me so—my son! [Makes a supreme effort to hold him to her.]

SCENE XIV

Dr. TomÁs. Here she is—she is coming.

Juana. [Freeing herself.] Leave me—they are coming, and I do not wish them to see me.

Don Lorenzo. No—wait—I scarce know what I would say to you, but I have much to tell you.

Juana. Afterwards—Good-bye now, I can die content. I have called him son. [Exit slowly R. Don Lorenzo follows her, and Dr. TomÁs stands watching them.]

Don Lorenzo. No, not yet. [Juana disappears behind curtain. Don Lorenzo would follow, but is detained by Dr. TomÁs, and obliged to return to the middle of the stage.]

SCENE XV

Duchess. [With exquisite courtesy.] SeÑor de AvendaÑa.

Don Lorenzo. AvendaÑa, AvendaÑa! I don't know where he is, madam. [In sombre absent tone.]

DoÑa Ángela. [Aside.] What is he saying?

InÉs. Goodness, what does this mean?

Duchess. I understand, SeÑor de AvendaÑa, how unwelcome must be my visit, since I come to claim of you the most precious of your possessions [points to InÉs], and certainly it is not surprising that you should receive me as an enemy. [Sweetly.]

Don Lorenzo. Fate is my enemy, nobody else, madam.

InÉs. [Aside.] Oh, what can have happened?

Duchess. You are right. It is the ruthless enemy of the parents.

Don Lorenzo. Still more so of the children.

Duchess. I do not deny it. But in spite of it, 'tis divine law that governs our human sorrows, and we are forced to respect it. [Makes an effort to turn the conversation, but does not conceal her wonderment.]

Don Lorenzo. Ah, madam, those laws might often prove less cruel if it were only human cruelty that dictated them. [The duchess evinces marked impatience. Edward approaches her. InÉs goes to her father, while DoÑa Ángela and Dr. TomÁs look on gloomily.]

InÉs. [Aside to Don Lorenzo.] Father, I entreat you——

Edward. [Aside to Duchess.] For my sake, mother.

Duchess. [Haughtily and dryly.] I am a mother, and I adore my son. I know that happiness is not possible for him without this young lady, and rather than lose one child I prefer to gain two.

InÉs. [To Don Lorenzo.] See how kind she is, father.

Don Lorenzo. To lose a son were a terrible misfortune.

Duchess. [Gently and approaching Don Lorenzo.] Will you not consent to bestow also the name of son upon my boy?

InÉs. [In low voice of entreaty.] Answer, father.

Don Lorenzo. [Looks sadly at his daughter, takes her head between his hands, and contemplates her yearningly.] How sweet you are! It seems incredible that you should not prove stronger than the law of honour.

Duchess. [Unable to control herself.] To make an end of the matter, SeÑor de AvendaÑa, do you wish my son, the Duke of Almonte, to give his name to your daughter InÉs?

Don Lorenzo. [In magnificent fury.] If I were a scoundrel, madam, this were an excellent occasion for procuring an honest name for my nameless child.

InÉs. Father!

Dr. TomÁs.
DoÑa Ángela.}Lorenzo!

Duchess. I must frankly confess that I can make nothing of your answers nor of your attitude, which is quite other than what I had expected. I will content myself with asking for the last time—do you consent?

Don Lorenzo. I am an honourable man. Misfortune may conquer me, but it will never disgrace me. Your Grace, this marriage is impossible.

Duchess. [Offended, retreats a step.] Ah!

InÉs. What do you say, father? Impossible!

Don Lorenzo. Yes, impossible. For I am not AvendaÑa. My parents were not my parents. This house is not my house. To you, my dearest girl, I can only give a soiled and an unworthy name,—because I am the wretchedest of men and I do not wish to be the basest.

InÉs. Father, father—oh, why are you killing me? [Falls into a chair.]

DoÑa Ángela. What have you done, you madman?

Don Lorenzo. InÉs, my child! Thou hast conquered, O God; but have pity on me.

SCENE I

Edward. I hear nothing. Has she recovered consciousness? To think how close a thing to life is death! [Pause.] They believe that I must give up my beloved girl! They suppose me capable of crediting Don Lorenzo's absurd tale. Poor scholar! Why, he doesn't know what he is saying. [Pause.] And even if his assertion were true, would that make InÉs other than the loveliest, the most adorable of women? Mine she will be, though I should have to cast myself at my mother's feet and bathe them with my tears. Don Lorenzo must consent, even if we have to gag him and put him into a strait-jacket. And that wretched beggar from whom the ill-advised philosopher has caught his delirium must be sent away, far away from everybody. How will my poor InÉs bear up against the blow her father has inflicted upon her? [Again approaches the door and listens.] Nothing, nothing. Silence, always the same silence. [Comes down.] Her father! her own father! Heaven help me, but I almost hate the man. [With increasing passion.] The madman! How he delighted to torture her! Her father!—that brainless scholar! an atheist clothed in sanctity! a new Don Quixote minus wit and plus pedantry! a mock Bayard of honour! What sort of father is he who pretends to a reputation for virtue through his daughter's broken heart? A fig for such virtue! Vice itself is more lovable. No one comes, and the hours go by—ah, I hear somebody coming at last.

SCENE II

Edward. How is InÉs, mother? Has she regained consciousness?

Duchess. She has now, thank God. Poor child! I could not go until I was assured it was all right, and that she was better. And you, my son?

Edward. I must see her.

Duchess. Edward!

Edward. Then we have to talk to Don Lorenzo, and afterwards——

Duchess. Afterwards you will get to the end of my patience. I have done all for you that honour, dignity, and social convention permit—even more. But the moment has come for you to show yourself a man, to remember who you are and listen to the voice of duty.

Edward. Rightly said, mother, that is what I am prepared to do, but it remains to be seen if we entertain the same idea of duty.

Duchess. You must give InÉs up.

Edward. Why? Because of her poverty?

Duchess. By no means.

Edward. Then why, mother? Because Don Lorenzo wishes to perform a sublime action which, if he carries out the prospect, will immortalise him in tale and history, and, who knows, may even lift him aloft into the Calendar?

Duchess. I see you appreciate the humour of the situation, and that is no bad sign.

Edward. I want to show you how perfectly cool I am. As for Don Lorenzo, we must regard the affair as a joke, or put him into an asylum.

Duchess. Don't say such things, Edward. It offends me to hear you speak so. There may be some slight exaggeration, perhaps no inconsiderable precipitation, and a certain air of melodramatic display in Don Lorenzo's project, but we cannot deny that he is acting like a gentleman.

Edward. Why does he revel in his daughter's misfortune?

Duchess. Because he is accomplishing his duty without respect of human passions.

Edward. Then if Don Lorenzo is so honourable, and the lustre of noble actions is a heritage, InÉs will be something more than the angel of my life—she will bring me a wealth of hereditary virtue.

Duchess. She will also bring more than her share of hereditary dishonour. [In low voice approaching him.] The girl has no name good or bad, since nobody knows what her father's is, and that of her grandmother has been inscribed as a thief's upon the infamous register of a prison.

Edward. Hush!

Duchess. If we are to believe Don Lorenzo, that unhappy girl's fate is to be a humble nurse's grandchild, and her father's accomplice in living under a false name. It would perhaps be an excess of aristocratic pride to reject such an honourable alliance, but to such a decision am I led by what you, with your modern education, will doubtless qualify as old-fashioned prejudices.

Edward. Well, mother, I love InÉs.

Duchess. You are mad, boy.

Edward. That were not strange, since love is said to be a madness.

Duchess. You almost make me lose my judgment.

Edward. Would you prefer to lose me?

Duchess. Enough, Edward. We must leave this house which, in an evil moment, I entered to-day for the first time.

Edward. But say—is not InÉs sweet?

Duchess. Assuredly—as an angel of God's heaven, when I first beheld her, and now she looks like the angel of sorrow.

Edward. Does not the whole world regard Don Lorenzo as an accomplished scholar, and have you yourself not said that he is a saint?

Duchess. It would be injustice to deny the value of a reputation so illustrious as his, or the keenness of his sense of honour.

Edward. Then there is no objection to him.

Duchess. Certainly not.

Edward. [Approaches the duchess and speaks in a low voice.] Can't we find some means of averting scandal? Who knows anything of this wretched story, true or false, though to me it seems more likely false? Only ourselves, and we will hold our tongue. Dr. TomÁs is almost one of the family. Death will shortly seal the lips of that unhappy woman. And, after all, Don Lorenzo is a father; he will do for InÉs' sake that which you refuse to do for mine. Why, mother dear, need we go in search of misery and death when felicity is within our reach?

Duchess. Ah, see how contact with crime perverts the noblest minds! Unfortunate boy, do you not understand that you are proposing a monstrous thing to me? that you wish me to be an accomplice to a felony? Good heavens, what has come over you that you should think and speak such things?

Edward. Who on earth speaks of anything monstrous or proposes felony? Have we all gone mad with Don Lorenzo, or are you martyrising me for your own entertainment?

Duchess. You suggested our averting scandal by silence.

Edward. Yes.

Duchess. Then——

Edward. Listen, mother. This is what I meant to say. If Don Lorenzo's tale be true, which is what I doubt, the legitimate heirs of this confounded wealth may be discovered cautiously, in secret, and a way can be found to restore it to them.

Duchess. But on what pretext?

Edward. If you had to beg for a fortune, it might be difficult to find one, but when it comes to giving, don't be afraid. It is easy enough, and any pretext is equally welcome to those who receive it.

Duchess. InÉs will still bear a name she has no title to.

Edward. She will bear mine, which is worth all others.

Duchess. That is true. But Don Lorenzo——

Edward. Leave him alone. He has enough to do with his philosophy. We have ourselves to think of, and I believe that it can be all managed if you will consent. With a word you can give InÉs back life, and give a new life to me in exchange for that which your unkindness blighted, and which I first owed to your affection. Restore happiness to this unhappy family, and bestow their usurped fortune upon the rightful heirs without noise or vain display. This is no felony, and it is not a monstrous thing to do.

Duchess. You magnetise me, Edward. I scarce know what to say. But an inward voice warns me that what you suggest is neither right nor just,—that deception can never be preferable to truth, and despite Don Lorenzo's ravings, I feel that duty triumphs in him, while in you it is passion that triumphs, for all your arguments.

Edward. How so? Tell me.

Duchess. I cannot discuss it with you, Edward.

Edward. What you cannot do is love me as you ought.

Duchess. Not love you; cruel boy! You have wounded me to the heart, though I know that you do not believe what you say.

Edward. Then yield to me.

Duchess. Don't press me, Edward.

Edward. You are yielding—I see it. Your face is pale, there are tears in your eyes, and your lips tremble. [Caressingly.] Confession of consent hangs upon them—yes, why not? What is there absolutely opposed to that high ideal of honour you and Don Lorenzo worship? What wrong is there in my plan?

Duchess. There is wrong, Edward.

Edward. So little, an atom, a shadow, a mere scruple. And don't I deserve you should commit so trivial an error for me? Go among the people whom you treat with such contempt, and from whom the aristocrat's pride separates you by an abyss; seek out a mother, and ask her if, for her son's sake, she would not stifle upon a cry of love all these refinements of conscience.

Duchess. [Passionately.] I am capable of making any sacrifice a mother can make.

Edward. [Embracing her.] Thanks, mother, thanks.

Duchess. But——

Edward. You have promised, you have promised. [Without heeding her.] And, after all, it may not even be necessary. What assurance have we that Don Lorenzo's tale is true? What tangible proofs are there? None that we know of. The word of a dying woman in delirium? Is that enough?

Duchess. Truly not.

Edward. Yet we have not even that much; for Dr. TomÁs has not been able to interrogate Juana. How do we know that she told it to Don Lorenzo, or if he only dreamed it? Let me assure you, Don Lorenzo's head is no sound one.

Duchess. It is not, indeed.

Edward. What an odd and extravagant fellow he is!

Duchess. For my part, I really thought he had gone mad.

Edward. Depend upon it, he is not far off. All these men of learning end that way. Both Dr. TomÁs and Ángela admit that he doesn't reason like other men.

SCENE III

DoÑa Ángela. For pity's sake, madam, do not leave us yet. InÉs wishes to see you. She calls upon your name through heart-breaking sobs, for you are her sole consolation.

Duchess. Poor child!

DoÑa Ángela. She will not remain in bed, though we begged her to do so, and her nervous agitation is such that she fills us with terror. If strength had not failed her, she would have come to look for you. In kindness, duchess, do go to my stricken girl, and console her, you who are so affectionate a mother. 'Tis a most afflicted mother that implores you.

Edward. And you will tell her that there is still hope, that all depends upon Don Lorenzo—won't you?

DoÑa Ángela. What? Is it true? Oh, madam—— [To duchess, and takes her hand effusively.]

Edward. Yes [to DoÑa Ángela], I will explain it. You must persuade your husband.

Duchess. But——[Edward does not heed her, and talks aside to DoÑa Ángela.] That boy of mine does just what he likes with me. What am I to say to this good woman now that he has promised my consent? Oh, what a hare-brained fellow! The girl herself is lovely, like a dream, and altogether very charming. Poor InÉs!—and Don Lorenzo possesses, or rather did possess, a colossal fortune. Ah! what things are human might and human vanity!

DoÑa Ángela. [To Edward.] I understand, I understand. [Then comes over to the duchess.] I am very grateful to you for your great kindness. Do, pray, carry the good news yourself to my daughter, and I, in a little while, will induce Lorenzo to consent. Never fear, he will give in. It is certain, else will he prove himself quite heartless.

Edward. Come, mother.

Duchess. What am I to do?

Edward. How good of you!

Don Lorenzo. My mother dying—and yonder that other morsel of my soul! What can I do, my God? [Walks slowly toward door R. and meets DoÑa Ángela.]

DoÑa Ángela. Where are you going, Lorenzo?

Don Lorenzo. To see my daughter.

DoÑa Ángela. Impossible. She has recovered consciousness now, and your presence might again upset her, since you it was who caused her illness.

Don Lorenzo. But I wish to see her.

DoÑa Ángela. You cannot. With you duty is always imperative, so you will respect that unhappy girl's grieving solitude [ironically], not upon the command of my will, which must always be second to yours, but upon that of your own reflective judgment.

Don Lorenzo. You are right. [Pause. Both are in middle of stage.] My own beloved daughter! What does she say of me?

DoÑa Ángela. Nothing.

Don Lorenzo. She does not blame me?

DoÑa Ángela. I cannot answer for the murmurings of sorrow in her heart.

Don Lorenzo. I to be her executioner! to destroy all her hopes! Can it be that I have broken her heart?

DoÑa Ángela. You know full well what you have done, Lorenzo. So much the better, if remorse will now help you to repair your cruel work.

Don Lorenzo. I am indeed miserable.

DoÑa Ángela. You miserable! InÉs it is who is miserable, not you, who doubtless find assured ineffable joy and divine consolation in contemplating your own moral perfection. [Ironically.]

Don Lorenzo. How ill you judge me, and how little you understand me!

DoÑa Ángela. I judge you ill, and yet humbly admire the fruit of your sainthood! That I do not understand you, I admit, for superior beings such as you are not within reach of so mediocre an intelligence as mine.

Don Lorenzo. Ángela, your words pierce my heart like a sharp dagger.

DoÑa Ángela. Your heart! impossible.

Don Lorenzo. But what would you have me do? Speak, advise, decide—bring light to a mind that gropes among shadows.

DoÑa Ángela. What would I have you do? Whatever you like now. Only save your child. Place no fresh obstacle to this marriage. Don't continue to irritate the duchess's pride by brutal and futile revelations. Don't make it impossible for us to remedy the evil you have done by any new explosion.

Don Lorenzo. Frankly, then, you would have me hold my tongue.

DoÑa Ángela. That is it. Hold your tongue.

Don Lorenzo. But that would be infamous.

DoÑa Ángela. I know nothing about it. I feel, I can't argue.

Don Lorenzo. My whole soul rises up in revolt against the idea. To become an accomplice in the most repugnant, because most cowardly, of crimes! To enjoy usurped wealth and a name I have no right to, and all that is not ours! God has not willed it so, and what he has not willed should not be. InÉs, you and I, all sunk in the mire! Is this what you would counsel? [With increasing excitement.] Then virtue is but a lie, and you all, whom I have most loved in this world, perceiving what I regarded as divinity in you, are only miserable egoists, incapable of sacrifice, a prey to greed and the mere playthings of passion. Then you are all but clay, and nothing more. And if you are but clay, resolve yourselves to dust, and let the wind of the tempest carry all off. [Violently.]

DoÑa Ángela. Lorenzo!

Don Lorenzo. Beings shaped without conscience or free will are simply atoms that meet to-day and separate to-morrow. Such is matter—then let it go.

DoÑa Ángela. You are wandering, Lorenzo. I don't understand you. I don't know what it is you want.

Don Lorenzo. To respect truth and justice.

DoÑa Ángela. Truth!

Don Lorenzo. Yes.

DoÑa Ángela. And cry it to the world from the housetops.

Don Lorenzo. I will announce it.

DoÑa Ángela. And leave us in poverty.

Don Lorenzo. I will earn your bread and my own by my work.

DoÑa Ángela. You earn your bread! Scholar's vanity! Well, be it so, but listen to me first. If it should be that we really have no right to our wealth, give it up,—well and good. [Don Lorenzo bursts into a cry of delight and advances to her with outstretched arms.] Privations do not fright me, nor am I the miserable woman and egoist you painted erewhile.

Don Lorenzo. Ángela, my dear wife, forgive me.

DoÑa Ángela. Do you want my forgiveness? Do you want me to continue blessing the hour I became your wife, as I have always blessed it till to-day?

Don Lorenzo. Yes.

DoÑa Ángela. Then do your duty as a man of honour, but in silence, prudently, without ostentation, or noise, or scandal.

Don Lorenzo. Why? The duchess would never consent to her son's marriage with InÉs even at that price.

DoÑa Ángela. Edward answers for his mother's consent.

Don Lorenzo. She will never give in.

DoÑa Ángela. She will. She is a woman and a mother. We have not all attained such perfection as yours.

Don Lorenzo. I do not believe it.

DoÑa Ángela. Is it that you do not believe it, or that you fear it?

Don Lorenzo. But supposing she should consent,—how can I retain a name that is not mine?

DoÑa Ángela. What shabby subtleties to sacrifice my InÉs to!

Don Lorenzo. A name, Ángela, in social life is——

DoÑa Ángela. A name is but a sound, a passing breath of air, something vain and evanescent. But a child, Lorenzo, is a creature made of our own flesh and of the blood in our veins: a creature that, while still nothing, we shelter warm in our bosom, and receive into our arms upon its first cry; that gives us its first smile and its first kiss; that lives by our life, and is at once our sweetest joy and our sharpest sorrow: a creature we love more than ourselves, but without a taste of that selfish leaven which degrades all our other loves; the sole divine affection that exists upon this earth, and if heaven be heaven, beyond the blue it will also be found in God himself. Choose now between what you call a name, and what I call a child.

Don Lorenzo. Your words madden me.

DoÑa Ángela. If you first lost your senses for InÉs' misfortune, it matters little that I should drive you mad for her good.

Don Lorenzo. You are partly right, Ángela. I am a poor fool. My scruples are, perhaps, exaggerated. My daughter, my dear InÉs—she, so good, so lovely—she would die,—would surely die.

DoÑa Ángela. At last, Lorenzo, my dear husband.

Don Lorenzo. But stay—no—my ideas are confused. My brain turns to the flail of a fiery whirlwind. Yet I still feel convinced that it would not be enough to renounce my fortune. I am bound to say why I renounce it.

DoÑa Ángela. Lorenzo!

Don Lorenzo. [Not listening to her, but talking to himself.] It is true that without it I could always materially make restitution of material possessions,—and still without recognising the legitimate rights of those I have despoiled. 'Twould be to make a traitorous and cowardly restitution, under shadow of vain and artificial rights, which I must fabricate for my convenience, and for the benefit of my family, instead of openly and honourably relinquishing what is not mine.

DoÑa Ángela. What nonsense you talk, Lorenzo!

Don Lorenzo. [Not heeding her.] If I retain a name that is not mine, I prove myself a shabby thief—I am compelled to pronounce a word that burns on my lips. I rob a name and all its rights, and I deprive my victims of their best means of defence against a cupidity that may any day develop in my descendants, and perhaps give rise to a worse iniquity in the future. Don't you see it? Surely you must see it if you are not totally blind! I must tell the truth, the whole truth, in a loud voice, happen what will.

DoÑa Ángela. Lorenzo!

Don Lorenzo. Would a judge and a tribunal sentence me to despoilment of my goods alone, or to despoilment of both my goods and my name? Of everything, everything—is it not so? Then what a judge would decide I have to do myself—my own judge—or I am a wretched fellow. Such, my poor wife, is what my conscience ordains me to do. I want no half-hearted view of honesty, for there is no middle term between clean honour and complete abasement. All this is quite clear to me. Nothing so clear as duty.

DoÑa Ángela. Very well, if the affair is made public the duchess will not give her consent.

Don Lorenzo. She will not consent. 'Tis what I have already said.

DoÑa Ángela. Ah, Lorenzo, Lorenzo, you are everything,—philosopher, moralist, jurisconsult, and, needless to say, gentleman. All, all, wretched reflecting machine, except a father.

Don Lorenzo. If you want to drive me out of my senses you are succeeding.

DoÑa Ángela. That would indeed be difficult.

Don Lorenzo. Because I am out of them already?

DoÑa Ángela. Yes, but you haven't yet got to the bottom of the abyss. Hear me, Lorenzo, for I, too, understand something of logic—after all, am I not your wife? It is your intention to tell the truth, the entire truth?

Don Lorenzo. It is so.

DoÑa Ángela. Before the tribunal of human justice?

Don Lorenzo. We need not trouble ourselves about divine justice, which at this moment is weighing you and me.

DoÑa Ángela. Understand me well, Lorenzo. I want to know if you will repeat to the judge, to the lawyers and all, no matter whom, whose business it will be to take possession of your abandoned fortune in the interests of the rightful owners, the story you told us a little while ago?

Don Lorenzo. Yes.

DoÑa Ángela. You will tell them everything?

Don Lorenzo. I am bound to do so.

DoÑa Ángela. Hear me further. You will have to acknowledge Juana the nurse as your mother.

Don Lorenzo. That is the only way left me to wipe away the stain of an iniquitous sentence. Here alone were reason sufficient to prove the crime of the silence you counsel.

DoÑa Ángela. And here, I say, is reason sufficient to command silence as an imperative duty. Can't you see that if Juana be innocent of the wrong imputed, she is guilty of a much greater,—which is called illegal retention of personal rights? You know it well. Falsification of a family is quite as bad as degrading or destroying it. To deprive legitimate owners of their fortune is far worse than to lift a locket from the ground. To conceal an illegitimate birth under an honest name is the same as covering the plague-spot of vice with an ermine mantle. If Juana be your mother, all this has she done, and has persisted in the deception for forty years.

Don Lorenzo. [Moves away and grasps his head in both hands.] Silence, for God Almighty's sake, silence!

DoÑa Ángela. That is just what I am begging of you—silence!

Don Lorenzo. She is my mother.

DoÑa Ángela. What of that? He who can injure an innocent daughter need not trouble himself to respect a culpable mother. Is not divine law above human law? Is not justice first?—Justice, duty, and truth? Must not the command of the spirit ever triumph over the weaknesses of the flesh?

Don Lorenzo. You speak well—but in spite of it you are raving. [Moves away from her.]

DoÑa Ángela. And why? You seem already to be growing as ordinary and weak as any poor mother. Does duty not order you to let your daughter die? Then let her die. Does it not also command you to cast the dying Juana into a prison-cell? Then hasten to procure her condemnation. You see, Lorenzo, I have some logic too, in my own way.

Don Lorenzo. Infernal logic.

DoÑa Ángela. And yours? From what sublime sphere does it descend?

Don Lorenzo. [Moves still further off.] Let me be, let me be. I can stand no more. My own InÉs—and my mother! What have I done to you, Ángela, that you should torture me so? [Falls nervously into arm-chair at table.] My head burns; it is on fire.

DoÑa Ángela. [Gently.] Lorenzo, Lorenzo.

Don Lorenzo. Yes, you are right, and I am a poor fool. How can I know what I ought to do? Darkness envelops me. What is truth? What is falsehood?

DoÑa Ángela. [Aside.] It was very cruel of me, but I have saved my child. He will not speak. [Don Lorenzo seated, sinks down in chair, with his arms upon table, and hides his face in both hands. DoÑa Ángela approaches him caressingly and speaks tenderly.] Forgive me, Lorenzo.

Don Lorenzo. Go away—in mercy leave me.

DoÑa Ángela. I wanted to show you the abyss you were falling into. I wanted to save InÉs, and to save you yourself from your own outbreak.

Don Lorenzo. Yes, yes, Ángela. I understand, but leave me now.

DoÑa Ángela. Do you forgive me?

Don Lorenzo. I forgive you—and love you. Poor Ángela, you too are suffering. But I desire to be alone.

DoÑa Ángela. Very well. I am going. But do not fret. We shall find some way out of the difficulty. I will tell InÉs that you want to see her—you would like to speak to her and comfort her?

Don Lorenzo. [Submissively.] If she wishes it.

DoÑa Ángela. Then wait here, and I will come for you presently, and then, beside our child, together, at one in our desire and with a common will, you'll see that we shall get the better of fatality which now seems to crush us.

Don Lorenzo. We'll conquer it, yes, we'll conquer it. [Speaks unconsciously.]

DoÑa Ángela. Good-bye, and don't bear me rancour.

Don Lorenzo. Bear you rancour! I?

DoÑa Ángela. Then good-bye.

Don Lorenzo. [Seated at table in profound dejection. Fire burns redly, room enveloped in deep shadow. Pause.] Now I am alone. How the shadows play around me! The fire burns dull and red. So much the better. Darkness gathers. Come to my aid, obscurity! 'Tis now the hour when the conscience spreads its most luminous rays. I would do what is right, but then, I know not what is right. My will is strong enough, but reason is dimmed. Three names dance before my eyes in the black night that enshrouds me. Ángela, Juana, and InÉs! Destiny leads me to my Calvary, and I ascend my cross of suffering without complaint. But you, my dear ones, you, InÉs, why must you precede me, marking with your tears the way that is to tear my feet? I alone—but not you! My God, my God! how low the flame of conscience flickers, and how faint is my will! Despair, alas! holds me in its grip. I desire good, and seek it in Thee, O Lord. Come to my aid, answer to my call. Shadows that encircle me, space in which I most dolorously wander, time that is mine own eternity of pain, and thou, august silence, that dost hear me in thy consoling mood, call all of you upon your God whom my voice may not reach. Tell him that I would my daughter were spared, and that I implore the chalice of bitterness may pass her by, that I myself may drain it with my lips to the very dregs. Let all fall upon me, and let her live in all her loveliness and goodness and purity.—Not on her, my God, not on her! [Drops his head on table in bitter weeping.]

SCENE VI

Don Lorenzo. A flickering shadow has passed before my eyes. Has it all been a dream? No, Juana is yonder, and the proof, the proof. [Opens desk and takes out paper.] Here is the proof. Unhappily it is no dream. It is terrible and implacable reality. I have read it a hundred times, and can never weary of reading it: 'I have loved you like a son, although you are no child of ours.' 'Although you are no child of ours!'

Juana. [Aside, watching him.] He is reading—reading that letter written by one he believed to be his mother. I it is who am his mother—not another. [Advances slowly.] How sad he looks! and there are tears in his eyes. In his eyes, do I say? Perhaps it is my own eyes, looking at him, that are wet. His eyes or mine! What matter? There are tears somewhere. [Comes nearer.] He is crying. Why? Because I am his mother? But what of that, if nobody else knows my secret? I am so near death! Yes, death! I shall soon die. Cold and eternal night has already penetrated to the depths of my being. It is all dark within. [Staggers and leans against the table. Don Lorenzo turns to her.]

Don Lorenzo. Juana!

Juana. Still that name.

Don Lorenzo. Mother!

Juana. It offends you that I am such—I see it.

Don Lorenzo. Do you think so ill of me?

Juana. Well, if it does not offend you, you are ashamed of me as your mother?

Don Lorenzo. I ashamed of you! To-morrow the world will know that I am your son.

Juana. To-morrow! What do you mean? [With terror.] My hearing is dull, and I cannot rightly have understood what you said.

Don Lorenzo. I made a mistake. Not to-morrow. You must leave Spain first, and then, when you are in some safe place, since man's justice can often be very cruel, I will proclaim the truth aloud. I will give up a name that is not mine, as well as an appropriated fortune. That is what I have decided to do.

Juana. Christ above!

Don Lorenzo. And then along with Ángela and my poor child I will join you.

Juana. You, poor and dishonoured, with only a stained and contemptible name! And why? Wherefore? What compels you? Speak, my son. My wits forsake me. What forces you to it?

Don Lorenzo. Conscience, mother, and your misdoing.

Juana. You intend to tell the truth?

Don Lorenzo. [Angrily.] Why did you ever tell it to me? If I had known nothing about it I should not now be obliged to break my daughter's heart.

Juana. Why? And you can ask me that? You don't understand? Oh, ungrateful son! [Hides her face in her hands and sobs bitterly.]

Don Lorenzo. Mother!

Juana. Because I was dying, because I am dying—and I wanted you to know all that I had sacrificed for your sake before I went. And because I wished to hear you call me mother at least once. For that, and for no other reason. Because the heart within me rose to my throat and nearly choked me, till at last I could no longer command myself, and had to call you son.

Don Lorenzo. I understand, mother, and do not blame you.

Juana. But you will not do as you have just threatened? Say you will not. It would be infamous to your family and most cruel to me.

Don Lorenzo. Cruel, yes, but not infamous. With this cruelty shall I wipe out all infamy.

Juana. Lorenzo!

Don Lorenzo. Forgive me.

Juana. [Tragically.] You accuse me of having committed an infamy?

Don Lorenzo. I have not said it.

Juana. [In stifled voice.] But it was for your sake—for your sake, my son. [Don Lorenzo remains silent and gloomy, not looking toward his mother.] My God, I did it for his sake, and this is how he repays me! Lorenzo!

Don Lorenzo. Wrong may not prevail. The work of iniquity must fall into ruins beneath its own weight. My sacrifice will serve to wipe out your sin.

Juana. Lorenzo! [Don Lorenzo draws her to the light and places the letter in her hand, obliging her to read it.]

Don Lorenzo. What does it say there?

Juana. [Sits down and reads with difficulty.] 'Forgive me, and may God inspire you.'

Don Lorenzo. Well, mother, I have forgiven her, and prayed to Heaven for inspiration. Your entreaties are vain.

SCENE VII

DoÑa Ángela. [Standing in doorway.] Lorenzo, InÉs wants you.

Don Lorenzo. My daughter! I am coming. Excuse me, mother. I will return instantly.

Juana. [Detains him and speaks softly.] Now I know that you despise me; now I know that you hate me.

Don Lorenzo. Mother!

Juana. [Grasps his arm.] But not for my sake, for hers—for the sake of that dear child.

Don Lorenzo. [Despairingly.] Not even for her sake.

Juana. [Falls into the arm-chair and covers her face with her hands. Exeunt Don Lorenzo and DoÑa Ángela.]

SCENE VIII

Juana. [Holding the paper in her hand.] Not even for her sake! [Sobs.] Sacrifice yourself, Juana, for your son. Renounce his caresses, tear your breast with your nails on seeing him kiss another woman and call her mother; drink deeply of the tears of bitterness, and gather them in your heart until it overflows or bursts. Bear the brand of shame upon your brow, wear yourself out in poverty and sorrow in a garret for twenty years, with no other happiness or consolation than seeing him pass in his carriage from the distance. Oh, heavens, I am dying! [Pause. She gets better.] Still,—still worse,—poor Juana! suffer all I have mentioned, and in exchange procure him wealth, reputation, celebrity—and at the last moment of your life come to him and only ask a kiss, only ask him to say once: 'How good you have been to me! How fondly you have loved me!' What will he say? Nothing of this. He will glance at you in austere sadness, and tell you that you have committed an infamy, and that he must wipe out your crime,—that your work is—a work of iniquity. A work of iniquity! Oh, Lorenzo, my son! Why are you so cruel? Why do you cast from you in contempt all that I gave you at the price of my own happiness? See what tears you cost me! [Changes her voice and crosses R. with a desperate gesture.] And my sacrifice has been in vain. I have forfeited my own happiness and lost his too. Mad woman, egoist! Why did I tell him the truth? [Pause.] But it must not be, it must not be. No, the work of iniquity will not fall into ruins yet a while. Poor visionary! I will deny everything. [In a dead voice.] You will be happy and rich and powerful whether you like it or no. He put the sole proof into my hand. [Takes up the paper.] Very well, then. Between his mother and his daughter he will be saved. Strange coincidence! She, calling for him, obliges him to go away, and I stay behind. Ah, let us exhaust what little strength remains. So, a little nearer still, through the darkness—just so dark a night was it when my mistress came to my bedside and murmuring asked: 'Would you have your child rich and happy?' And first I doubted, and then I consented—and now—and now I still say 'yes.' [Reaches table. Pause.] Is Lorenzo coming back? [Listens.] Yes, I think he is coming. He will ask me for the letter as he did before. Here, to the fire with it. [Tries to walk, but cannot.] I hear his voice. Strength fails me. I have no time. He will come. No, I will not give it up. Once more it is in my hands. Ah, now I know, now I know. I will slip a clean sheet into the envelope so that he may notice nothing. [Does this.] Lorenzo calls it a work of iniquity. My poor boy, he is in some things as innocent as a child. Thus—thus, I leave it where it was—and this other goes to the flames. [Throws paper into the fire and stoops to watch it burn.] Now it is in flames. See how luminously they quiver upon my mistress's portrait. [Looks at portrait upon the wall.] And now, see, it is in ashes—that which was the only proof. The only one? No: another still remains—it is I—and soon that also will be ashes. [Pause.] Now I will go to my room. [Moves.] My God, how weak I have grown! [Moves again with an effort.] But I have saved him. Felicity, fortune are his—I cannot see,—I cannot see. The light is dim. Is it the light or my eyes that are dim? [Approaches table, takes up candle and walks again.] Light, light! where is my room? Shadows! All is darkness. Alas, alas, I cannot, I cannot [Lets candle fall. Room is only lit by the red reflection of the fire. She falls between fireplace and table.]

Juana, Duchess, Don Lorenzo, DoÑa Ángela, and InÉs. The latter enters R. Don Lorenzo tries to get away from his daughter, who stands at door in white; behind her, half hidden by curtains, the Duchess and DoÑa Ángela.

Don Lorenzo. [Coming down the stage.] No more, no more. It is the last test,—the last, yes. But, oh, how my will fainted.

DoÑa Ángela. [To InÉs.] Follow him. Do not leave him alone. He will give in.

InÉs. Why do you fly from me, father? [Advances a little, behind her the duchess and DoÑa Ángela. This scene must be strongly marked and fantastic. Don Lorenzo, in the middle of the stage, evinces in his attitude, manner, and expression that he is undergoing a desperate inward struggle. InÉs, delicate-looking and charming, approaches him slowly, and DoÑa Ángela and duchess, in black, follow, encouraging her. Juana dying; the study is quite dark save for the glimmer of the firelight which shows out InÉs sharply.]

Don Lorenzo. Here lies my real temptation. Oh, how lovely she is! What an aureola of divine beauty encircles her head—the sole ray of light in this heavy darkness.

DoÑa Ángela. [Aside to InÉs.] Do you see? He cannot resist you. Implore him, implore him, my child.

InÉs. [Advancing.] Kiss me, father.

Don Lorenzo. [Retreating.] Alas for me if those dear arms should clasp themselves like a halter round my neck!

Juana. [Aside.] A halter round the neck! He is right.

InÉs. For the love of God, father, for the love of me, for all the tears shed by those eyes you used to kiss so fondly when I was a child. [Lifts her hands to her eyes, and then offers them to Don Lorenzo to kiss.] See how the drops still flow from my eyelids. My fingers are wet with them. Kiss them, and let your lips taste of their bitterness.

Don Lorenzo. Yes—I will kiss them—I will kiss them—but, alas! if one of mine should fall upon them.

Juana. [Aside.] Fall, fall, so he said. I also am falling into the bottomless abyss. But first, first I must embrace my son.

InÉs. Father!Father! [Don Lorenzo retreats. DoÑa Ángela, InÉs and the duchess follow him.]

DoÑa Ángela. Lorenzo!

Juana. 'Twas Lorenzo they called. There—there—I see something.

Don Lorenzo. No, no—a thousand times, no. Would you degrade me?

InÉs. And you, father—who would believe it?—would kill me. If not, why do you seek to place an obstacle between me and the love of my life?

Don Lorenzo. No, my InÉs, no—the duchess—it is the duchess.

InÉs. It is not true. The duchess consents.

Don Lorenzo. At the cost of my honour.

Duchess. Not so, InÉs. In exchange for silence.

InÉs. Don't you hear her, father?

Don Lorenzo. [Moving away and repulsing her.] I only hear voices begging my conscience of me. I only see shadows pursuing me through the shadows—phantasms of space, engendered by temptation. Leave me, leave me—in God's name. If you are strong enough to wring my heart, at least you are not strong enough to bend my will.

Juana. His voice! Lorenzo, Lorenzo! [Comes over to embrace him.]

Don Lorenzo. Mother! [Embraces her.]

InÉs. [Taking refuge behind DoÑa Ángela.] Whose voice is that? Who is that woman? What shade is that which has come out of the darkness and encircles my father with its arms? I'm afraid.

Don Lorenzo. Juana! my mother!

InÉs. His mother! Why does he call her mother?

Don Lorenzo. Because she's my mother, and because I should call her so.

Juana. I? his mother? Good gracious, what an idea! How I wish it were so!

Duchess. Do you hear—do you hear what she says?

DoÑa Ángela. She denies it.

Don Lorenzo. [Violently.] You are my mother.

Juana. Ah, my poor Lorenzo. [Laughs with an effort, embraces him, and whispers.] Child of my heart!

Don Lorenzo. On your life, repeat aloud what you have just whispered to me.

Juana. I whispered! Well, what did I say? To be his mother! Could I wish for a greater blessing?

Don Lorenzo. [Furiously.] Ah, you deny it.

DoÑa Ángela. Lorenzo!

Don Lorenzo. [With increasing fury.] Do you deny that you are my mother?

Juana. Why not?

Don Lorenzo. [Despairingly.] You denied me at the hour of my birth, and again you deny me at the hour of your death.

Juana. [Clasping him closely, so that in the darkness it is not possible to discern if they are embracing, or if Don Lorenzo has caught her in his rage.] Child of my love! [Whispers in a dying voice.]

Don Lorenzo. [Deliriously.] That's so, that's so.

Juana. I am dying.

Don Lorenzo. No, mother.

Duchess. Heavens! Is the man going to kill her? Help! [Runs to door R.]

DoÑa Ángela. Edward—doctor!

Don Lorenzo. Mother, mother!

Juana. No,—God help me!—no, not that.

SCENE X

Don Lorenzo, Juana, InÉs, DoÑa Ángela, Duchess, Dr. TomÁs, and Edward. Latter two enter R. with lights, all help to separate Juana and Don Lorenzo.

Dr. TomÁs. Come, come.

Don Lorenzo. My mother—forgive me, forgive me. You don't wish me to call you mother—my mother.

Juana. Farewell.

Don Lorenzo. Juana! [Juana makes a terrible effort, and rises as if wounded in the heart by the name of Juana; falls back.]

Dr. TomÁs. Dead!

Don Lorenzo. No, it cannot be. [Embraces her.] I killed her by calling her mother,—and the last cry she heard from my lips was Juana. Ah, my God, my God! Why hast thou punished her so hardly, and why hast thou forsaken me?

SCENE I

Dr. TomÁs. Everything is quiet. The girl's sobbing can no longer be heard, and Don Lorenzo's fury is calmed. 'Tis but the gentle precursor of a fresh tempest. [Pause.] There are moments when I doubt and vacillate. He,—he,—my good friend, poor Lorenzo—the very idea gives me no rest. Well, well, we shall soon know the truth now,—meanwhile, courage. I have sacred obligations to fulfil towards this afflicted family. Nobody could more earnestly desire to help them than I.

Servant. A gentleman, accompanied by two—really sir, I don't know what to call them—but their dress,—well, the gentleman has given me his card for you, and they are all waiting outside.

Dr. TomÁs. [Looking at card.] Ah, Doctor BermÚdez. Show him in.

Servant. And the other two?

Dr. TomÁs. Let them wait. [Exit servant.] As the hour approaches my doubts and my anxiety increase. Poor DoÑa Ángela! what a blow for her! And in what a state of nervous agitation is her unhappy daughter! How lucid her glance, and how quick her intelligence! Nobody has explained the matter to her, and yet I believe she knows everything. She guesses what she does not precisely know, and suspects what she does not guess. Oh, no; the situation cannot be prolonged. However sad reality may be, we have to face it.

SCENE II

Dr. TomÁs, Dr. BermÚdez. Afterwards two keepers, attired like gentlemen, but evincing that they are not such. Dr. TomÁs advances with outstretched hand.

Dr. TomÁs. Doctor.

BermÚdez. Dr. TomÁs.

Dr. TomÁs. Punctual as ever.

BermÚdez. No, I am a little early. I want to hide these fellows somewhere.

Dr. TomÁs. Yes, yes, I understand.

BermÚdez. I have made them dress so as to avert suspicion in Don Lorenzo. This is a case for such general precautions.

Dr. TomÁs. Quite so, quite so. We must proceed with great caution. It was an access of fury, a veritable access of fury, as I told you. He has only had one, the other night. Perhaps I am mistaken.

BermÚdez. I sincerely hope so—and you, too, I am sure.

Dr. TomÁs. Ah, my friend, I scarce know what I am doing. But we trust in your science, your experience, and profound penetration to relieve us of our present doubt.

BermÚdez. You flatter me. You also are a doctor——

Dr. TomÁs. Don't count on me, BermÚdez. I am good for nothing. I declare myself incompetent. It is a question of my best friend, of a brother almost. Besides, he has always struck me—you know my school. There is not a divisional line between reason and madness.

BermÚdez. Quite true. All men of learning are more or less insane.

Dr. TomÁs. Precisely. Excitement of the brain beyond certain limits——

BermÚdez. That's it. What we have to do is to see what can be done with Don Lorenzo. Now these two fellows——

Dr. TomÁs. Oh, it will be easy enough to invent a tale. We'll call them witnesses—say they've come with the notary—anything, in fact. Poor Lorenzo is not in a condition to take note of details.

BermÚdez. Where will they wait?

Dr. TomÁs. [Pointing to door R.] Inside that door.

BermÚdez. [Going up the stage.] Here, Braulio! {Enter two keepers, rather heavy and rough in appearance.]

Dr. TomÁs. Go into that closet. You will be called if necessary,—meanwhile, remain quiet. [Keepers salute and enter closet R.] Since Juana's death Don Lorenzo has not used this room. [To BermÚdez.] With the door shut—— [Shuts it.]

BermÚdez. [Looking at his watch.] I will be with you in a moment. I'll be back again before the notary arrives. I'm only off somewhere in the neighbourhood.

Dr. TomÁs. A visit?

BermÚdez. Yes; a very strange case of insanity. [Enter DoÑa Ángela C., who stands looking at BermÚdez.] She's——? [To Dr. TomÁs, glancing at DoÑa Ángela.]

Dr. TomÁs. Yes—his wife. Don't say anything to her.

BermÚdez. [Aside to Dr. TomÁs.] I'll be back shortly. Your servant, madam. [Salutes DoÑa Ángela, and exit C.]

SCENE III

DoÑa Ángela and Dr. TomÁs. DoÑa Ángela follows BermÚdez with her eyes, then glances towards the closet where keepers are concealed.

DoÑa Ángela. Who was that going away? And who were the two men that accompanied him?him?

Dr. TomÁs. Don't be alarmed, dear madam. It will be all right. These are only ordinary precautions, for, who knows? Don Lorenzo might have another access of fury like that of the night before last, and for your sakes—for his own——

DoÑa Ángela. Oh, doctor, don't hint such a thing.

Dr. TomÁs. Don't you remember with what frenzy he grasped poor Juana's dying body? Now that nobody is listening, in all confidence let me say that I firmly believe he was the determining cause——

DoÑa Ángela. TomÁs, TomÁs!

Dr. TomÁs. Well, at any rate he hastened her death. You heard how bitterly he accused himself in his delirium. Don't let us forge illusions. It was a real access of——

DoÑa Ángela. [Sobbing.] Lorenzo, my husband!

Dr. TomÁs. The crisis may return, for to-day——

DoÑa Ángela. Yes, I know what his intention is. Ah, doctor, how unfortunate we are! How unfortunate my poor Lorenzo is!

Dr. TomÁs. What is he doing now?

DoÑa Ángela. He is quite calm. He writes, and walks about. He wants to be continually with InÉs and me, because solitude terrifies him. A moment ago he stared at me mournfully, but with such tenderness, and kissed me, murmuring, 'poor Ángela.'

Dr. TomÁs. You must not contradict him.

DoÑa Ángela. No, doctor. We agree with him in everything.

Dr. TomÁs. And he still persists in the same idea?

DoÑa Ángela. Yes. From time to time he asks what o'clock it is, gets impatient with the notary's delay, and then mutters in an undertone: 'Though all the world should oppose me, I must do it.'

Dr. TomÁs. What a fellow! What character!

DoÑa Ángela. Oh, doctor, for the love of God, don't deceive me. Tell me, do you really believe Lorenzo to be—to be,—no, I can't—I can't bring myself to pronounce the horrible word.

Dr. TomÁs. I don't yet know what to believe. We shall soon see, my dear friend, we shall see. It was precisely to be relieved once and for all of intolerable anxiety that I asked Dr. BermÚdez to call. He is the first authority upon all such cases.

DoÑa Ángela. But it is impossible, it is surely impossible.

Dr. TomÁs. It would rejoice me to learn so, and we need not lose hope. But impossible, madam! Ah, human reason is so slight a thing.

DoÑa Ángela. Oh, my dear husband! No, I cannot bear—it cannot be.

Dr. TomÁs. Come, come, DoÑa Ángela. Have sense and courage, if only for your daughter's sake, for poor InÉs. And who knows yet? We have to see if Don Lorenzo has any explanation to offer—any proof——

DoÑa Ángela. What proof can he have? Even the dying Juana cried out to him, 'No, no, you are not my son,' while he, frenzied and delirious, grasped her in his arms and strove to force an impossible confession from the half dead body, calling her 'mother' in the strident voice of dementia. No, you can't console me, friend. It is useless. I foresee that our misfortune is inevitable.

Dr. TomÁs. I almost fear so.

DoÑa Ángela. And then his way of receiving the duchess, he who is always the pink of courtesy, a finished gentleman——

Dr. TomÁs. You are right. On that occasion I understood how it was with him. But who can be resigned when fate strikes so suddenly?

DoÑa Ángela. Adoring a child as he adores InÉs, is there anybody who could act as he proposes to act to-day?

Dr. TomÁs. Nobody, madam, nobody in his right mind.

DoÑa Ángela. Have you told Dr. BermÚdez?

Dr. TomÁs. Not everything. That would be dangerous. But quite enough to enable him to pronounce an opinion.

DoÑa Ángela. And what is it?

Dr. TomÁs. Am I to speak fully?

DoÑa Ángela. Yes, yes, doctor. Conceal nothing. I know there is no remedy.

Dr. TomÁs. With skillful treatment, separated from everybody, especially from those whose presence could only serve to exasperate his nervous sensibility by very reason of his affection for them——

DoÑa Ángela. TomÁs!

Dr. TomÁs. In some good asylum here in Spain or abroad——

DoÑa Ángela. What! What is it you say? Separate him from us! Take him away! He—he—never. I am his wife. I will never consent to it.

Dr. TomÁs. The sight of InÉs will aggravate his delirium.

DoÑa Ángela. Her absence would be his death.

Dr. TomÁs. He smothered that poor woman to death.

DoÑa Ángela. There you are wrong, TomÁs. With her father InÉs runs no risk. She is his daughter.

Dr. TomÁs. He believed Juana to be his mother.

DoÑa Ángela. It must not be, TomÁs, it must not be. Why can't you find a way of relieving my anguish instead of torturing me so?

Dr. TomÁs. DoÑa Ángela!

DoÑa Ángela. It is true, my friend, 'twould indeed be no easy matter to find consolation for such a sorrow as mine.

Dr. TomÁs. There is no human sorrow inconsolable, however great it may be.

DoÑa Ángela. Oh, but mine is.

Dr. TomÁs. Yours still less than many others. Come, let us discuss it dispassionately.

DoÑa Ángela. How can I, with fever running fire in my veins?

Dr. TomÁs. Hear me out. If what Don Lorenzo asserts be true, if there were irrefragable proofs——

DoÑa Ángela. Then my poor husband would not be out of his mind. We it would be who are blind and foolish. Oh, what a blessing that would be!

Dr. TomÁs. Not so great, for in that case you would have to face poverty, dishonour—death even.

DoÑa Ángela. Hush, TomÁs.

Dr. TomÁs. I say death advisedly, for InÉs would most certainly die of it. On the other hand, if Lorenzo's calamity be proved——

DoÑa Ángela. Don't continue. I can't bear to think of it.

Dr. TomÁs. But think of InÉs, and in thinking of her you will see that, terrible as the wound is—we must acknowledge the fact, sad as it is—it is by no means a mortal wound. For youth, what alone is mortal is to destroy the future—not simply precipitate the past into nothingness.

DoÑa Ángela. For mercy's sake, TomÁs!

Dr. TomÁs. The happiness of InÉs' lifetime depends upon her father's calamity—don't forget it.

DoÑa Ángela. Let God's will be done, but do not seek to awaken ideas rather fitted to frighten than to comfort me.

SCENE IV

Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] But where have I left the key? Oh, my head! and the notary will be here presently. I left the letter in the desk. I remember quite well. Two days ago, when my mother——

Dr. TomÁs. [Without seeing Don Lorenzo.] Poor DoÑa Ángela! The proof [ordeal] will be a terrible one.

Don Lorenzo. What? What are they saying? The proof! yes; they are speaking of the proof. [Looks eagerly about the table for key of desk.]

DoÑa Ángela. Yes, it will be a terrible one—very terrible to walk between two precipices. Lorenzo on the one side, InÉs on the other. You are right indeed.

Don Lorenzo. [Aloud, angrily.] I have lost it.

Dr. TomÁs. [Aside, turning round.] I should think you have, unfortunate man.

DoÑa Ángela. Lorenzo!

Don Lorenzo. Ah, they're there. [Recognises them with a suspicious glance.]

DoÑa Ángela. [Gently.] What are you looking for? We will help you.

Don Lorenzo. You! no. Wherefore? It is my work.

DoÑa Ángela. But at least tell us what you have lost.

Don Lorenzo. Everything—even the love of mine own. Say if there can be more for me to lose.

DoÑa Ángela. No, Lorenzo, do not believe it.

Don Lorenzo. At last! The key. Heaven be praised! [Aside, distrustfully.] It was there—it was in the lock. [Opens desk and takes out the paper Juana placed there.] Ah, here it is. I breathe again freely. [Reads.] 'For Lorenzo.' This is the paper.

DoÑa Ángela. [Approaching.] Have you found what you were looking for?

Don Lorenzo. Yes. [Dr. TomÁs also approaches.]

DoÑa Ángela. What paper is it?

Don Lorenzo makes a movement to take paper out of envelope, but seeing Dr. TomÁs and DoÑa Ángela come nearer, he puts it back in desk, locks it, and pockets the key.]

Don Lorenzo. A very important one. [Looks from one to the other angrily and suspiciously.] But why do you want to know?

DoÑa Ángela. Don't be offended, Lorenzo. Forgive me if I have committed an indiscretion.

Don Lorenzo. I forgive! It is I who want your forgiveness. Through me, through my fault, are you about to be plunged into misery.

DoÑa Ángela. Do not say so. We could never be miserable, you being happy.

Don Lorenzo. And I, could I be happy, fortune having deserted you and my beloved child?

DoÑa Ángela. She, too, will be happy.

Don Lorenzo. Impossible, for you know what I am thinking of.

DoÑa Ángela. You have told me. Don't you remember?

Don Lorenzo. [To Dr. TomÁs.] And you?

Dr. TomÁs. I also know.

Don Lorenzo. You approve?

DoÑa Ángela. [Sweetly.] Whatever you do will be well done.

Don Lorenzo. [To Dr. TomÁs] What have you to say?

Dr. TomÁs. The same.

Don Lorenzo. [Thoughtfully.] 'The same.' What conformity of opinion! Do you know that I have sent for a notary?

DoÑa Ángela. We know it.

Don Lorenzo. [Looking at both.] You know it. And do you likewise know that I am about to have a legal act drawn up containing my formal declaration and renunciation?

DoÑa Ángela. Yes, Lorenzo.

Don Lorenzo. So that the judge may then ordain as the law directs? Is it not so?

Dr. TomÁs. It is natural.

Don Lorenzo. [To DoÑa Ángela.] What do you say to it?

DoÑa Ángela. [In weeping voice.] If this wealth we now enjoy is not legally yours—you do well.

Dr. TomÁs. If the name you bear is not yours, you must certainly give it up.

DoÑa Ángela. In any case your will is law.

Don Lorenzo. Yes, but a tyrannical law, an impious law—eh?

DoÑa Ángela. Still, a law that I respect above all others.

Don Lorenzo. [Nervous, unquiet, almost irritable.] And you don't resist it? You don't struggle against it?

Dr. TomÁs. Your conduct is that of a man of honour. Strictly speaking, there is nothing else for you to do.

Don Lorenzo. What unheard-of submission! What extraordinary docility! What a sudden change! You are deceiving me. I tell you, you are lying to me. [Violently.]

DoÑa Ángela. For pity's sake, Lorenzo.

Dr. TomÁs. [Aside.] Ah, there is no hope. Like a black wave dementia has spread over his mind.

Don Lorenzo. [More calmly.] Well, well, better so. [Pause. Approaches DoÑa Ángela affectionately.] Where is InÉs?

DoÑa Ángela. My poor child!

Don Lorenzo. You don't defend her against me? [Then gently.] Nevertheless, it is your duty.

DoÑa Ángela. Alas, Lorenzo, what strength has your wretched wife to use against you? Your will grows iron in strife and calamity; mine bends to the very dust.

Don Lorenzo. You are right. My will is irresistible when duty orders me. [To Dr. TomÁs.] What do you think of all this?

Dr. TomÁs. That it should be so.

Don Lorenzo. So it is. [Pause.] Poor Ángela! And do you know what we are going to do once the act is signed and the proof given up?

Dr. TomÁs. You have a proof?

Don Lorenzo. You didn't know. [Aside, wondering.] (And they were talking about it when I entered!) Yes, I have it, irrefutable, past doubt, clear as daylight, although it is black as night and treason.

DoÑa Ángela. Keep calm, Lorenzo.

Dr. TomÁs. Then what is it?

Don Lorenzo. A letter of my mother's—of the woman who called herself my mother.

DoÑa Ángela. [Aside.] Good Heavens! Can it be true?

Don Lorenzo. Her signature, her handwriting—it is here—in my power.

Dr. TomÁs. [Aside.] Ah, if it were so.

Don Lorenzo. Then when the proof is delivered up, you, my poor InÉs, and I will at once leave this house—this house which already has ceased to be ours, and which this very day the law will take into possession until it is handed over to the heirs of AvendaÑa. [With increasing animation.] And in a little while we shall wander forth without resources, without a name, bearing a dying child in our arms—for have you not assured us that InÉs will die? [to Dr. TomÁs]—fronting a despairing solitude——no, 'twas not well said—I blasphemed. We will bear away with us an unstained honour and a tranquil conscience, and our heads will be held high, while God is with us. What matter if the world forsake us, thus accompanied?

DoÑa Ángela. [Embracing him.] Before, I said with my lips only: 'Your will is law, Lorenzo.' Now I say it with my heart.

Dr. TomÁs. [Aside.] If the proof exists, this man is a saint. But, alas! if it does not exist, the unfortunate fellow is nothing but a lunatic. [Enter servant.]

Servant. The Duchess of Almonte, and his Grace the Duke.

DoÑa Ángela. Show them in. [To Dr. TomÁs.] Have you informed them?

Dr. TomÁs. [To DoÑa Ángela.] I told them last night. The duchess promised to come. You see, she has kept her word.

Don Lorenzo. I cannot see them. I must be alone, unless you are with me—only you. Good-bye, Ángela.

DoÑa Ángela. Good-bye, Lorenzo.

Don Lorenzo. [Looking at his watch.] How slowly time passes! [Goes to door R. Dr. TomÁs follows him.] Have you given notice to the witnesses? [At door.]

Dr. TomÁs. I have two inside waiting, and another will be here presently.

Don Lorenzo. Who are they?

Dr. TomÁs. You don't know them. They are friends of mine.

Don Lorenzo. And why not mine too?

Dr. TomÁs. I always considered my friends as yours.

Don Lorenzo. [Looks at him for a moment.] So they are. [Aside.] Ah, this complaisance! I would have preferred to see them resist—struggle against me!

SCENE V

DoÑa Ángela. Duchess!

Duchess. Madam! [Salutes affectionately.]

DoÑa Ángela. You are always so good to us.

Duchess. It is my duty to offer the consolations of sincere friendship in your cruel trouble. God has willed that the same misfortune should strike us all though in different ways. [Lowers her voice and points to Edward on uttering the last word.]

DoÑa Ángela. But what then do you call the misfortune that has struck me? I know not.

Edward. Well, madam, the moment for naming it has arrived. It is called poverty, and shame, and the death of InÉs, or——

DoÑa Ángela and Duchess, [At same time.] Edward!

Edward. Forgive me, mother. We should each and all speak out the truth to-day. You have already said: 'I will compromise with Don Lorenzo's calamity for the sake of the love I bear you and that which you bear me; but I will never compromise with his public dishonour,—never, not even for the price of your life.' My life, mother, was it not so 'twas said?

Duchess. [With energy, but sadly.] Yes.

Edward. [Going toward DoÑa Ángela.] Then, madam, let us probe the misfortune that has struck you. Whether is it called dishonour or madness? This is the problem we have to solve. Should Don Lorenzo be correct, should he be in his sound senses, should there be proof forthcoming of his assertion, it is for us to respect his cruel virtue. But if, as I (by a thousand signs that almost constitute evidence) believe, an eternal cloud has dimmed his intellect, and the light of his reason is for ever quenched,—then defend yourself, DoÑa Ángela. It is your most sacred duty. Defend the name you bear, your social position, even Don Lorenzo's honour, against his own raving; defend,—why should I keep it back?—InÉs' life and her life's felicity. Do not, madam, leave such almighty interests and so dear an object at the mercy of a madman.

Duchess. Edward!

Edward. The word is a harsh one, but the time has come to pronounce it. Once for all, let us learn the fact whether this battle for reputation and existence into which Don Lorenzo has cast us is what it seems or what I fear:—whether, finally, the heroic sacrifice of this implacable scholar is insanity or sanctity.

Duchess. Enough, Edward. [DoÑa Ángela sits down on sofa, weeping bitterly. Duchess goes over to her.]

Dr. TomÁs. [To Edward.] The happiness of this family affects me as closely as my own. What you propose to do has already been considered, and both the law and science will be called in to decide.

Duchess. I hope to Heaven the darkness will be illuminated for you. [To DoÑa Ángela.] Come, come, madam: courage, resignation! Where is InÉs?

DoÑa Ángela. Do you wish to see her?

Duchess. Yes.

DoÑa Ángela. Come, then. [To Dr. TomÁs.] And you too. I would like you to see her. For the past three days fever alone has lent her strength. My daughter, my dear child is very ill.

Dr. TomÁs. Poor girl!

SCENE VI

Edward. They persist in doubting. What blindness! They can't understand that the unfortunate gentleman, from force of seeking, not the righting of wrongs, like the Errant Knight, but the reason of all the varied rights invented by the accumulated wisdom of centuries, has ended by losing the only one that Providence saw fit to bestow upon him—namely, natural reason. Oh, but this must not be. I cannot allow them to sacrifice my dear one's life to the extravagances of a poor madman.

SCENE VII

InÉs. What are those men? Who are they?

Edward. [Rushing towards her.] InÉs, my beloved! How pale you are! Your divine glance is hemmed round by deep purple shadow.

InÉs. But answer me. Who are they? What are they waiting for? Send them away. [Approaches the door cautiously and peeps in; Edward endeavours to lead her down the stage.] There is something sinister about them. My father—where is my father? I was looking for him between the drawing-room and yonder closet, and I saw them—I can't bear the sight of them, and yet I cannot take my eyes from off them.

Edward. But what is the matter with you, dearest? Why do your eyes seem to shun me? Is it from me that you are running away? InÉs, have you wearied of my love?

InÉs. [Coming down the stage.] Wearied of your love? You must know that it is my life. But oh, Edward, to what a frightful ordeal fate has subjected us! You do not understand it. For me supreme bliss lies in your love, and the hope I place in your love is a still greater bliss—a far, far greater. The one is our present, the other contains all our future. And yet, Edward, dearest, that same hope has now become a crime for your InÉs, yes, a crime. Can a cruelty more exquisite be conceived? That which destiny denies no other living being it denies me. Yesterday I was but a child. My thoughts floated upon laughter in a sphere of white transparency, like a vapoury mist in moonlight. To-day they are as heavy as lead, as burning as lava. Could you but hear their horrible whispers in the silence of night. And these thoughts are not mine. It is not my will that gives them birth. They come I know not whence. I cast them from me, and still they return. They vex me with chiding complaints: 'your poor father,' one moment, and then assail me with tempting voices, murmuring: 'InÉs, InÉs, who knows?—you may yet be happy—love may yet smile upon you—hope, hope, poor little thing.' Can you think of anything more horrible—surely it must be my bad angel—than to hear within oneself the voice of Satan whispering of hope to one bidden to say farewell to it?

Edward. You are not yourself, my dear InÉs.

InÉs. [Approaching Edward.] I am filled with remorse.

Edward. For what?

InÉs. I don't know. I have done nothing wrong. My father! My poor father!

Edward. You angel of my life, my heart's desire, be calm, be calm. I beg of you to spare yourself.

InÉs. Whisper, Edward. I could almost wish I were dead.

SCENE VIII

Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Dead, she said?

Edward. You dead! No, InÉs, don't say such a thing.

InÉs. Why not? If I do not die of sorrow—should fortune ever again smile upon me, then must I die of remorse.

Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Of remorse! She! Should fortune ever again smile upon her! What worse fate floats in the air and hangs threateningly above my head? Remorse!—I have again caught another passing word. I traverse rooms and galleries, and wander from one place to another, pricked by insufferable anguish. I hear talk that I do not understand, and meet glances still further from my comprehension. I see tears here, smiles there, and nobody opposes me,—all either fly from me or watch me. [Aloud.] What is this? What is this?

InÉs. [Rushing to his arms.] Oh, father!

Don Lorenzo. InÉs, how white you are? Whence this dolorous constriction of your lips? Why do you essay a smile only to end in sobbing? How lovely she is in her sorrow! And it is all my fault.

InÉs. No, father.

Don Lorenzo. I am cruel. Oh, if you do not say it, you think it.

Edward. InÉs is too sweet-natured to harbour rebellious thoughts. But we who see her suffer cannot help thinking and saying it for her.

Don Lorenzo. It is but natural you should do so.

Edward. [Passionately.] Then if I am right, you are wrong.

Don Lorenzo. I am not in the wrong for that. There is something more pallid than the white brow of a lovesick maid; there are tears sadder far than the crystal drops of her beautiful eyes, something still crueller than the curving smiles of her lips, and something yet more tragic than the death of our beloved.

Edward. [With violence and contempt.] What is this worse pallor, these sadder tears, and still mournfuller tragedies?

Don Lorenzo. [Seizing his arm.] Madman! The pallor of crime, the tears of remorse, the consciousness of one's own infamy.

Edward. And this infamy, this remorse, this crime would lie in furthering your daughter's happiness?

Don Lorenzo. [Despairingly.] It should not be—but so it is nevertheless. [Pause.] And this makes my torment. This is the idea that will drive me mad.

InÉs. No, no, father. You must not say that. Do what you think best without thought of me. What does it matter whether I live or die?

Don Lorenzo. InÉs!

InÉs. Only, do not be uncertain in it—above all, do not let others see your uncertainty. Let your speech be clear and persuasive, as it is now, and do not let worry blind you. Be calm, father. I implore you by all that is sacred.

Don Lorenzo. What do you mean? I do not understand.

InÉs. Do I myself know rightly what I mean? Adieu, adieu. I cannot bear to grieve you.

Edward. [To Don Lorenzo.] Alas, if 'twere possible for you to take counsel with your heart, and silence the prompting of thought.

InÉs. [To Edward.] Do not vex him. Come with me—if you thwart him maybe 'twill force his hate.

Don Lorenzo. Poor child!—she also is struggling—but she will conquer. She is not my daughter for nothing.

[Utters this proudly. InÉs and Edward go up the stage; passing the door of the closet, InÉs sees the keepers, and makes a movement of horror.]

InÉs. What sinister vision is it that frights my gaze? Those men? Oh, father, do not enter there.

Edward. Come, InÉs, come.

InÉs. [To her father.] No, no. I beseech you, father.

Don Lorenzo. [Going towards her.] InÉs!

InÉs. Those men—there—look! [Points to closet. Don Lorenzo stands and follows her eyes. At that moment the keepers, hearing her cry, lift the curtain and show themselves.]

Edward. [Leading InÉs away.] At last!

SCENE IX

Don Lorenzo. Who can they be? Enter, pray. [The keepers advance timidly, and speak abruptly.]

Braulio. Dr. TomÁs——

Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Ah, I understand.

Benito. Told us to wait there——

Don Lorenzo. Excuse me, I did not know——

Braulio. Not at all, sir.

Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] How odd they look, in sooth. Pray, be seated.

Benito. Thanks, sir.

Braulio. We are well enough standing.

Don Lorenzo. I cannot permit it——

Braulio. Don't trouble yourself, sir.

Benito. If the gentleman orders it, it is better to take a seat. [Both sit down on sofa. Don Lorenzo remains standing.]

Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Their looks seem to bode no good, or is it, perhaps, that my eyes only reflect the flashes that dart across my mind? [Inspects them again attentively. Aloud.] It was Miss AvendaÑa who saw you when she passed, and mentioned it to me.

Braulio. Yes, that beautiful young lady.

Benito. Who looked so sorrowful.

Braulio. Like the picture of the Dolorosa. [The keepers speak shortly, and after these remarks fall into sudden silence, remaining stiff and immovable, looking vaguely before them.]

Don Lorenzo. You frightened her, and she almost ran away at the sight of you. But you must not be astonished. The poor girl is very ill—indeed, she is scarce other than a child yet.

Braulio. [Smiling sillily.] It always happens to us in every house.

Don Lorenzo. [Aside, wondering.] In every house!

Benito. [Looking for the first time at Don Lorenzo, and again looking steadily in front of him.] Can she be that poor gentleman's daughter,—eh?

Don Lorenzo. What poor gentleman?

Benito. [Without looking at him.] The gentleman who is—— [Touches his forehead, still not looking at Don Lorenzo, who, unobserved by the keepers, makes a gesture of surprise.]

Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Ah—no—what an idea! [Aloud, with an effort of self-control.] Just so. She is the daughter of—— [Observes them with increasing anxiety.]

Benito. Well, she is very beautiful, though so sad.

Braulio. 'Tis reason enough she has to be sad.

Don Lorenzo. You know——?

Braulio. Everything. [Looks a moment at Don Lorenzo and then away.]

Don Lorenzo. Dr. TomÁs told you?

Benito. Not to us.

Braulio. He told the doctor.

Benito. Why should he talk to us? We, in doing our duty——

Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] All my body is bathed in a cold sweat, like the sweat of death. I am raving—This can't possibly be true. [Repeats mechanically.] In doing your duty——

Braulio. We are here on the look-out in case he should become obstreperous.

Don Lorenzo. In case he should become obstreperous?—who?

Braulio. Why, the gentleman.

Don Lorenzo. [Falls back staring at him in terror; passes his hand over his forehead as if to brush away an idea; retreats still further, staggers, and leans against the table. Then speaks low and abruptly in a dead voice.] So you know everything.

Braulio. Nearly everything.

Benito. As we have been waiting here for some time, we have heard the servants talk.

Don Lorenzo. They said——?

Braulio. They didn't leave us in the dark, you may be sure. It appears Don Lorenzo had an attack the night before last. You know all about it better than we do.

Don Lorenzo. [In a heavy sombre tone.] Yes.

Benito. They say he strangled a poor old woman. [Don Lorenzo recoils in horror, and covers his face with his hands.]

Braulio. There's a fellow for you! A good beginning—that's clear enough. It's always the same thing. The family——

Don Lorenzo. The family! [Removes his hands from his face, walks a few steps as if shaken by an electric shock, and stares at them with keen anxiety, speaking in the same dead voice.]

Braulio. Yes, the family—'tis natural enough.—Don't they say he wanted to give all his fortune away? ever so many millions. The devil of a lunatic altogether. Nothing else for it but what has been decided—to pack him off. We take him away and the poor ladies are left in peace.

Don Lorenzo. I!—they?—Ángela?—InÉs—no, no—not possible. [Recoils again R.]

Braulio. [Staring after him. Aside.] What's the matter with the gentleman? [To Benito.] Look at him, look. [Both keepers draw together and bend forward in direction R. looking curiously at Don Lorenzo. This group should be made important.]

Don Lorenzo. Air, light! No, not light—darkness! I do not want to see. I do not want to think. [Falls into arm-chair and lets his head drop into his palms.]

Benito. I say, I believe that's——

Braulio. This is a fine fix.

Benito. Who would think it!

Braulio. Let us go back to our hiding-place.

Benito. Sh! Say nothing about it. [They rise and walk cautiously to the closet, closely watching Don Lorenzo.]

Braulio. That's settled. Not a word. We were told to stay in here. Then let us stay, and we'd have done better not to budge.

Benito. Somebody is crying and sobbing. [They reach the door, stand and look at Don Lorenzo, who has not changed his attitude. Servant enters C., crosses and goes out R.] Leave him alone, leave him alone. Now that he is calm. [They enter closet and shut door.]

SCENE X

Don Lorenzo. My God, remove this chalice from my lips—I can endure no more—no more. Oh, strength fails me. [Sobs despairingly.] Thou who madest me believe in them. Thou who madest me love them!—and now they—oh, traitors! No, no. Lord who hast given me life, relieve me of its burden soon. See, Lord, how close upon me is the temptation to thrust from me with my own hands this putrid garb of flesh. To die! How I yearn for death! Dost thou not see it? See me kneel to implore it of thee—on my knees. Thou art kind, thou art compassionate. Death, only death. Send me death, the pallid messenger of thy love. [Falls kneeling beside the arm-chair and drops his head upon folded arms.]

Dr. TomÁs. [In low voice to servant.] Have they both come?

Servant. [In same tone to Dr. TomÁs.] Yes, sir; both the notary and Dr. BermÚdez. [Dr. TomÁs and servant stand in middle of stage observing Don Lorenzo, who is kneeling and sobbing.]

Dr. TomÁs. Poor fellow! [Steps towards Don Lorenzo, changes his mind and goes up C.] Why should I? Let us make an end of it.

SCENE XI

Don Lorenzo. Now am I calmer. The hurt is mortal. I feel it—here at the heart's core. Thanks, Almighty consoler. [Dr. TomÁs and Dr. BermÚdez enter C. and stand watching him.]

Dr. TomÁs. You see him there—beside the arm-chair.

BermÚdez. Unfortunate man!

Don Lorenzo. [Rising. Aside.] Ah, miserable being—still, still—cherishing impossible hopes. Impossible! And suppose they honestly believe that I——? Oh, but if they loved me, surely they would not believe it. [Despairingly. Pause.] Did I not hear InÉs—the child I so greatly love—speak of remorse? Why should she speak of remorse? [Aloud with increasing agitation.] All of them—wretches!—They would almost rejoice at my death. No, then I will not die, no, not until I have fulfilled my duty as an honourable man, not before I have brought the question of my madness to an end.

Dr. TomÁs. [Placing a hand upon his arm.] Lorenzo.

Don Lorenzo. [Turning, recognises him, and retreats angrily.] He!

Dr. TomÁs. Let me introduce one of my best friends, Dr. BermÚdez. [Pause. Don Lorenzo looks at both strangely.]

BermÚdez. [In low voice to Dr. TomÁs.] You can see the effort he is making to control himself. There can be no doubt that he is vaguely conscious of his condition.

Don Lorenzo. One of your best friends—one of your best friends——

BermÚdez. [Aside to Dr. TomÁs.] An idea is escaping him, and he is struggling to retain it.

Don Lorenzo. [Ironically.] Then if he is one of your best friends, your loyalty will be a guarantee of his.

BermÚdez. [Aside to Dr. TomÁs.] At last he has found the word, but note the unnatural tones of his voice. [Aloud.] I come, Dr. TomÁs assures me, to witness a most noble deed.

Don Lorenzo. And an act of unworthy treason as well.

Dr. TomÁs. Lorenzo!

BermÚdez. [Aside to Dr. TomÁs.] Let him say what he likes.

Don Lorenzo. And of an exemplary chastisement.

BermÚdez. [Aside to Dr. TomÁs.] It is very serious, my friend, very serious.

Don Lorenzo. [To Dr. TomÁs.] Call everybody, everybody, my own and strangers alike. Let them come here, and let them await my orders here while I am doing my duty elsewhere. What are you waiting for?

BermÚdez. [Aside to Dr. TomÁs.] You must not contradict him. Call them. [Dr. TomÁs rings a bell. Enter servant, to whom he speaks in low voice, and then goes out R.]

Don Lorenzo. 'Tis the last test. They almost inspire me with pity, the traitors! Oh, I am well sustained by the certainty of triumph. Be still, my heart. There they are, there they are! I can't see them—I who loved them so fondly. I cannot, and still my eyes turn to them, seeking them, seeking them ever.

SCENE XII

Don Lorenzo. InÉs! It is not possible. She! No, no, it cannot be, my child! [Goes towards her with outstretched arms. InÉs runs to him.]

InÉs. Father! [BermÚdez hastens to interpose, and separates them roughly.]

BermÚdez. Come, come, Don Lorenzo, you might hurt your daughter very seriously.

Don Lorenzo. [Seizing his arm and shaking him violently.] You scoundrel! Who are you to tear my child away from me?

Dr. TomÁs. Lorenzo!

Edward. Don Lorenzo!

DoÑa Ángela. Oh, heavens! [The ladies group together instinctively. InÉs in her mother's arms, the Duchess near them. Dr. TomÁs and Edward rush to free BermÚdez of Don Lorenzo's grasp.]

Don Lorenzo. [Aside, controlling himself.] So! the imbeciles believe it is another access of madness. Madness! Ha, ha, ha! [Laughs in a suppressed way. Everybody watches him.]

BermÚdez. [Aside to Dr. TomÁs.] It is quite evident.

DoÑa Ángela. [Aside.] Oh, my poor husband!

InÉs. [Aside.] My father!

Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Now they will see how my madness is going to end. Before I leave this house with what a hearty pleasure will I kick that doctor out. Fresh vigour already animates me. What! Since when has it become reason sufficient to declare a man mad because he is resolved to perform his duty? Ah, that's not very likely. Humanity is neither so blind nor so base, though it is bad enough. Softly now. Treason has begun its work; then let the punishment begin too. [Aloud.] The hour has come for me to accomplish a sacred obligation, however sharp a sorrow it may be. It were a useless trouble to insist upon your presence at the necessary legal formalities. It would only bore you. The representative of law awaits me in yonder room. I, in obeying a higher law, am about to renounce a fortune that is not mine, as well as a name that neither I nor my family can any longer bear with a clear conscience. Afterwards I will return here, and with my wife and—and—my daughter, will leave this house, which in the past has only sheltered love and felicity, and to-day offers me nothing but treason and wickedness. Let no one seek to prevent me, for none of you can resist my will. Gentlemen [to Dr. TomÁs and BermÚdez], do me the favour to go before—I beg you. [All slowly enter closet R. On the threshold Don Lorenzo looks back once at InÉs.]

InÉs. Oh, pity, Heaven, and save him.

DoÑa Ángela. [Embracing her.] You are right. Let us only think of him, pray for him alone.

Duchess. It is a sacred duty for you to place poor Don Lorenzo's welfare before your own happiness; but in any case, it is no less a sacred obligation to conform to a higher will than ours. [Pause.]

InÉs. [To Edward.] What are they saying? Tell us, Edward, what they are saying.

Edward. He is talking; his words are cold and severe, but not in the least uncertain or troubled. [Edward returns to the door.]

DoÑa Ángela. What anguish! What anxiety! Death were preferable to this torture.

InÉs. What can it matter what my father says since he is already judged beforehand?

DoÑa Ángela. Don't say such a thing, child.

InÉs. I say it because I feel it to be true, and I see it in the faces of those who are now his judges.

DoÑa Ángela. But what—what is it you see?

InÉs. In those persons the monomania of specialists.

DoÑa Ángela. In TomÁs?

InÉs. Yes—his scientific opinions—whatever they may be—his own special follies——

DoÑa Ángela. But in me, InÉs?

InÉs. [Embracing her.] Your love of me.

DoÑa Ángela. Hush, child, hush!

InÉs. They are all against my father, every one. Poor father!

Duchess. You are raving, InÉs.

InÉs. Yes, I am raving, and so are you, and so are all of us—all excepting him, excepting him—my heart tells me so. You yourself, madam, what is it you desire but Edward's happiness; and Edward wants my love, and I his. My father, with his virtue and his honour, is our mutual obstacle, while in us something obscure twists itself about us till conscience is enveloped in shadows. Oh, my father, my dearest father!

DoÑa Ángela. For pity's sake, InÉs! What ideas!

InÉs. What is he saying—tell me what he is saying! I hear his voice.

Edward. [Approaching.] He is speaking of conclusive evidence.

InÉs. Would to God there were. [To Edward.] And now?

Edward. They are demanding to see the evidence in order to draw up the act and present it to the judge.

DoÑa Ángela. And he?

Edward. He is smiling triumphantly. He is pale, fearfully pale, but composed and dignified. Here they are coming. [Edward comes down the stage and says aside.] That man terrifies me.

InÉs. [Aside.] God grant it may be true—though my love should perish.

DoÑa Ángela. [To the Duchess.] Can it be true?

Duchess. [To DoÑa Ángela.] Can it be true?

Edward. [Aside, seeing Don Lorenzo enter.] Ah, is it I who am mad?

The position of the persons is as follows. The three women form a group at sofa; Edward behind the sofa looking at Don Lorenzo in terror, dominated by him. Don Lorenzo advances to the middle of the stage, with a proud, calm bearing. Behind him come Dr. TomÁs and BermÚdez, who remain standing near door C.

Don Lorenzo. [Approaches table, and triumphantly places one hand on desk.] Here is the proof. Here lies the truth! [Pause. Opens desk and takes out envelope with blank sheet. Comes down stage. On one side Dr. TomÁs and BermÚdez. Edward approaches him on the other.] Woe to them who think to sacrifice me to their own interests and passions! Bitter will be their deception and most cruel their punishment! Would to God my forgiveness could mitigate it for them. [Deeply moved.]

DoÑa Ángela. [Coming nearer.] Lorenzo!

InÉs. Father——

Don Lorenzo. Here is the proof, TomÁs; here is the proof, Ángela, here, my child, is the proof. Listen. [Pause. Don Lorenzo opens envelope. All gather round him.] This is—what is this? [Holds paper away from his eyes, over which he rubs his hand.] What shade is this that dims my eyes? Can it be that there are tears in them which impede clear vision? No,—I cried before—but now I am not weeping. [Looks at paper again with horrible anxiety, opens it altogether, and seeks for writing on all sides.] Where are the words that woman wrote? I have read them a thousand times—and now I can't——[To Dr. TomÁs, holding out paper to him.] What does it say?—read, read—quickly—only tell me what it says.

Dr. TomÁs. Nothing, my poor friend.

Don Lorenzo. Nothing! [Again looks at paper.] You are deceiving me. Dr. BermÚdez, that fellow is deceiving me. He is one of the scoundrels who have plotted this wretched treason. Read it you—read it.

BermÚdez. There is nothing written on the paper.

Don Lorenzo. Nothing written on it! You say there is nothing written upon it! It is not true—no, it is not true. InÉs, my daughter, my best beloved, come and save your father.—What does it say?

InÉs. Oh, father, I see nothing.

Don Lorenzo. Nothing!—she also!—But is this not the proof?

Dr. TomÁs. Yes, my unhappy friend—the proof—but a far too cruel one.

Don Lorenzo. [Striking his forehead.] Ah, I understand. [Looks at Dr. TomÁs and DoÑa Ángela.] I heard them once before talking of a proof. You! [to Dr. TomÁs] and you! [To DoÑa Ángela.] You have taken it away. God in Heaven! [Recoils from them in horror. The rest move away from him, and he stands alone in the middle of the stage. Pause.] Be it so,—be it so!—I am defeated—most miserably defeated! How they rejoice in their triumph! See how they gaze at me in their hypocritical distress! And they feign to weep, too. They are all feigning. [Pause.] Alas! my heart—alas! for my life's illusion—alas! for love, and oh, alas! alas! my child—phantoms that whirl about and fly from me—for ever fly away!—I who believed in all things good—in the blue above, in the purity of my daughter's brow—what is there now left me to believe in? You see for yourselves. I make no resistance. I yield myself up. Yours the victory. Why have you brought those men here when I do not seek to oppose your will? I will go wherever you bid me. Adieu. Don't touch me. [To Dr. TomÁs, who approaches and takes his hand.] When human flesh comes in contact with mine, it seems to me that vipers crawl along my skin. Alone—alone will I ascend my Calvary bearing my cross of sorrows without an infamous Cyrenean to assist me. Farewell, loyal friend [still addresses Dr. TomÁs], who have saved the fortune of this disconsolate family from the hands of a madman. Farewell, Ángela, my tender-hearted wife. Twenty years ago, mad with love of you, I gave you my first kiss. To-day, no less a madman, I send you the last. [Kisses his hand to her with cry and expression of desperate grief.]

DoÑa Ángela. Lorenzo!

Don Lorenzo. Don't come near me. I might strangle you in my arms. [Ángela recoils.] Farewell, InÉs, my only child. Be happy—if you can. To you I say nothing. I could not speak to you unkindly. [Walks a few steps feebly, then stops. Repulses roughly those who rush to his assistance.] Let me be. I require no one. My brow is damp with sweat, and thirst is upon my dry lips, and a fiery heat seems to swell my eyelids. [Stops again.] Listen to me, InÉs, my child.—If you still retain any love for me,—if by chance your heart is touched with pity for your father,—if you feel regret for what you have done against me along with the rest of them—come once to my arms. Let me carry away into the hell of suffering that awaits me one tear of your eyes upon my cheek, one kiss of your dear lips upon mine.

InÉs. Father! [All endeavour to restrain her, but she breaks from them and runs to Don Lorenzo, who catches her in his arms and holds her closely clasped to his breast.]

Don Lorenzo. My child! [The rest advance to them, but make no effort to separate them.]

InÉs. No—they must not take you away—I love you dearly,—every one lies but you.

Don Lorenzo. You would not have those men carry me off?

InÉs. No, no; I will defend you—and you defend me.

Don Lorenzo. Yes! I will defend you—Let them drag you from my arms if they can. [Makes a movement to carry her away.]

DoÑa Ángela. My child, my child! Help! [Edward, Dr. TomÁs and BermÚdez struggle to separate father and daughter.]

Don Lorenzo. I will not let her go—for ever in my arms!

InÉs. Yes, yes, father. Defend me.

BermÚdez. It is imperative.

Edward. Don Lorenzo!

Dr. TomÁs. Lorenzo!

Duchess. Merciful god, he will kill her as he killed Juana!

DoÑa Ángela. InÉs! [These exclamations are simultaneous: the struggle is swift. Keepers enter. The men hold Don Lorenzo, and the women restrain InÉs, keeping her by force from her father.]

Edward. At last!

InÉs. Father! [Holds her arms out to Don Lorenzo.]

Don Lorenzo. I was not able, child.—I could do no more.—Here upon my cheek I feel your kisses and your tears.—She at least loved me—she was innocent—I see it now. God above, thou hast accepted my martyrdom in that night of agony and temptation in exchange for her happiness. I do not regret it. Make her happy—very happy! and let the cup of bitterness be mine alone—only mine!

InÉs. Adieu, father—I will save you yet.

Don Lorenzo. What can you do, child—when God himself has not seen fit to save me? [Remains near closet between keepers, guarded by Edward, Dr. TomÁs and BermÚdez. InÉs, held back by the other women, stands with arms strained towards him.]