Man. What are you at there, my good fellow?

Yvonnet. [Startled.] I was listening to the singing, sir.

Man. Who are the singers?

Yvon. The reapers, sir, returning home.

Man. You, I suppose, are the keeper of these ruins?

Yvon. Yes, sir. I am the shepherd that minds the sheep, and shows the tower to strangers.

[Shows key.

Man. [Giving money.] There.

Yvon. Thank you, sir.

Man. Are you never afraid here all alone?

Yvon. Afraid! No, indeed. That is, not in the day-time, but at night—

Man. Ah, ah, then you have fairies, or spirits, or ghosts here, eh!

Yvon. [Disdainfully.] Sir, do you take me for a superstitious fool! It's all very well for people who don't know any better, but I—

Man. Then you do not believe in anything of the kind?

Yvon. I should think not, indeed. But if you come to talk about the white lady, that's quite another matter.

Man. Oh! so there's a white lady, is there?

Yvon. Yes, sir, there is indeed, and she walks about on the top of that tower over there, and where there are no stairs either. But she is never seen in the day, only in the night, when it is quite dark.

Man. [Laughing.] Yes, she is seen when it is too dark to see.

Yvon. [Looking out.] Ah! Confound those sheep, at their old tricks again. [Shouts.] Hi! Hi! I don't believe there's such a troublesome set of brutes in the whole country, always climbing where they have no business. Hi! Hi!

[Throws a stone.

Man. Why don't you jump down there?

Yvon. Try it yourself, if you want to break your neck, my fine gentleman. Are you going to stay long? It is getting late.

Man. Don't be uneasy, I shall go presently.

Yvon. The sooner the better. I ain't a coward, but I feel more comfortable away from here.

[Exit.

Man. This is a fine old ruin. How is it that I have never found it out before? I must bring my sketch-book here some day. Alas! I forgot that for me there is no future here, to-morrow—'Tis but a sad farewell that I must bid the scenes I had begun to love so well. Wretched heart! Is it, then, because reason, honor, everything, forbids my loving her that—Ah! were I not the guardian of an existence more precious than my own, I should long ago have fled this torture!

[Goes up.

Enter Marguerite.

Mar. This is most fortunate, when the moon rises the view will be charming. [Suddenly sees Manuel.] Sir, I beg your pardon. I was not aware, indeed—

[Going.

Man. Excuse me, Mademoiselle, I am not at home here—permit me to retire.

[Going.

Mar. [Crossing.] Stay, sir. As we happen to be alone, will you answer me fully and frankly, one question. They tell me my manner towards you is abrupt, unkind, even at times, offensive.

Man. I have never complained.

Mar. But you would leave us?

Man. Mademoiselle.

Mar. And they say that I am the cause. Your departure, sir, would occasion my mother sincere sorrow, which I am anxious to spare her, if it be in my power; but I am at a loss to know what explanation to make you—what am I to say? that the language which has offended you, is not always sincere—that perhaps, after all, I myself can appreciate joys and pleasures more exalted than those which the mere possession of wealth can give. Well, it is possible—but am I so much to blame, that I use my powers to stifle thoughts which are forbidden me.

Man. Forbidden?

Mar. Yes, forbidden. It may, perhaps, appear like affectation, to complain of a destiny which so many envy—but, like my mother, I believe that were I less rich, I should be the more happy. You have reproached me with my continual distrust. But in whom can I trust? I, who from my infancy have been surrounded—do I not know it too well—but by false friends, grasping relatives, and suspicious suitors! Do you suppose that I am weak and foolish enough to attribute to my own attractions, the care, the solicitude, with which so many of these parasites surround me; and even if a pure and noble heart, (should such a thing exist in this world,) were capable of seeking and loving me for what I am—not for what I have—I should never know it—[with meaning]—for I should never dare the risk! And this is why I shun, repulse, almost hate, all that is beautiful and good—all that speaks to me of that heaven, which is, alas! forbidden me. [The reapers are again heard singing in the distance—with emotion and in an undertone.] What is that?

[Listens—lets her head fall upon her hands, and weeps.

Man. Tears!

Mar. [With transport.] Well, yes, I can weep. Enough—I did not intend, sir, to burthen you with so much of my confidence; but now you know me better. You see I have a heart, and if ever I have wounded yours, I hope you will forgive me. [Gives her hand, which he kisses, respectfully.] See; the pledge of our friendship shall be this flower, which I rudely demanded from you this morning. [Gives rose.] Now let us go, [returning,] and never let this subject be revived between us.

Man. Never!

Mar. But before I go, I must see the view from yonder height.

Man. I beg you will not venture—do not run such a risk.

Mar. Oh! I am not afraid.

Man. At least take my hand, then.

[She mounts the platform outside of the window. It begins to grow dark.

Mar. The height is fearful, but the view is very beautiful. I could gaze on it forever.

Enter Yvonnet. He looks round without seeing them.

Yvon. Ah! he's gone at last. I shan't be long in following him; I don't like this place.

[Exit, locking door after him.

Mar. There comes the night, in good earnest; fortunately, the moon will help us to regain our horses. Come, sir, let us hasten.

[Low music from orchestra. Manuel tries to open door.

Man. That stupid fellow has fastened it while we were upon the tower.

Mar. [Anxiously.] Call to him, he cannot be far off.

Man. [Upon platform.] Hallo! Come back, will you? Now he sees me, but he only runs the faster—takes me for the white lady, I suppose. Confound the fool!

Mar. [Looking about.] No other means of egress! What is to be done?—they will die with anxiety at home.

Man. Stay! I can descend by those trees, perhaps—

Mar. 'Tis useless—there is an inclosed court-yard below.

Man. It is in vain—this door resists all my efforts. I know not what to do.

[While Marguerite has gone upon platform.

Mar. Great Heaven! I see it all. [To Manuel, with restrained passion.] Marquis de Champcey!

Man. [Turns quickly.] My name!

Mar. [Slowly.] You boast a long ancestral descent. Pray tell me, sir, are you the first coward of your name?

Man. Madame!

Mar. [Violently.] It is you—you who have bribed this boy to imprison us here!

Man. Merciful Heavens!

Mar. Ah, I comprehend your purpose. I understand it all. To-morrow this accident will be noised abroad; the ever-ready tongue of scandal will be busy with my name, a name which, if less ancient than your own, is full as stainless, and you trust to my despair to make me yours! But this vile trick, which crowns all your base maneuvering, I will thwart. I tell you, sir, that I would incur the world's contempt, the cloister, anything—even death itself—rather than the disgrace, the ignominy, the shame, of uniting my life to yours!

Man. [Calmly.] I entreat you to be calm. Call reason to your aid. I understand and respect your distress, but let not your anxiety prompt you to do me wrong. Consider! How could I have prepared such a snare, and even were it in my power, how have I ever given you the right to think me capable of such baseness?

Mar. [Passing L.] All that I know of you gives me that right. For what purpose do you enter our house, under a false name, in a false character? We were happy before you came. You have brought us sorrow, misery, which we dreamed not of. To attain your object, to repair the breach in your fortune, you have usurped our confidence, sported with our purest and most holy sentiments. Have I not seen all this? And when you now pledge to me your honor—that honor which was too poor and weak to save you from these unworthy actions—have I not reason to doubt? Have I not the right to scorn and disbelieve?

Man. Marguerite, listen to me! I love you, it is true, and never did love more ardent, more disinterested, more holy, live in the heart of man. But here, with the eyes of Heaven upon us, I swear that, if I outlive this night, all beloved as you are, were you upon your knees at my feet, never would I accept a fortune at your hand. Never! My heart is yours, yours to break, to crush, to trample in the dust, if it so please you, but my honor, Madame, is my own and that I will preserve. And now pray—pray for a miracle. It is time.

[Runs to the tower.

Mar. What would you do? God of mercy! You shall not—you shall not!

Man. Think, Marguerite, your name!

Mar. You shall not! Forgive me! If you love me, forget what I have said, for pity's sake, for mine!

Man. [Disengaging himself.] Loose your hold.

[He repulses her, and leaps upon tower. Singing heard afar off.

Mar. [Falling on her knees.] Manuel! Manuel! Madman! hear me. It is death!

Man. It is honor!

[Throws himself down.

[Marguerite with a shriek, falls insensible.

END OF TABLEAU IV.