_A room in Manuel’s house. PALICIO reclining on a long chair
half-dressed. Daylight nearly excluded: one candle burns._
_PALICIO._
I seem to have lived a life in these few days;
To have died, and waked in no less strange a place,
Than where I think departed spirits will fly
In doom of death and unendurable silence
After their day of doing. Oh! ’tis strange
What just the shedding a few drops of blood
Will bring about—to loosen a handkerchief,
And on her undiscoverable journey
The soul sets forth. Nay, but to bleed so far
As I have done, breeds fancies much akin 640
To death; else would my spirit more revolt
’Gainst this enforcèd quiet and idleness:
This blocking of my life just on the stir
And hurry of hope, when all my operations
Pressed to success. I am surely very weak,
That I can lie and fret not, when I hear
The distant cries, passing from street to street,
Which tell how prompt and ripe my people were
For this their lost occasion. (_Knocking heard._) Some one knocks.
Nay, the key turns. ’Tis Manuel.
_MARGARET_ (_at door_).