SCENE I.--_Outside the castle of Don Silvio. The castle of Don Diego

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[Illustration: THE ABDUCTION]

[Illustration: THE FIRE]

TALES OF

THE WONDER CLUB.

BY

DRYASDUST.

VOL. III.

ILLUSTRATED BY

JOHN JELLICOE and VAL PRINCE,

AFTER DESIGNS BY THE AUTHOR.

HARRISON & SONS, 59, PALL MALL,

_Booksellers to the Queen and H.R.H. the Prince of Wales._

_All rights reserved._

LONDON:

PRINTED BY A. HUDSON AND CO.,

160 WANDSWORTH ROAD, S.W.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

PAGE

THE ABDUCTION _Frontispiece_

THE FIRE _Title Page_

THE CURIOSITY SHOP _Preface_

THE GIPSY QUEEN 389

THE DUEL 603

THE QUAKER 658

[Illustration: THE CURIOSITY SHOP]

PREFACE TO VOL. III.

Before taking leave of his readers, the author would inform them that at

the commencement of these "Tales," the earlier ones dating some thirty

years back, nothing was further from his intentions than rushing into

print, although repeatedly persuaded to do so by certain well-meaning

friends, who from time to time were permitted to peruse the hidden MSS.

The tales, nearly all of them, were written when the author was living

abroad, and to beguile a period of enforced idleness, which otherwise

would have been intolerable.

Never in his wildest dreams did he meditate inflicting them on the

public mind. Partly, it may be, that he thought with Lord Tennyson, that

"fame is half disfame," and that "in making many books there is no end,"

as Solomon teaches. Or it may be that he didn't care to augment that

already numerous class who are said "to rush on where angels fear to

tread." However this might be, time passed and the tales began to

accumulate, when the author conceived the idea of stringing them

together in a decameron, and later still of illustrating them with his

own designs. Still years rolled on, and the tales, long abandoned, were

consigned to the limbo of a mysterious black box, where they remained

all but forgotten till many years later.

"Why on earth don't you publish them?" was the constant cry of those few

who were taken into the writer's confidence.

The author answered by a modest shrug of self-depreciation, and still

the unfinished MSS. lay at the bottom of the black box. The fact was

that a weight of inertia oppressed him, added to a total lack of

experience in business matters of this kind, which prevented him from

taking the first step. He recoiled from the thought of calling on a

publisher and presenting his own MSS., and being occupied in other ways

besides writing, he begrudged the time lost in hunting up printers,

publishers, and engravers, together with all the delays _contretemps_,

and disappointments attendant on red tape.

What he wanted was a factotum, "an all round man," who would take, so to

speak, the dirty work off his hands. Where was such a man to be found?

He knew of none. The author is a man of unusually retired habits, and

associates with but few of his kind. By proclaiming his want openly,

doubtless, many would have presented themselves for the task, but in

matters of this sort a certain amount of intimacy with the person

employed seems to be necessary; at least, so the author thought, and

thus time rolled on, and the "Tales" were no nearer publication than

they were years ago, and might still have remained in this state for

years longer but for an unforeseen incident. One morning, whilst taking

a constitutional in a neighbouring suburb, the author's attention was

attracted by a strange-looking stringed instrument of undoubted

antiquity, in the window of an old curiosity shop. He would enquire the

price of it. The proprietor, a weasel-faced little man, with a polished

bald head, foxy beard streaked with grey, and a nose rather red at the

tip, stood at the door of his shop. His ferret eyes spotted a customer.

"What is the price of that instrument?"

"One guinea."

"I'll take it. Wrap it up in paper."

"Right you are, sir. Good morning, sir. Thank you."

And off trudged the author with this new acquisition to his collection

of curios.

Little did he imagine at the time what an important part this same

weasely little man was destined to play in the drama of his every day

life. Soon after this a second visit was paid to the shop. It was a

strange place, choked with odd lumber, where any curio might be

obtained, from a mermaid to a mummy. A stuffed crocodile hung in the

window. There were cases of stuffed birds and animals, dummies in

costume, old pictures, antique furniture, armour, weapons, coins, and

postage stamps. A third and fourth visit succeeded, and after almost

every visit the author's collection was enriched by some new curio. At

length, so frequent became these visits to the curio shop, that hardly a

day passed without the author putting in an appearance. Some two years

may thus have passed away, during which time the author had ample

opportunity of studying this human weasel. He learned that he was a

bum-bailiff, a commission agent, etc., ready to undertake any odd job

for money.

Here, then, at last, was the very man. The author accordingly propounded

his plan of publishing the "Tales." That weasel nose sniffed business.

With alacrity he seized the MSS., and donning a new top hat, which he

did whenever he desired to create an impression of respectability, he

climbed to the top of a 'bus, and was soon landed in the thick of our

metropolis. From that time all has been comparatively plain sailing.

"_Ce n' est que le premier pas qui coute_," and cost it did, readers,

you may be certain of that.

THE AUTHOR.

[Illustration: THE GIPSY QUEEN]

CHAPTER VI.

THE GIPSY QUEEN.--MR. BLACKDEED'S NEW PLAY.

It was Monday morning. Our members assembled as usual at the breakfast

table, after which the host entered with the newspaper, to show his

guests an account of some political event of great importance. The

appearance of a newspaper in the club was a thing of great rarity, as we

have already hinted that politics were only permitted occasionally on

sufferance. As Mr. Oldstone was commonly looked up to as the head of the

club, if not altogether on account of his age, still as one who was most

rigid against any infringement of discipline and decorum, each member

glanced timidly towards this worthy, as if to ask his consent and

absolution, which having given with a solemn nod of his head, the other

members seized with eagerness the mystic folio, and having spread it out

upon the table, huddled one behind the other to get the first look at

its contents.

As for our artist, he had "metal more attractive," as Mr. Blackdeed

might have observed. Nothing would satisfy him but a good long sitting

from his enchantress, Helen. So stealing from the company, engrossed as

they were with their politics, he retired to his chamber, where he set

his palette; and, placing Helen's portrait on the easel, he called his

model, who came without much pressing, and having placed her in the old

carved high-backed chair, he commenced work. The portrait waxes apace.

Our host's daughter is in her very best looks. The painter's hand is

inspired not merely by the love of art--great, though that love

undoubtedly is with all artists--but spurred on by another, perhaps more

powerful feeling, which lends such temper to our artist's ordinary

faculties, as to render the painter himself, a rare occurrence, utterly

amazed at his own powers. The first hour passes away like five minutes.

Scarce a word has been spoken on either side. To those who feel they

love, few words are necessary, and in many cases, perhaps the fewer the

better. This was a case in point. Our couple loved. Why should we deny

it? How futile, indeed, for lovers themselves to deny it to the world?

How utterly hopeless a task it is for lovers to attempt to conceal their

love one for the other, even _when_ they intend to do so! Murder will

out sooner or later. In this, as in many other cases, love given vent to

in words could be productive of no good to either party; and, therefore,

as we said before, the fewer words spoken, the better.

But what do I say? Will nature be subdued by mere obstinate silence?

Will not the trampled down heart rebel and burst its fetters, seeking an

outlet in the powerful upheavings of the breast; the electric flashes

of the impassioned eye that the strongest efforts of our feeble will in

vain endeavour to render cold and indifferent; the involuntary blush,

the haggard cheek, the pensive look; the smothered sigh--have they no

language? Nay, your very silence speaks for itself. Oh, youth! if you

would hide your passion, do so by flight, there is no other way.

This is what McGuilp felt. As for Helen, poor child, her virgin heart

was a stranger to the tender passion. She had heard of love, but just

heard of it vaguely as the world speaks of it, without being able to

realise its power. She would have been incapable of analysing her own

feelings, but a mysterious languishing softness welled forth from her

large blue eyes, which whispered to the painter's heart things that it

dare not acknowledge to her own. Strange, awful, mysterious passion;

instilling thy subtle poison into the veins of thy willing victims.

Merciless poisoned dart! Swift as thou art deep, inextricable as thou

art unerring--who can escape thee?

But let us leave the enamoured couple to themselves for a while. Far be

it from us to play the spy upon their actions, and let us return to the

club-room, where the members, having exhausted their newspaper, are

interrupted in the midst of a political discussion by an authorative

thump on the table from Mr. Oldstone, who reminds the company that Mr.

Blackdeed has not yet discharged his debt to the club--viz., the recital

of his new play, that he had just finished preparing for the stage.

"Ay, ay, the play, the play!" shouted several voices.

"Now then. Blackdeed," said Parnassus, "the play is the thing, you

know."

Our dramatist, with some show of modest reluctance, or, as Mr Parnassus

observed, "with sweet reluctant amorous delay," produced his manuscript

from his ample pocket, inwardly, nothing loath to declaim his late

effusion before the august assembly, seated himself with an air of

dignity, and having waited till the whole club was fairly settled, and

all attention, he thus began:

THE GIPSY QUEEN.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

DON DIEGO.

DON SILVIO.

DON PASCUAL, son of Don Diego, in love with Inez.

PEDRO, servant to Don Silvio.

JUAN, servant to Don Diego.

DON ALFONSO, friend to Don Pascual, and student of Salamanca.

DONNA INEZ, only daughter of Don Silvio.

DONNA RODRIGUEZ, nurse to Donna Inez.

LADY ABBESS, sister to Don Silvio.

GIPSY QUEEN, Pepa.

MIGUEL, a Priest.

Another Priest, Gipsies, Soldiers, Guests, Attendants, and Populace.

The Scene is laid in Spain in the mountains of Grenada. In Scene III.

of Act I., in Salamanca.

ACT I.

SCENE I.--_Study of Don Silvio, with large open window, through which is

seen the castle of Don Diego on the opposite mountain peak. Don Silvio

is discovered at a table covered with books, papers, and scientific

instruments. Strewn about the floor and on shelves are various objects

of natural science. Don Silvio closes a book he has been reading and

advances._

D. SIL. In vain the consolations of deep science,

The chiding voice of grave philosophy,

To wean us from our earthly fond affections,

When once deep-rooted in our bosom's core.

Paternal love, surviving youthful passion,

As autumn's deep'ning tints the summer's green,

Remains mature till the cold wintry blast

Of death hath scattered its last quivering leaf,

And driven us, whither? I have a daughter,

Than whom no saint in heaven purer is.

Fair and virtuous Inez! Sole object left

Me now to love on earth of all my kin.

An old man's pride, and only legacy

Of my late spouse, the sainted Dorothea.

Who, giving birth to this fair angel, left,

After ten years of childless married life,

This, my poor helpless babe, but in exchange

For her own precious self. Long unconsoled

For this, my doleful loss, I sought once more

Relief from sorrow in those studies deep,

Abandoned since my manhood's prime, when I

In Salamanca's university,

Did strive for honors, my child consigning

To a certain faithful old retainer,

The good Rodriguez, who in lieu of mother

Did rear the tender babe until it grew

To years maturer, when I thought it fit

To rescue her from out the hands of one

Who, whatsoe'er her care maternal be,

Is yet too full of vanity to make

A good instructress to my only child,

Whom I designed to educate in mode

Far different from that in which Rodriguez

And all her worldly tribe would seek to do.

With this my aim in view, I took the child

Away from home whilst yet her mind was tender,

And placing her under my sister's care,

The Lady Abbess of Saint Ursula--

A convent distant thirty miles from hence--

I left her until she should reach such age

As maidens having made due preparations

Are deemed fit to marry. Scarce sixteen

Is now my daughter Inez; far too young

To face without a guide the many wiles

And dire temptations of this giddy world;

I fain would keep her longer there, but then,

Then comes the thought that harasses my soul.

Having in youth squandered my patrimony,

Wasting my substance that I might procure

Expensive books and likewise instruments

I needed in the fond pursuits of science,

In gratifiying literary tastes,

And other fancies, thus I soon became

Deeply indebted to my richer neighbour,

The valiant Don Diego, who, much loath

To see an old house ruined, hath full oft

From time to time with liberal hand advanced

Such sums as I could ne'er hope to repay.

This knew he, too, full well, and having seen

Once my little daughter at the castle,

And fancying much her beauty, thereupon

Did make what he then doubtless did consider

An offer fair and not to be refused

By me, a desperate man--his debtor, too--

An offer, namely, for my daughter's hand

When she should have attained her sixteenth year;

And this he gave me well to understand

Would be the only way that he'd consent

To counsel all my former debts to him;

Refusing this, I knew th' alternative.

Don Diego is a soldier fierce and proud

As he is courageous, stern and merciless

Towards those who thwart his will. What could I do?

Unable to pay and in his power,

Groaning 'neath a sense of obligation;

Allured, too, perhaps, by prospects flattering

In worldly sense to her, a poor man's daughter,

I e'en consented. In an evil hour

I gave my word to friend Diego,

A man of my own years, whose castle stands

Upon the opposite peak. Behold it.

A man, I say, who might be her grandsire;

Nor is it mere disparity of years

That makes the gap to gape between the pair.

Besides his age, and now decaying health,

Don Diego all his youth has led a life

The most licentious. Rumours strange and wild

Are busy with his name, for it is known

That he esteems the holy love of woman

But as a flower to pluck and cast aside.

He hath no reverence for religious rites,

And thinks of matrimony but as a bond,

Of all bonds easiest broke. With thoughts like these

How shall it fare then with my poor daughter

When once the knot is tied? His temper then

Is stern and imperious, blunt and rude.

Accustomed to command, he reigns alone

Amidst a flattering troup of followers,

Like petty tyrant, treating men as serfs.

In boasting moods he vaunts of ancestry

Who never thwarted were in lust or hate,

And to this man shall I consign my daughter?

No, no, it was an evil hour when I

O'er hastily did consent to sacrifice

My lovely Inez, purest of her sex,

To this man's savage and rapacious lust.

Repentance came too late, for he doth hold

Me still to my promise, and all in vain

Are pleadings of my daughter's tender age.

The promise of her hand at some time hence,

When she to riper womanhood hath grown,

Excuse or promise unavailing both,

For he, with military punctilio

And lustful hot impatience, doth demand

Her hand at once, and will brook no delay.

He called on me of late, and from his mien

I saw there was but little left to hope.

A father's tears, as ever, failed to soften

His all too stubborn nature, and at length

He threatened me with ruin or with death

And forcible abduction of my daughter

If on a certain day ('tis now at hand)

I gave not him my daughter for his wife.

As yet my child knows nothing of this plan,

But now the time draws near when she must know.

How can I face my daughter? How can I

With humble, piteous whine, say, "Inez,

Thy father is ruined, an thou heed him not?

Save him by the sacrifice of thyself."

Or else, with imperious and austere brow,

Say, "Inez, I command thee as a father

To wed the man I've chosen thee--Don Diego.

Obedience is a filial duty, and

Thy father better knows what's for thy good

Than thou thyself. At once prepare, obey!"

Or should I, contrary to precepts taught

Once by myself when she was yet a child,

When I have preached 'gainst vanities and pomps,

Empty frivolities and lust of greed,

Can I now plead thus, and say, "Daughter mine,

Behold what a grand thing it is to be

One of the great ones of the earth, and move

For ever midst the gay and high-born throng

Of lords and ladies without care or pain,

With means at hand to gratify each wish,

To live the mistress of a noble castle,

With serfs at thy command, with gold, with jewels,

Dress at thy caprice, and hear around thee

Ravishing strains of music in thy halls;

Thy gardens, parks, and pleasure grounds rivalling

Those of the noblest peers, exciting envy

Of all thy neighbours, and this, yes, all this,

Thou hast but to reach out thy hand to take;

Accept the old Don Diego for thy spouse,

His castle's thine, and all that therein is;

Don't be a fool and throw this chance away

Because, forsooth, he's old, somewhat infirm,

Unfair to view, irascible and stern,

And recklessly give up thy giddy heart

To some young spendthrift, all because he's fair;

Throw not such a glorious chance away,

But make thy father's fortune and thine own?"

Is this the strain that I could use to her

After my virtuous lessons and wise saws?

Could she not answer, "Father, is it thou--

Thou who dids't ever counsel me to shun

The whispered words of gallants with the wiles

And impious vanities of this base world,

Dids't inculcate obedience, filial love,

As primary virtues ever with the young?

Was it that I might blindly, passively

Submit my will to thine? Shunning fresh youth;

That at thy bidding I might give my hand,

Loathing, yet passively, unto a man

Whose years do full quadruple mine, and all

Because this man has wealth and I have none?

Is this thy virtue, father? This the end

Of all thy teachings, that I should become

The minion, yes, the minion of a dotard?"

And would she not be right? Could I look up

Into her angel's face unblushingly,

And with a base hypocrisy reply,

"My child, 'tis for thy good. Such is the world."

Would she believe me? Would she not despise

Me and my words, see through my selfishness?

Yet what to do I know not. I am lost.

Would not the world itself proclaim me base?

Would not the mockers say, "Behold the sage,

The philosophic, wise Don Silvio,

He who despises wealth and this world's pomp,

Yet sells his daughter for Don Diego's gold?"

Thus run I counter both to God and man,

And mine own conscience. Crushing my child's heart

That I might save my own grey head from ruin.

Help me, ye saints! for I have need of guidance. [_Kneeling._

Soul of my blest departed Dorothea!

Assist me with thy counsels, and send down

From that high heaven where thou in peace doth dwell

A blessing on thy daughter and her sire;

It cannot, sure, be that our Inez shall

Unwillingly and loathingly consent

To wed a vicious dotard for his gold. [_Rising._

Time wanes, and with my part I must go through;

Then, as to the rest, let heaven think on't.

I know not if I meditate aright;

Nay, I know I am wrong, but I've no choice.

Hola! Rodriguez!--Rodriguez, I say!

_Enter_ RODRIGUEZ.

How now, Rodriguez, did'st not hear me call?

ROD. Indeed, my lord, I came as soon as I

Did hear you, but it may be that of late

I have grown a little hard of hearing;

Rodriguez now is getting old. How many

Years is it I have served your lordship here?

D. SIL. Cease thy prating tongue, and now lend thine ear.

ROD. I'm all attention, good my lord, proceed.

D. SIL. Well then, here is a letter I have written

To thy young mistress, bidding her return

With fullest speed to the paternal roof.

ROD. What! my young mistress Inez coming home

After full five years' stay within the walls,

The gloomy walls, of grim St. Ursula!

Poor soul! she'll scarce remember old Rodriguez.

How I long to see her! How she'll have grown.

Time will have wrought great changes. But a child

She was when first she left her father's hall,

And now returns a woman. Pretty dear!

Shall I ever forget how she did cry

At leaving me? For you must know, Senor,

That ever with a mother's tender care

I've cherished her as were she child of mine,

And she, sweet soul, ne'er having known her mother,

Looked for no other mother than myself.

And mother she would call me when a babe,

Until she grew and first began to learn

The death of your good lady Dorothea--

Peace be to her soul, the dear sweet lady--

Then she learned to call me Nurse Rodriguez.

Dear little soul! When I did see her last

She had her mother's brow, her mother's hair,

Her eyes, too, and her tiny foot and hand;

Her smile was all her mother's, yet methinks

Something about the nose and mouth and chin

Was from your lordship. How I wonder now

If she be changed, if she do remember

How I was wont to dance her on my knee

To still her cries with sweets, and how she'd ask

Me to tell her all about her mother--

How she looked and spoke, and how she dressed?

I told her all I knew. What I knew not

That straight I did invent to please the child,

And oftimes on a chilly wintry night

Of storm and tempest, when the lightning's flash

Lit up with lurid glare the outward gloom,

And the loud thunder, like to wake the dead,

Shook the old castle walls to their foundation,

On such nights as these, when sleep would desert

Her downy pillow, I would lift her thus,

And wrapping her up in my ample shawl,

I'd draw her to the fire. Then, whilst the warmth

Of the genial element diffused

Itself throughout the chamber, rendering

By the contrast of the black storm without

Its growing blaze more grateful, then would I

Beguile the night with tales of ghosts and ghouls,

Of elves and fairies, and hobgoblins grim,

Of witches, wizards, vampires, dwarfs, and giants,

Pirates, brigands, and unburied corpses,

Whose restless spirits, ever hovering near,

Render the place accursed, and bring ill

To happen unto those who wander there.

Wraiths and doubles, and corpse candles glim'ring

O'er unhallowed graves. Of secret murders,

Of spells, enchantment, and of hidden treasure,

Fights of knights and dragons, Christian damsels

Rescued from Moorish captors by their lovers,

Tales of the Inquisition and its tortures,

Of dungeons dark and drear, and skeletons

Found bleak and bare, laden with rusty chains

That ever and anon at midnight's hour

Were heard to move and shake, with many a tale

Of the wild gipsy tribes that roam these mountains,

Of haunted houses and weird palaces,

That at the magician's word sink 'neath the ground,

Of devils and of fiends--

D. SIL. And all the lore

That gossips love to frighten children with.

Wretch and most wicked beldam! Is it thus

By giving reins to thine accursed tongue

That thou hast sought to poison my child's mind?

Is this why every eve when it grew dark

I've seen her shudder and look o'er her shoulder?

Why she would never enter a dark room?

Why, as I've watched beside her tiny crib,

I've seen her start in sleep with stifled sob?

When I have watched her wan and haggard cheek,

Her thoughtful mien, her dreamy vacant stare,

Until I've fancied her in a decline,

And feared she would not long be left to cheer

My gloomy hearth; then was it this, I say,

Thy foolish wicked lies, torturing thus

Her tender infant brain? I say, for shame!

In good time I rescued her from thy hands.

ROD. I'm sure my lord, I've always sought to--

D. SIL. Hush!

And give me no more of thy silly prate,

I've some affairs on hand, and must away,

O'er long thou hast detained me with thy cant.

Here, take this note, bid Pedro start at once

And bear this safely to my daughter there,

For to-night at the hostel he must sleep,

To-morrow early he must start towards home,

Accompanying my daughter by the way. [_Going._

ROD. My lord, I'll see to't.

D. SIL. And hark! Rodriguez,

There's one thing I would caution you against.

ROD. And that is, my lord?

D. SIL. And that is, I say,

That when my daughter home arrives to-morrow,

You fill not her head with foolish stories

And antiquated superstitions.

Above all, talk to her not of gallants,

Of tournaments, elopements, serenades,

Or anecdotes of thine own frivolous life.

RON. My lord! my lord!

D. SIL. Once for all, I repeat,

Detail not all the follies of thy youth;

Talk to her not of dress or finery,

Nor all the gilded pageantries of courts,

Or such like vanities; and now, adieu,

I must go hence. Think well of what I've said. [_Exit._

ROD. (_Alone._) Poor, poor gentleman, I fear he's going;

He's growing old now, is my poor master,

And folks when they grow old are ever childish.

He ne'er has been the same since the departure

Of my poor mistress, Lady Dorothea.

What said he about my frivolous life?

Who can cast a stone at Dame Rodriguez?

Oh, his head's gone; that's very clear, alas!

_My_ life! 'Twere well he thought about his own,

Spent here mid dusty books and parchments old,

With dirty bottles and queer instruments.

As no one ever saw the like before.

What he does with them, who can understand?

Shut up here like a hermit all day long.

A plague on him, and all his crotchety ways!

Wait till my mistress Inez doth return;

She will enliven him, and 'twixt us two,

We'll make a clearance of this dusty cell.

"Talk to her not of dress!" Poor silly man!

Why, how on earth is the poor child to know,

Shut up these five years in those convent walls,

Of all the latest fashions of the day?

How should she dress herself without the aid

Of old Rodriguez? See how these men are.

Do we live in a world or do we not?

I should not do my duty to his child

Were I to listen to him. No I must,

The instant she arrives, take her in hand.

"Talk to her not of gallants!" Why, forsooth?

Must the poor child see no society?

Is this hall a convent or a desert?

Was she not born to marry and to mix

With other ladies of her state and rank?

How should she find a husband without me?

She's growing up now, and has no mother,

And as for her poor father, he'd as soon

Think of flying as of his daughter's weal.

No, no; but I will teach her how to cut

A figure in this world as best becomes

Her rank and station. I will teach her, too,

What colours best become her, and how I,

I, Rodriguez, figured once in youth,

When I with train of yellow and scarlet silk,

And stomacher of green, sleeves of sky-blue,

First did meet my Carlos at the bull-fight.

I'll teach her how to dress, to use the fan--

Thus, also thus, and thus, and how to draw,

With well-feigned coyness, the mantilla, thus,

Across her face, leaving one eye exposed,

And ogle, so, the gallants as they pass.

A few good lessons taken from an adept

Will soon prepare her for society.

PEDRO. (_Without._) Rodriguez, Hola! Rodriguez, What ho!

_Enter_ PEDRO.

ROD. Donna Rodriguez, an it please you, sir.

PED. Well then, be it so, Donna Rodriguez,

I've just met master coming from the castle,

Apparently in no good humour. He

Asked me if you'd given me a letter

Addressed to Donna Inez at the convent,

And bid me thither haste without delay,

Threatening me with mine instant dismissal

Should Mistress Inez fail to arrive to-morrow,

And thus with hasty step and moody brow

He passed me by, as if old retainers

Had not their privileges, eh? Rodriguez--

Donna Rodriguez, I should say. Pardon me.

ROD. Here is the letter; you had best be off.

Stay, Pedro. Did master look so savage?

PED. Even so.

ROD. Something must have angered him.

Prithee, good Pedro, hast thou not of late

Noted a change in poor Don Silvio?

PED. Faith, I cannot tell. Since I have known him

He hath been always the same moody man.

ROD. But has he not of late seemed more estranged,

More dull, more gloomy, just as if there were

Something of unusual import that

Were hanging o'er him?

PED. In truth I know not.

ROD. He sees no company.

PED. That's nothing new.

ROD. I mean--save that of that old haughty Don,

Old Don Diego from the neighbouring castle,

Who ne'er vouchsafes me word, but when he comes

Passes me by as the veriest slut,

With not so much as "Good-day, Rodriguez,"

But asks me sternly if my master's in.

His visits have been frequent here of late.

What think'st thou is the meaning of all this?

PED. In faith, I know not, and do not much care.

ROD. Ha! thou carest not? Come now, good Pedro,

Wilt thou that I confide a secret to thee?

PED. A secret that shall increase my wages,

Take more work off my shoulders? Then declare 't;

If it be ought else, then keep your secret.

I am tired of ever being the slave and drudge

Of my old master for such paltry pay.

I've served here now some twenty years and more.

But matters were not always thus. I've seen

The castle walls look handsomer in my day.

In Lady Dorothea's time I never

Had to wait for my wages, and my suit

Was always clean and new. Then were there more

Servants in the castle who took near all

The work off my hands. Now that they're dismissed

The burden of the household falls on me,

And the wages, 'stead of waxing more,

I have to wait for. I know not how long 'tis

I have not seen the colour of his gold.

Why, the castle's gone to rack and ruin.

I am ashamed to meet my former friends,

The well-fed menials of Don Diego's hall,

When they with grave and supercilious smile

Do thus accost me, "Ha! good man, Pedro,

How fares it with thee and thy poor master?

Thy suit, methinks, grows musty, like his castle,

And, to speak truth, I once have seen thee fatter."

Then straight they talk about their master's bounty.

"Look how we fare," say they; "an I were thou

I'd strike for higher wages or else leave."

And all these taunts I have to bear--for what?

ROD. Well, well, I fare but as yourself; but hark--

Something's astir within the castle.

PED. (_Turning round timidly._) Where?

ROD. Bah! I mean something's about to happen

In this old hall, an I do not mistake.

A _change_.

PED. For the better? Out with it, Rodriguez.

Be quick, for with this note I must away. [_Going._

ROD. Just so; the letter. What think'st thou there's in 't?

PED. I never play the spy. Money, think you?

[_Holding it up to the light._

ROD. I trow not. I spoke but of it's import.

PED. Marry, what should it be but just to bid

Young Mistress Inez home without delay?

ROD. Exactly; and canst divine the motive?

PED. Faith! Perhaps the charges of the convent

Have grown too costly for the miser's purse,

Or 't may be having stayed there her full time,

She now returns unto her father's hall.

ROD. Not altogether that, for I well know

Don Silvio would fain have kept her longer.

Hark, Pedro! thou know'st that I've always been

A faithful follower of this ancient house,

And no time-server as some others are.

PED. (_Aside._) Humph! That's meant for me. Time-server, forsooth!

ROD. Ill would 't become a faithful old retainer

Not to take interest in her lord's affairs,

So with this sense of duty upmost, aye,

And marking something most unusual

In these frequent visits of Don Diego,

Then hearing once his voice in angry tones,

And that of our poor master, trembling, meek,

I naturally bent my ear until

It level stood with the chamber's keyhole.

PED. Naturally, Donna Rodriguez. Well?

ROD. Ha! Now you take more interest in my tale.

Well, then I heard the whining piteous tones

Of our old master's voice in broken sobs.

"Think of her tender age, and your own years.

Can this disparity between you both,

This forced consent on her part, bring to her

Ought but unhappiness? Prithee, reflect.

Think of a father's feelings, and forbear."

"Think of your debts, old man, and of your past,"

Now said a sterner voice; "and if you fail

To have your daughter all in readiness

The next time that I call, so the wedding

May be solemnised within my private chapel

At whatsoever hour I please, hark ye!

I'll sell your ruined castle o'er your head,

Drive you houseless into the open air

To beg your bread; by force abduct your daughter,

And----

PED. Did he say that?

ROD. Ay, he did, indeed.

_Enter_ DON SILVIO _musingly behind--he stops and listens_.

PED. Why then he'll do 't; that is, if our old lord

Do not peaceably give up his daughter.

ROD. Oh, it's horrible, horrible. Poor child!

PED. Horrible for us to be turned adrift.

Poor child, indeed! the best thing that could hap,

I wish the little jade no better luck.

The daughter of a threadbare miser. _She_

Turn up her nose at such a match as this!

I can't think what our master's scruples are

To such a union. Luck seems on his side.

ROD. Hush. You forget her age, the poor dear child

Has scarce arrived at puberty, and then

Knows nothing of the world, but cometh straight

From that old convent without time to taste

The sweets of life, or choose from out the crowd

Of motley youths who _should_ encompass her

One of her choice, befitting more her age

Than this grey, grim, and surly Don Diego.

PED. Don Diego is a proper gentleman.

A trifle old, perhaps; so much the better,

He will but die the sooner, and so leave

Our Inez mistress of his lordly hall.

Once left a widow, young and rich, she then

May marry any gallant that she likes.

First let her fill her mouth and clothe her back,

Then indulge her own caprice at leisure.

I'm for Don Diego, and will help his plan

With all my power.

ROD. Oh! you men, you men,

You're all alike, and have no sentiments.

Just such a one is master, who would sell

His only child to pay his debts withal.

PED. Why, how can he help it? Debts must be paid.

And when the debt is cancelled in this way

I fancy I can see the old miser chuckle

To himself at having got off so cheap.

DON SILVIO _advances in their midst_.

D. SIL. Discussing matters that concern ye not,

Eavesdropping hounds, unmannered miscreants!

Is this your duty and your gratitude?

Knaves that ye are, and base-born time-servers,

Off with ye both! Thou, Pedro, lazy lout,

Off to the convent, as I bade thee. Fly!

Rouse not my wrath; and thou, thou gossiping hag,

Back to thy room and give thy tongue a rest,

Else it will swell and choke thee. Would it might.

[_Exeunt severally Pedro and Rodriguez. Don Silvio throws

himself into an armchair, and covers his face with his

hands._

SCENE II.--_Interior of the Convent of St. Ursula. Inez discovered

pacing up and down dejectedly._

INEZ. 'Tis passing strange that all these five long years

That I have lived within these convent walls,

A stranger to the world without, unless

To the narrow limits of our garden.

I ne'er remember to have passed a night

Like last night was. Most strange and fearful dreams

Disturbed my slumber, robbing me of rest;

Confused they were, and I can scarce recall

Aught of their substance, but methought that I

Was caught and roughly handled by rude men

With dark ferocious faces. By their dress

I should have deemed them gipsies; then methought

I saw a female--tall, majestic, old,

Or middle-aged, in strange and wild attire,

Who spoke to me, and questioned me in proud,

Yet calm and kindly accents, and that she

Rebuked the ruffians, so that they fell back

And did no harm to me; yet still I sat

Surrounded by the band, which kept close guard.

My fear was very great, so that I think

I must have fainted, for I knew no more.

It was a dream most unaccountable.

My aunt, the Lady Abbess, says that dreams

Are sent us oftimes by the saints to warn,

Guide, and admonish us. That holy men,

Ay, and women, too, have had many things

Revealed to them in dreams and visions.

Old nurse Rodriguez, too, I can recall,

Oft would relate me hers, and would declare

They all came true, or bore some hidden sense

That none save gifted sybils could explain.

And now, although my memory's much confused,

Methinks Rodriguez formed part of my dream.

_Enter_ LADY ABBESS.

LADY AB. What! Inez, musing--art not well, my child?

INEZ. I've slept badly, aunt, and have a headache.

LADY AB. Here's that will cure it.

INEZ. What! A letter?

LADY AB. Ay, from thy father; it was hither brought

By an old servitor.

INEZ. The good Pedro?

LADY AB. I think the same; I've seen his face before.

Thou know'st, Inez, that it is my custom

To break the seal of all the letters that

Come here directed to my novices,

To prevent clandestine correspondence;

But knowing well my brother's handwriting,

And being well informed of the contents

By this same Pedro, I deemed it useless.

Read it then, dear, thyself.

INEZ. (_Reads._) "My dearest child,

The time has now come round when thou should'st end

Thy course of studies at St. Ursula's.

It is my wish that thou at once take leave

For ever of thy aunt, the Lady Abbess,

And without more delay prepare to start

In the company of my servant Pedro.

See that thou be not tardy, but straightway,

Quick after the perusal of these lines,

Set off upon thy journey, for I have

Much to say to thee. Greet my good sister.

Your loving father,

Silvio."

Dearest aunt,

I know not if I should laugh for joy or weep,

For, returning home to see my father,

I needs must bid farewell to you, who e'er

Have been a mother to me.

LADY AB. Dearest child!

I am full loath to part with thee, but still,

In obedience to thy father's orders,

Thou must not tarry. Take my blessing then,

And may the blessed Virgin and the saints

Protect thee from all harm upon the road.

Kiss me, my Inez, and now straight commence

To get thy baggage ready.

INEZ. And Pedro?

LADY AB. He is without. I'll call him. What! Pedro.

_Enter_ PEDRO.

PED. Gracious Donna Inez, I kiss your hands.

INEZ. Ah, good Pedro, sure thou scarce knowest me;

These many years have wrought a change in us.

How leftest thou my father? Well, I hope;

And nurse Rodriguez, she, I hope, is well.

PED. Excellent well, most gracious lady, both.

INEZ. I'm glad of 't. And thou thyself, good Pedro?

PED. I thank the Lord, good lady, I'm not worse--

I'm getting old.

LADY AB. That is the fate of all;

We cannot aye be young.

PED. True, good lady.

INEZ. And now, Pedro, do thou wait here until

I shall return. I'll try not to be long;

I've my baggage yet to pack, and to say

Some words in private to our Lady Abbess

[_Exeunt Inez and Lady Abbess._

PED. Why, how the little wench has grown, i' faith!

But I'd have known her anywhere, I would,

So strong is the resemblance to her mother--

Her voice, her very manner too's the same

As Lady Dorothy's when first I knew her.

Ah, those were merry days. Would I could live

Them o'er again. Let me see. What was it

The gipsy beldam told me by the road?

Ha! I remember. When about half-way

Between the castle and St. Ursula,

While jogging through a bleak and bare ravine

Upon my mule, and leading on the other,

A crone stood in my path--a gipsy crone.

I know not how old; but past middle age.

Still, from her mien, which was majestic, proud,

I think she had been handsome in her youth.

"Good morrow, Pedro," said the crone. "Speed well"

"Good morrow, Dame," said I. "You know me, then?"

"And have done long. Gipsies know everything.

Wilt have a proof of it? Wilt know thy fortune?

Show me thy palm," she said. "My palm!" said I,

"Know thou, good gipsy, I have nought withal

To pay thee." "Never mind for that," she said;

"I love to gossip with an old retainer.

Thy gossip shall repay me. Quick, thy palm."

Then tracing with her gaunt and taloned finger

A mystic sign across the line of life,

"Not always thus, good Pedro, hast thou been.

Thou hast a master who but ill repays

Thy manifold and useful services.

Thou hadst a mistress once, but she is gone;

With her decease good luck hath fled the house,

But times will change, and luck will reappear,

And thou shalt live content to good old age."

I recollect no more of what she said,

But mighty promises she made of luck.

Then straightway she did ask me of my lord--

How he fared, and also of Don Diego.

"Excellent well," said I, and here I laughed.

"Too well, too well, for one with head so white."

"How mean'st thou?" she said, with searching gaze.

"Why, marry thus!" said I; "they say Don Diego----

Hush, but this is a secret (here I winked)

That old Don Diego, spite his years, doth think

To take to him a young and pretty wife."

Here the crone started somewhat, as I thought,

And o'er her bronzed features came a flush

Like burnished copper, and her eagle eye

Flashed as with fire; but in an instant

Her cheeks grew ashen pale and her lips trembled.

Why I know not; but deeming her unwell,

I offered her a sip of wine from out

The gourd I carried at my saddle's flank;

But she declined. "No wine," saith she, "hath ever

Passed my lips since I was born. Shall I

Break through my abstinence in hoary age?"

Then seeming quite recovered, "Well," she said,

"What was it of Don Diego, thou wert saying?

Thou saidst, he thought to take to him a wife.

Can this be true? Who may the lady be?"

Then, mocking her, I said, "Thou knowest all things,

Know'st thou not, the lady is our Inez,

The daughter of my old lord Don Silvio.

Still in her teens, and staying with her aunt,

Lady Superior at St Ursula's,

From here some fifteen miles, whither I go

By order of her father, at full speed

To carry back his daughter to his hall?

And know'st thou not the wedding day is fixed,

And all in readiness, but that our Inez

As yet knows nought o't; but that to-morrow,

When at eve I bring her to her father,

She will soon learn it all, and willy, nilly,

Will have to wed the old man for his gold?"'

All this I told her. Then she said, "True, true,

The stars already have revealed so much;

But mark me, Pedro, mark me well, I say,

For I know all things. It shall never be

It will not happen. The stars forbid it."

"What! Don Diego's wedding," said I. "We'll see."

And off I trotted till I reached the convent.

_Re-enter_ LADY ABBESS _and_ INEZ.

LADY AB. And now, dear Inez, now that all's prepared

For thy long homeward journey, one more kiss.

Salute thy father, and bear well in mind

All I have taught thee. When thou hast arrived

Write to me straight to say that thou art safe.

Thou, Pedro, do thy duty towards thy charge.

And, Inez, love, thou'lt think of me sometimes,

And should chance ever bring thee by this way,

Thou'lt come and see me, eh? And now farewell.

I dare not keep thee longer. Bless thee, Inez.

Adieu; the saints protect thee. Go in peace. [_Embracing her._

INEZ. Farewell, kind aunt, farewell.

[_Exeunt Lady Abbess and Inez weeping, Pedro following._

ACT II.

SCENE I.--_A country inn in the Sierra Nevada. A table spread under a

vine._

_Enter_ DON ALFONSO _and_ DON PASCUAL.

D. PAS. Must thou then really leave me and return

To Salamanca to resume thy studies?

Alas! to think that thou shouldst go alone,

And that I dare not bear thee company.

Tell me, Alfonso, think'st thou the police

Are ever on my track, or else that they

Have now given up all strict and diligent search,

Some weeks having passed o'er since the fatal deed?

D. ALF. I would not counsel thee yet to return.

Too many rash deeds have been done of late

For the law to lie much longer passive;

Besides, the man you murdered was a count,

A great hidalgo, and of haughty race;

His family will leave no stone unturned

Until this murdered member is avenged.

D. PAS. Murdered! say'st thou again? 'Twas in a duel.

D. ALF. Murder or homicide, 'twill go ill with thee,

An thou fall'st in the clutches of the law.

In good time thou leftest Salamanca.

But live and learn; I did ever tell thee

Thou wast over ready with thy weapon.

What! For a hasty word said in hot blood

Must thou be ever quarte, and tierce, and thrust?

D. PAS. Hold, friend, but you must know the case was thus--

I met Count Pablo----

D. ALF. I know the story.

The count was stern and haughty as thyself,

Nor made allowances for others' pride;

He could not brook the independent gaze

Of one whom, perhaps, he deemed of lower birth;

This led to altercation and fierce looks

(I own him wrong, for he began the quarrel),

But it was thou who wast the first to challenge;

And all for a word, too.

D. PAS. And was that nought?

Nought, the being called a gipsy bastard?

What! Call'st thou that a trifle? Bastard! Ugh!

I swear, that had he been ten times my friend,

I would have slain him. Bastard! Gipsy, too!

What! Are we Spaniards of so fair a skin

That he would have me pale-eyed, flaxen-haired,

Like the barbarians of northern climes?

May not a Spaniard have an olive skin

And jetty eye without being gipsy called?

A mystery, I know, hangs o'er my birth;

I ne'er knew my parents. Some secret hand

Doth forward me remittances at times,

That I might be enabled to pursue

My studies at the university.

I cannot think it is my spurious father,

For I do well remember me of one--

Indeed, I think that she was not my mother.

Although she treated me as her own son--

A lady of high rank and ample means,

A widow, too, with kind and gentle ways.

I knew not then that she was not my mother;

But dying when I yet was but a child,

I was put early to a seminary.

It may be I inherited her fortune,

And out of this expenses are disbursed.

When young I made no strict inquiries

As to my origin. Those around me

Told me but little, but I think I heard

I was adopted by this widow lady.

More I ne'er cared to know, until of late,

Being stung by the count's taunt of spurious birth,

I challenged him and killed him in a duel.

And now I fain would have the myst'ry cleared,

E'en should the certain knowledge gall my soul

And I in truth should be a gipsy bastard.

It may be that he spoke the truth. But how

Did he come to know of it? Or, if truth,

That truth was spoke in insult, and so ta'en.

He who would call me gipsy, let him fear

My gipsy blood. Let who would call me bastard

Prepare to feel the sting a bastard feels.

[_Touching his sword hilt._

D. ALF. Chafe not thyself; the deed is done. No more

Mar not the precious moments of our parting

With fiery words, like braggadocio,

Or vain lamentings of the fatal past,

But let us rather draw unto the table,

And o'er a merry flask of Val de Penas

Strive to forget all sorrow.

D. PAS. So say I; [_Seating themselves at the table._

And here's to thy safe journey and return

To thy most beloved Salamanca.

And here's to the eyes that await thee there.

Here's also to the delicate moustache----

D. ALF. Enough, enough, my friend. Such toasts as these

Keep for thyself. I've other ends in view.

I have to carve my passage through the world,

To which no syren's eyes must be a hindrance.

Wish me but success in all my studies.

D. PAS. Ay, so I do, Alfonso, from my heart.

D. ALF. As to thyself, Pascual, as it seems

Thou art but little formed for study, being

Of a too warm and hasty temperament

To find much solace in the student's page,

Preferring lone rambles and sylvan sports

To the uncertain fame a scholar seeks.

To thee, and such as thee, the love of woman

Thy ardent nature will not fail to find

Out of the many one whom thou canst love.

May she be virtuous as she is fair,

And worthy of thy love as thou of hers.

D. PAS. I thank thee, but as yet my heart is whole.

May I dare hope yet that a time may come

When a woman's love and a happy home

To thee may not be all contemptible.

Heigho!

D. ALF. Thou sighest. Sure thou art in love.

D. PAS. Not so, my friend, not yet.

D. ALF. Then wherefore sigh?

D. PAS. Thou hast awoke strange mem'ries in my mind--

Events long past that I'd but all forgot.

'Tis nothing, thou'lt say--mere childish fancy.

Prithee, friend Alfonso, tell me one thing.

Dost really think I come of gipsy blood?

D. ALF. What! Is it there the shoe still pinches? Ha!

Fill up another bumper of this wine

And wash down the word, else it will choke thee.

D. PAS. Nay, I am serious, and would have thy word.

Tell me in honour, now, what thou dost think.

D. ALF. Bah! What matters it? Thou art somewhat dark;

But, as thou well sayst, so are all our race.

D. PAS. True. But what think'st thou?

D. ALF. Faith! I cannot tell.

Perhaps over dark for a Castilian.

D. PAS. Ha! Say'st thou so? I've long thought so myself.

And what confirms me in the thought is this,

That ever since my earliest youth I've felt

A strange affection for these gipsy tribes--

A sympathy for their wild wandering life

And fierce impatience at the cold restraints

By which well-bred society doth cramp

Our fervid passions. Friend, thou knowest me well.

Thou sayest well I am not formed for study,

That is to say, such studies as thine own--

Th' intricacies of law, philosophy,

The mysteries of theology, and all

The lore for which you students sap your youth.

My book is nature. In the open fields

I've loved to lie at night and watch the stars,

The various aspects of the changing moon,

Or on the giddy mountain peak at morn

To view the first beams of the rising sun

As from the rosy horizon it climbs

Up towards the purple zenith. At midday

I love to rest me in the sylvan shade

And watch the deer grazing on the rich turf,

Or else in company of some jovial friends,

Hunt these poor denizens from their peaceful haunts,

And, heated with the chase, dismount and slake

My parching thirst from out the neighbouring brook.

Full oft in my wild wanderings I have passed

Through desert places, where no dwelling was,

And, overcome by hunger and fatigue,

Have well nigh fainted, but in such cases,

When human hospitality doth fail

Nature comes to the rescue and procures

Its roots and berries, sometimes luscious fruit:

And thus I've journeyed often from my youth,

Encountering many dangers in my path.

Twice captured by the brigands, nor set free

Without heavy ransom. More than once

I've 'scaped unaided from the blades of ruffians,

But not unscathed, and fighting hand to hand.

I've also fallen in with the gipsy tribes,

And lived among them, too, in early youth,

Till I became familiar with their tongue,

Their life and customs, for when yet a child

They stole me from my friends, whoe'er they were,

But I was rescued, and the dusky tribe

Were driven out from that part of the land.

Among my early reminiscences

I can recall the tall and bronzed form

Of one who should have been the queen of them,

For so I've heard her styled. I met her oft;

And when I first remember her she bore

A countenance as beautiful as day.

I have not seen her now for many years.

When last I met her I could plainly see

That time and trouble and a roving life

Had left their stamp upon her dusky brow.

But I had nought to fear from _her_. The crone

Would call me to her and caress me, too;

Call me endearing names, and, as a proof

Of further love, she gave this ring to me;

Made me swear it ne'er should leave my finger,

And that some day it would protect my life.

For should I fall in with the gipsy band,

On seeing this token they would let me pass

Without let or hindrance, so she said.

For years I have not seen the gipsy band,

And therefore have not put it to the proof;

But still I've kept my vow, and from that time

I ne'er have doffed it. And now tell me, friend,

If what I've just told you does not prove

Me sprung from gipsy blood?

D. ALF. We cannot help

Our birth. What matters it our parentage?

D. PAS. Thou seest not, then, what it is that galls me.

List. If I be of gipsy origin,

I must be likewise bastard, for whoe'er

Did hear of legal marriage in a case

Of love 'twixt Christian and a gipsy maid?

Knowest thou not what the term "bastard" means?

Could I once but meet my spurious father,

He should account for sending me adrift

And nameless through the world, or I'd know why.

For know, whate'er my origin may be,

I have been brought up as a gentleman,

And hope to marry one of gentle blood.

What proud Castilian family would mate

A cherished daughter to a lineage soiled?

D. ALF. I do acknowledge thy perplexity.

But bastard though thou beest, thou'rt still a man.

Would'st 'rase the bar sinister from thy shield,

Or, what is much the same, cast it i' the shade,

So that it appear not for the lustre

Of thy many and resplendent virtues?

Make thy name famous. Fame, however bought,

Hath ne'er failed to win the heart of woman.

A woman's heart being once securely won,

The vict'ry's thine. Th' obstacles that follow

Thou'lt find will not be insurmountable;

I mean, to gain the parents' full consent.

But he must fight who'd win. And now, adieu

I have no time to tarry longer. See,

My mule is saddled, and I must away.

Detain me not, my friend, for I would fain

Reach the adjacent township ere nightfall.

D. PAS. Bless thee, Alfonso, and fortune speed thee.

D. ALF. The like to thee, Pascual, from my heart.

[_They embrace. Exit Alfonso. Pascual remains behind and

waves his handkerchief from the terrace._

D. PAS. Adios! He is gone. His ambling mule

Has borne its gallant freight far out of sight.

Farewell, Alfonso. Fortune be thy guide,

Truest of comrades, best of counsellors,

Ride _thou_, my friend, towards fame, whilst I, Pascual,

Like Cain, must roam the earth, a vagabond,

Flying the face of man, by man pursued;

A price set on my head. Not merely bastard,

But vagabond! What was't he said of fame?

He mocked me. Fame for an outlawed gipsy!

An it be not such fame the gallows brings,

Write me down lucky. Would not an attempt

To bring my name to light sign my death warrant?

My friend thought not of this. For such as I

The monast'ry's sequestered cell were good,

Rather than fame. But courage yet! I feel

The blood of our dark race boil in my veins,

And cry shame on my fears. Then fame be it,

But not that fame Alfonso wrings from books.

Not that for me. The valour of my arm,

The patient wasting of my hardy frame

Shall win the fame I seek. For I recall

The words long spoken, and but all forgot,

By that same gipsy queen when first she gazed

Into my infant palm. "Hail to thee, child!

For thou beneath a lucky star was born.

Fortune," she said, "hath marked thee for her own."

These are the words. I cannot choose, but trust.

Shine out, my star, since thou dost lead me on,

For as the loadstone draws the unwilling steel

Unto itself, so man is led by fate.

Avaunt, base fear, and fortune, thus I seize thee. [_Exit._

SCENE II.--_A wild ravine. Gipsies, headed by the Gipsy Queen, in

ambush._

GIP. Q. This way she comes. Now to your work; but mark!

Exceed not my commands. Do her no harm,

Show yourselves loyal to your queen, as men,

And not wild beasts.

SEVERAL GIPSIES. Queen, thou shalt be obeyed.

_Enter_ DONNA INEZ _and_ PEDRO, _on mules_.

PED. Cheer up, fair mistress. Banish idle fears.

Already we've accomplished half our journey.

Ere sundown we'll have reached your father's castle.

So follow me. Fear not. And as for dreams,

They are all vain, and bred of convent fare--

Sickly disease engendered in the mind

By monkish legends and low superstition,

Unworthy ladies of your rank. Look ye!

I, Pedro, now am old, and yet I never

Have known a dream of mine that did come true.

No, my young mistress, take Pedro's word for't,

All dreaming is unhealthy--a bad sign.

Live well, sleep soundly, and you'll dream no more.

Dreams proceed but from impaired digestion.

Take my advice and give no heed to them.

[_Gipsies advance suddenly and seize the bridles._

FIRST GIPSY. Hola! there, good people. Halt and dismount!

[_Inez screams and falls against Pedro._

INEZ. Pedro, protect me. Oh, holy Virgin!

Oh, blessed saints and souls in purgatory!

Have mercy on us, or we're lost, O God!

Pedro, dost hear? Assist me. Fly! Call. Help!

PED. Help, help! To the rescue, I say. What ho!

SECOND GIPSY. Any attempt at flight or cry for help

Is vain, and may prove fatal. Come, dismount.

INEZ. Oh, saints! The very faces, I declare,

That I saw in my dream--and dreams are false.

Holy Virgin, protect us. Help, I say!

THIRD GIPSY. Ay, call upon your saints. Call on, call on!

And see if they'll come to your assistance.

FIRST GIPSY. An you cease not your screaming, you'll be gagged.

[_Pedro and Inez dismount._

GIP. Q. Come, no rough treatment to this young lady,

Or it will be the worse for some of you.

Tie up the mules and bind the serving man,

That he escape not, and so call for help.

As to this damsel, leave her all to me.

(_To Inez_) Young lady, have no fear, for I am one

Who can command th' entire gipsy band,

Who are my serfs and tremble at my frown.

An you be docile, they shall do no harm.

Raise but your voice, and I will have you bound.

But I, the gipsy queen, would be your friend;

And soon you shall acknowledge me as such;

But not just now. (_To the gipsies_) Bind not the young lady

Unless she call for help or attempt to escape.

(_To Inez_) And you, young lady, courage. Tremble not.

Think not I crave your pelf or trinkets rare.

I have no need. Thyself 'tis I'ld detain.

INEZ. And why, O strange, O dread, mysterious queen,

All powerful amongst thy dusky band,

If, as thou sayst, thou hast no need of pelf,

And canst and wilt protect me from the hands

Of thy half-savage subjects, wherefore then

Detain a poor and simple maiden bound

For her paternal castle, having left

The Convent of St. Ursula this morn?

GIP. Q. Oh, of your story I am well informed.

Better, perchance, than what you are yourself.

For am I not a gipsy? Know we not

By the aspect of the heavenly bodies

All events that are about to happen?

As to my object in detaining you

Let it suffice you I have an object,

Which you shall know hereafter. (_To gipsies_) Guard her close.

Methought I did hear footsteps, but 'tis nought.

_Enter hastily_ PASCUAL _with a drawn sword_.

PAS. This way I heard the cries. How now! What's this?

Hell and furies! A chaste and lovely maid

Attacked by dusky ruffians! Halt! Forbear!

For, by my soul, I swear I will not leave

One black hide whole among ye, an ye dare

To touch a single hair of her fair head.

GIP. Q. Disarm that vain and too hot-headed youth.

[_Gipsies surround Pascual, who defends himself desperately,

killing and wounding some of the nearest. Gipsies back a

few paces. Pascual follows, and cuts through them._

Unto him, cowards! Seize the presumptuous fool.

Hear ye not, slaves? What! Is a single arm,

And that, too, of a pampered gentleman,

Too much for ye? Shame on ye, cowards, slaves!

FIRST GIPSY. Yield, fellow! and put up thy silly skewer,

An thou be not a-weary of thy life.

PAS. Never! Whilst yet a drop of my heart's blood

Flows freely in my veins. By heaven, I swear

I will release yon damsel ere I die!

SECOND GIPSY. Why, who is this, though clad in costly gear,

Doth fight as desperately as one of us?

THIRD GIPSY. Beware, young man! We do not seek thy life;

Yield up thyself. Ask pardon of our queen,

And we will let thee live.

PAS. (_Still fighting._) Base curs, avaunt!

My life is nothing. Take it an ye list,

Though ye shall buy it dearly. 'Twill console

My parting spirit somewhat but to know

That it hath rid the surface of the earth

Of even a few of such vile scum as ye.

FIRST GIPSY. Such words to us! Have at thee then, proud youth.

[_Wounds Pascual on the head, whilst others attempt to bind

him, but he liberates himself and continues fighting._

INEZ. He bleeds! he bleeds! Saints, help the noble youth

Who, at the cost of his young precious life,

Would save us both. I fear he's killed. Oh, help!

[_Screams and faints._

GIP. Q. Hush! minion, or that cry will be thy last.

A WOUNDED GIPSY. Look, she faints!

ANOTHER GIPSY. Bah! 'tis but a trick to 'scape

The easier in the confusion.

Look well to her.

GIP. Q. Make room for me, ye slaves.

I fear no mortal man. Leave him to me.

Sirrah! put down your sword.

PAS. Never, vile crone.

GIP. Q. (_Disarming him with her staff._) Then there it lies, thou

vain, presumptuous youth.

[_Murmurs of applause among the gipsies._

PAS. Disarmed! And by a woman! Ha! I faint. [_Staggers and falls._

GIP. Q. He faints from loss of blood. Bind up his wounds.

He hath fought well. I tell ye, dusky slaves,

This youth to-day hath put ye all to shame.

Do him no hurt. I e'er respect the brave.

He in a sacred cause fought valiantly;

And, faithful to his generous Christian creed,

Did seek to wrest the innocent from wrong.

FIRST GIPSY. Thou wert not wont to praise the Christians, Queen,

GIP. Q. I praise that creed that shows forth in its works

The principles of manhood. Would that thine

Had taught thee what this Christian's has

taught him.

FIRST GIPSY. (_To Second Gipsy_). The queen doth mock us, calls us

cowards, slaves;

And yet we did our best; but, to say sooth,

He set upon us in such furious haste,

Such blind and desperate rage, that we did gape

With sheer wonder, and stand aghast with awe

At's prowess, when we should have been fighting.

SECOND GIPSY. Ay, none but a madman tired of his life

Had fought so desperately.

THIRD GIPSY. The maid recovers.

INEZ. (_Recovering._) Where am I? Ah! then 'tis no dream; 'tis true.

Where's my preserver? Let me straight to him,

That I may thank him on my bended knees

For all his deeds to-day.

A GIPSY. There, low he lies.

INEZ. (_Rising and advancing towards Pascual_). What! dead! Oh,

heavens! Grant it be not so.

Look, now he moves; then life is not extinct.

Thank God for this! Hail, generous friend! What cheer?

PAS. 'Tis but a bruise, fair maid; 'twill soon be well.

INEZ. God grant it may.

GIP. Q. Here, girl, take this balsam.

It is a gipsy cure for all such wounds.

One fair action doth demand another:

For you he shed his blood, thinking that we

Did mean you harm. (How should he tell, poor youth?)

Return now you the courtesy, fair maid;

Bind up his wounds. Anon I will assist.

[_Inez commences binding up Pascual's head. The gipsies

retire a few paces. The Gipsy Queen fetches water in a

gourd._

Quaff from this gourd, young man. The flowing rill

Doth yield thee medicine. [_Pascual drinks._

Ha! what is this?

Shade of my father Djabel! it is _he_!

My long lost son! my own, my valiant boy:

Methought I knew that semi-gipsy form.

The very ring, too, wrought in virgin gold

And graven o'er with mystic hieroglyphics--

An heirloom of our tribe that I him gave

With my maternal blessing years gone by,

And he hath kept till now. God, I thank thee.

Oh, how I long to press him to this breast!

This breast that nurtured him and gave him strength!

But patience; too precipitous a step

May mar my plans. Enough, I've found my son.

Oh, ye great Powers that move earth and heaven,

Accept a mother's thanks! I faint for joy.

FIRST GIPSY. How far'st thou, noble Queen? Thou art not well.

GIP. Q. Nay, marry, I am well. I'm over well. [_Staggering._

SECOND GIPSY. Look to our queen. She faints. Art wounded, queen?

GIP. Q. (_Mastering herself._) Nay, look, I faint not. I am very well.

THIRD GIPSY. Some strong emotion seems to have stirred our Queen

But yet she masters it. How brave a spirit!

[_Gipsies retire some paces and converse in groups. Gipsy

Queen remains a little distance off, watching Inez and

Pascual. A hunter passes above unseen._

HUNTER. (_Aside._) What's this? Whom have the gipsies captured now?

A fair maid and a gallant cavalier;

And who is he, yon serving-man, bound there?

I ought to know his face. Why is not he

Don Silvio's servant Pedro? Sure it is,

For oft I've parleyed with him when at times

I've brought the game up to his master's hall.

And these two gentle-folks I ween must be

Guests at Don Silvio's castle. Ah, the knaves!

The arrant gipsy knaves! I'll dog them yet.

I've my own private wrongs that seek redress:

And I'll be even with them, by the saints!

At once I'll off unto Don Silvio's hall,

And warn him of the danger to his guests.

It may be he'll reward me slightly, though

They say that his is but a stingy house.

Still, this much for humanity I'll do. [_Exit._

D. PAS. (_to Inez._) Nay, I assure you, dearest----

INEZ. Hush! Senor.

It ill becomes a maid of gentle blood

Unblushingly to listen to the vows

And fervid protestations of a knight

Upon such slight acquaintance.

D. PAS. Lovely child!

Bid me but hope, and I will rest content.

INEZ. Nay, talk not thus, Senor. Pray calm yourself.

Bethink you that your wound is not yet healed.

You're faint from loss of blood. These ecstacies

May e'en prove fatal. Do thyself no harm.

D. PAS. I feel recovered in that thou bidst me live;

And so will do thy bidding, fairest maid,

And live but for thy service and thy love.

INEZ. Good saints in Heaven! Will nothing calm thy tongue?

Hush, hush, Senor, I pray. I may not listen.

I am your debtor, or I'd take offence

At too much boldness.

D. PAS. Be not harsh, fair maid,

I meant not to be overbold. I swear

I would the tongue that could give thee offence

Were wrenched from out my throat. Oh, pity me!

It was thy beauty that inflamed me so.

INEZ. If so, I must retire, and leave you to

The care and guidance of the gipsy queen.

D. PAS. Thou couldst not be so cruel. What! debar

Your wounded knight, in this wild barren spot,

From the sunshine of those heavenly orbs.

Then bid me bleed to death. My life is thine.

INEZ. (_Aside_) Poor youth! How full of passion are his words!

I feel he loves me, and I do repent

That I have spoke too harshly. Woe is me!

(_Aloud._ ) Fret not. I did but threaten, gentle youth!

I will not leave thee.

D. PAS. Oh, say that again.

Thou wilt not leave me.

INEZ. (_Confused._) That is, not yet.

I mean----

D. PAS. Nay, qualify not what was once well said;

I hold thee to thy word. Thou must not leave me.

INEZ. Thou wouldst extort a promise. Be but calm,

Obey my orders until thou be well,

And I know not what I may not promise.

D. PAS. I will obey thee, maid.

INEZ. Then now be still.

GIP. Q. (_Aside._) Drift on, young turtle doves, adown the stream

The balmy course the stars map out for ye.

Pepa can look on at the joys of others

That were denied herself, unenvying.

But mark, Pascual, if thou dost inherit

But one drop of thy hated father's blood,

Whose cursed name shall ne'er more pass my lips,

And thou, with subtle wile, like to thy sire,

Should first attempt to gain the trusting love

Of this fair damsel, and then betray her,

I, Pepa, though thy mother, with this hand

Will quench that spark of life I gave to thee.

SCENE III.--_Study of Don Silvio. D. Silvio is discovered pacing up and

down dejectedly._

D. SIL. The day wears on, and still there is no sign

Of Pedro and my daughter. 'Tis full time.

It wants an hour to sundown; and ere then

I dread another visit from Don Diego;

Before this sand is spent he will be here.

He never yet did come behind his time.

Hark! I hear footsteps in the corridor.

'Tis he. He's come for news about my daughter.

This the very night, too, of the wedding.

What shall I say to him, or how shall I----?

_An abrupt knock at the door of the study, and enter_ DON DIEGO.

D. DIE. Well, friend Silvio, well. Art thou nigh prepared?

Where is the gentle Inez? Bring her forth.

D. SIL. (_Humbly._) Worthy Don Diego, I do much regret

My daughter Inez has not yet arrived.

D. DIE. Not yet arrived! Why it's long past the time.

D. SIL. I doubt not but what she will soon be here.

D. DIE. Soon! Didst thou say soon? Ay, marry ought she,

An she left St. Ursula's at daybreak.

Stay, this casement that opens towards the west

Ought to command a wide extensive view.

Lo! yonder lies the road that she should come;

My sight is good, an yet I see no one.

(_Suspiciously_) Hark ye, Don Silvio. Some new wile is this.

D. SIL. Nay, on mine honour, Diego. Think not thus.

Be patient yet awhile and thou shalt see----

D. DIE. Patience! What, patience! But I'll have my bond.

_Enter_ RODRIGUEZ _frantically_.

ROD. Oh, holy Virgin and good saints in Heaven!

Oh, blessed martyrs! Souls in Purgatory!

Would that Rodriguez ne'er had seen this day!

Oh, holy saints! Have mercy on us now!

D. SIL. How now, Rodriguez! What means all this riot?

ROD. Oh, peace! my master! Hold me ere I faint.

D. SIL. Speak! Rodriguez.

ROD. Alack! Alack! the day.

D. SIL. Nay, cease thy sobs, and more explicit be.

ROD. Oh, holy San Antonio be our guide!

My master, what ill luck's befallen the house!

D. DIE. Explain thyself, vile hag, and prate no more!

ROD. Oh, mercy on us! I can't speak for sobbing.

Oh, what disaster! Oh, what dire mishap!

Help us, ye saints.

D. DIE. This is past all bearing!

Speak out, thou limb of Satan, or I swear

By the foul fiend that 'gat thee, I will force

The lying words from out thy strumpet's throat.

ROD. Nay, good my liege, be calm. I'll tell you all.

The Lady Inez----

D. DIE. Ha! and what of her?

ROD. In sooth, my lord, but I am very faint.

D. SIL. AND D. DIE. (_Angrily._) Speak out! Speak out! Alack!

and well-a-day!

D. DIE. Zounds!

ROD. The Lady Inez and good Pedro

Started from St. Ursula's this morning

Upon their mules, and were about half-way

Upon their journey, when from ambush sprang

Some dusky ruffians of the gipsy band,

Who, having bound, robbed, and detained the pair----

D. SIL. My daughter captured by the gipsies! Oh!

[_Groans bitterly._

D. DIE. Foul hag, thou liest. Now hark ye, Silvio.

This is some farce got up to play me false.

But think not, sirrah, to elude me thus.

[_Drawing his sword and seizing Don Silvio by the throat._

Traitor! tell me where hast hid thy daughter.

ROD. (_Rallying, and throwing herself between them._)

Help! Murder! Help! Oh, help! What ho! Help! Help!

Don Silvio to the rescue! Help! I say.

D. DIE. (_Leaving hold of Don Silvio, fells Rodriguez with the pommel

of his sword._) Peace, harlot, or this blade shall make thee dumb.

Arise, and tell me whence thou hadst this news.

Beware now how thou tell me aught but truth,

For by this hand! an thou dost play me false,

I'll have thee burnt alive, or gibbetted

From the highest turret of this castle.

ROD. My noble liege, would that it were not true.

A hunter, an eye-witness of the scene,

Did bring the news unto your servant Juan.

D. DIE. My servant Juan! Why, then the tale is true!

No serf of mine would dare tell _me_ a lie.

Go, call him hither.

ROD. He is at the door. [_Exit Rodriguez._

_Enter_ JUAN.

D. DIE. How now, Juan! Say, can this wild tale be true?

What has happened to the Lady Inez?

JUAN. My lord, as I heard it you shall hear it.

A certain hunter----

D. DIE. Stay, where is this man?

JUAN. He is without, my lord.

D. DIE. Then call him here.

[_Exit Juan and re-enter with hunter._

HUNTER. (_Bowing to Don, Diego and Don Silvio._) My noble lords----

D. DIE. Hold! sirrah. Say, can'st thou

Upon thy oath affirm, thy hopes of Heaven,

That thou wert an eye-witness to this scene?

If so, relate to us in fewest words

How the case happened, and the where, the when.

HUNT. Then thus it came about, my liege. As I

Was wandering, towards mid-day, among the

Many rocks and fissures of these mountainous ranges,

Armed with my carbine, in search of game,

As is my daily wont, I came upon

A deep ravine, yet hidden from my sight

By thorns and bushes and like obstacles,

When soon I heard the hum of human voices.

The spot, if I may judge well, I should say

Was half-way 'twixt St. Ursula's and here.

Well, trampling down the brambles, I stood firm

Upon the brink of a steep precipice;

And lo! beneath me was the gipsy gang,

And chief amongst them, one tall stately form,

A woman's that would seem to be their queen.

D. DIE. (_Confused_) Ahem! Didst say the queen?

HUNT. Ay, my good lord.

And 'mongst the tribe I saw as captives, soon,

A gentle damsel and young cavalier.

D. DIE. How, sayest thou, Sirrah? A young cavalier!

Sure, 'twas an aged servitor you saw.

HUNT. An aged serving-man, 'tis true, there was,

And tightly-bound that he could not escape;

I knew him instantly. 'Twas Pedro here,

Don Silvio's servant.

D. SIL. Alas! alas! 'tis true. I was in hopes,

When the hunter spoke of a young gallant,

That he had mistaken some other travellers

For my daughter Inez and my servant.

But since he saith he knoweth Pedro----

D. DIE. Hold!

The case is not quite clear to me e'en now,

Silvio! Who's this gallant, as ye term him?

Speak, for ye ought to know.

D. SIL. No, faith, not I.

D. DIE. Proceed then, hunter, with thy story. Quick.

HUNT. Well then, my lord, knowing good Pedro's face,

I did presume that the young gentle pair

Were visitors, bound for Don Silvio's castle.

D. DIE. (_Musingly._) Young gentle pair--ahem! Well, man, proceed.

HUNT. I watched in silence, and they saw me not;

But still, from out my ambush I did take

The whole scene in, and it appeared to me

That the young knight must have resistance made,

For low he lay, sore wounded in the head,

While ever and anon the gentle maid

Would dress his wound, and gaze with tearful eye

And such a fond affection on her knight.

D. DIE. (_Aside to Don Silvio._) Traitor, thou shalt account to me

for this.

(_Aloud to Hunter._) Well, man, proceed. Hast thou ought more to say?

HUNT. But little good, my lord; but as I stood

Watching this trusting, loving, pair----

D. DIE. (_Aside._) Damnation!

HUNT. I thought my heart would bleed from tenderness.

D. DIE. (_Laughs diabolically_). Ha, ha! Ha, ha!

HUNT. So, rising to my feet,

But still unseen of any, I did haste,

As was my bounden duty, to this castle,

T'inform my lord, Don Silvio, of the fate

Impending both his servant and his guests.

D. DIE. Good; look ye, fellow. An thy tale be true,

Prepare to marshal me the way thyself,

Without loss of a moment, and may be

That thou shalt taste my bounty.

HUNT. Good, my lord;

The sun hath set, and it is growing dark.

D. DIE. No matter, thou shalt have the better pay.

HUNT. As my lord wills.

D. DIE. And Juan, see my charger

Be forthwith saddled. Bid my men-at-arms

To mount, armed cap-a-pie; whilst such amongst

The populace as thou canst muster, quick

Arm thou with pikes and loaded carabines,

And bid them follow me, their lord, Don Diego.

Lose not one precious moment, but set forth.

[_Exeunt Juan and Hunter._

What, gipsies! vagrants! bastard heathen dogs!

_I'll_ clear the country of this filthy scum,

Were it but for the sake of Christendom;

Maybe that some day they will dub me saint. [_Exit._

[_Don Silvio makes a gesture of despair, and curtain falls._

END OF ACT II.

ACT III.

SCENE I.--_Outside the castle of Don Silvio. The castle of Don Diego

seen in the background, upon the opposite peak of the mountain. Time:

Sunrise. Don Silvio and Donna Rodriguez._

D. SIL. My tears still blind my eyes. Look out, Rodriguez,

And see if there be traces of my daughter.

Alas! alas! this hoary head is bowed

As 'neath the weight of yet a score of years.

Oh, Inez, Inez! What a fate is thine!

An thy young life be spared, could ought repay

Th' injury done thine honour at the hands

Of these bold, lawless, gipsies? Woe is me!

Let me not think on't, or I shall go mad.

ROD. My lord, as I stand gazing towards the west,

Methinks I see a dusty cloud advance;

As were't a troup of horsemen at full speed,

And bearing towards the castle. Now I see

The limbs of horses and the arms of men;

The sound of human voices, too, I hear,

And, as they still approach, the distant tramp

Of horses' hoofs is plainly audible.

And now, unless my eyesight play me false,

Foremost among a file of glittering pikes,

I do discern Don Diego's waving plume.

'Tis he! and bearing at his saddle bow

My mistress Inez. Oh, thank God! she's safe.

Do you not hear, my master, what I say?

Your daughter's safe! Come, cheer up, good my lord.

D. SIL. (_Musingly_). Safe! didst thou say! My daughter's honour safe?

ROD. How say you, sir? Her honor! Nay, her life?

D. SIL. (_Musingly_). Life without honor!

ROD. Sure, my lord's not well!

(_Aside._) The blow has been too much for him, and turned

His aged head. Oh, my poor, poor master!

I tell him of his daughter's safe return,

And straight he 'gins to prate about her honor.

(_Aloud._) Look! look! Senor, at yonder cavalcade,

How it sweeps along; and now, behold,

Next to Don Diego is his servant Juan;

And there is Pedro. Bless his good old soul!

There the valiant hunter. Then all the crowd

Of vassals and retainers, and the guard, [_Cheers without._

With the armed populace. Hark! What cheering!

D. SIL. Is it, indeed, my daughter? Let me see;

'Tis she, 'tis she; Oh, Inez!

_Enter_ INEZ, _accompanied by_ DON DIEGO. _Behind_, PEDRO,

JUAN, HUNTER, _and_ ATTENDANTS.

INEZ. (_Embracing Don Silvio._) Father! Father!

ROD. My little mistress, Inez! What, no kiss

For poor old nurse Rodriguez!

INEZ. (_Embracing Rodriguez._) Good Rodriguez!

[_Don Diego comes forward, whilst Inez in the background

appears to be relating her adventures to Don Silvio and

Donna Rodriguez._

D. DIE. (_Sotto._) What work I had to quell the dusky band,

And carry off my prize. God only knows

How the black caitiffs fought! Like demons damned;

Incited on by their own swarthy queen,

My former love. Bah! why recall the past,

The ebullitions of a youthful lust,

Now five-and-twenty years agone and more?

And that at such a moment, too, as this,

When, acting bridegroom for the second time,

I now do lay my heart and hand, my wealth,

My land, and castle, all my fair domain

At fair Inez' feet. Poor Silvio's daughter!

A few hour's more, and she will be my own.

In my own private chapel at midnight,

And not one minute later, there a priest

Of my own choice, shall join our hands together.

'Twixt this and then, I must so use the time

To win her fairly, and by wiles t'efface

The prejudice young hearts by Nature have

Against old age. If needs be, I must use

Dissimulation and well act the saint,

That she may not give credit to the tales

That idle gossip may have crammed her with

Against my moral character. And now

I do bethink me that the readiest way

Of all to win her over to my will

Would be to tempt with goodly bribe her nurse

(What will not such a woman do for gold?)

To speak some little word in praise of me;

Talk of my love for her, my name, my fame,

My wealth, my virtues. How this match of hers

Will please her aged father. And again,

Should she be coy, and wickedly refuse

The fortune heaven has strewed along her path,

Let her reflect upon the consequences.

I would act fair with her, for I'd be loath

To lead to the altar an unwilling bride

In sight of all my vassals and retainers.

Yet, an she yield not (for as yet it seems

She looks with cold suspicion on my suit),

Why, then; why, then, however loath to use it,

Force must accomplish all when goodwill fails.

I cannot well expect much help at sixty

From youthful graces, as when first I wooed

My gipsy queen. _There!_ ever and anon

From out the past these memories will arise,

Like phantoms, threatening whether I will or no.

Avaunt! begone! And yet I cannot choose

But call to mind how, middle in the fray,

The dead and wounded lying all around,

Her dusky form arose before my path,

And all undaunted stood with staff in hand

And glance so terrible, I would as lief

Meet with the King of Terrors face to face

As that same virago. Yet there she stood,

And with uplifted arm, in clear tones cried,

"Traitor, beware! Thy star is on the wane,

Think not to conquer always, for a hand

Mightier than thine shall yet subdue thee.

Blood is on thy hand. Thine own blood shall flow.

The stars foretell thy downfall, so look to it."

I heard no more, for I had barely placed

My Lady Inez at my saddle bow,

Mid smoke of carbines and the clash of arms:

Myself with drawn sword cutting right and left,

So could but pay slight heed to what she said,

And set off homeward with my goodly prize,

Leaving the baffled foe behind to moan.

Yet, through the smoke and dust of horses' hoofs,

Still, for a time, I heard the hellish cry:

"Vengeance on the traitor! Vengeance, vengeance!"

I know not why her words cut deeper than

Had they been the words of any other;

But from _her_ lips they came with such a force,

They seemed to rend the air, and enter deep

Into the very caverns of my soul,

Turning my blood to milk, so that my arm

Fell nerveless to my side, and my good blade

Did well-nigh drop from out my hand. But hush!

It never must be known that Don Diego,

Though old in years, quailed before tongue of woman.

Bah! away with all fear of childish threats.

And, swarthy hag! do thou thy devilmost.

[_Inez comes forward, between Don Silvio and Rodriguez. Don

Silvio motions for Rodriguez to retire. Exeunt Rodriguez

and attendants._

INEZ. Nay, one thing still doth mar the joy I feel

At having passed the dangers of last night.

Though I stand safely on my father's hearth,

And see him 'live and well, and know that I

Have henceforth naught to fear, yet still my thoughts

Will ever wander towards the gipsy camp,

Close by the couch of that brave youth who fought

At cost of his own life, to rescue me

From out their hands.

D. DIE. How say you, lady fair?

What youth? You dream. 'Twas I who rescued you.

INEZ. Your pardon, sir; but I was safe already.

I thank you for your courtesy, the same.

You thought to rescue me.

D DIE. How now? _Thought to?_

D. SIL. Friend Diego, the tale runs thus: My daughter,

Accompanied by our old serving man,

Had hardly been attacked by the gang

And forced to dismount, when a comely youth

Of gentle blood----

D. DIE. Ay, ay, the hunter's story!

D. SIL. Just so. Well, my daughter says the gipsies

Meant her no harm. Merely would detain her.

D. DIE. _Meant her no harm!_ Ha, ha! Gipsies ne'er do.

_Merely detain her!_ Good again! Ha, ha!

Only so long as they might hope to get

A pretty ransom. Why, friend Silvio?

D. SIL. The pelf and trinkets that she had upon her

Were not demanded.

D. DIE. No; 'twas nought to what

They looked forward to as goodly ransom.

INEZ. Of their motives I know nothing; but she

Who seemed to be the queen of all the tribe

Did use to me such courtesy and kindness

As had she been my mother. Even when

That noble youth, thinking us in danger,

Rushed in upon them, killing and maiming

All who dared withstand him, till at length

Himself, poor soul! fell wounded in my cause.

E'en then the queen herself had pity on him,

And helped me bind his wounds.

D. DIE. What of all this?

INEZ. To show you gipsies have good qualities

E'en as Christians.

D. DIE. Bah! traitors, all of them.

But, what of this young man? This--this----

INEZ. Ah! _he_,

The noble youth whose bandaged head I still

Was tending when you did separate us,

And bore me off? Did you not see him then?

D. DIE. Ay, some such bastard gipsy dog I saw.

What! _he_ of noble blood! _He_ a Castilian!

Some half-bred gipsy. Lady, sure it was

A worse breed, far, than the pure gipsy born.

What! think you, that because of borrowed plumes

The jay will pass for peacock? Or that he,

A base-born mongrel gipsy, just because

Decked in the garments of some plundered lord,

Could e'er deceive the eyes of men like us?

Nay, lady, I do compassionate you.

You are young, and the world to you is fresh,

You know not of its wiles, its vice, its crimes,

But take all men to be just as they seem.

Take my experience, lady. I am old.

Not _old_; but old enough to know the world

And all its hollowness; and so most fit

To guide and counsel inexperienced youth.

Lean then on me, lady. I'll be your staff;

And trust me faithfully when I tell you

Not all the learning of the convent cell

Is worth one ace of that we gain by age.

INEZ. Enough, sir. That the world is full of sin

And treachery I ever have been told.

My aunt, the Lady Abbess, oft would say

We ever should distrust the tongue of men

When most persuasive, be they young or old.

D. SIL. Come, Inez, thou art tired, and need rest

After thy troubles and fatigues. (_To Don Diego._) My friend,

You will excuse my daughter for a while,

I've much to say to her in private.

D. DIE. Good. [_Exeunt Don Silvio and Inez._

Now for my ally. What ho! Rodriguez!

_Enter_ RODRIGUEZ.

ROD. Here I am, good my lord.

D. DIE. (_Caressingly._) Good Rodriguez,

I know that thou'rt a good and trusty friend

Unto this house. That thou lov'st well thy lord

And also thy young mistress, unto whom

From childhood thou hast acted as a mother.

ROD. Well, sir, I've always tried to do my best.

D. DIE. I know it. I know it both by report

And mine own observation. Wherefore, now

Full persuaded of thy many virtues----

ROD. Oh, my lord!

D. DIE. Nay, 'tis nothing but the truth.

I say, once more, persuaded beyond doubt

Of thy rare merits and good qualities

And of the value of one such as thou

To my old and long loved friend Don Silvio,

I do repent me of the hasty words

That lately 'scaped my too impatient tongue.

ROD. My lord, pray say no more. Rodriguez ever

Remains your humble servant. (_Aside._) Really he

Is not so bad as once I thought he was.

D. DIE. Believe me, that those words but rose in haste,

From o'er anxiety about the fate

Of thy young mistress, whom thou lovest so well.

Whom I, too, love so well. I, too, Don Diego.

ROD. I doubt not, sir, with a true father's love.

D. DIE. Hark ye! Rodriguez, I must not waste time

In coming to the point; but silence keep.

ROD. Ay, my lord. Who better than Rodriguez

At a secret.

D. DIE. Ha! Sayest thou so, brave wench?

Then list to me, and thou shalt never want

For bit or sup, kirtel, or farthingale,

As long thou livest. First accept this purse.

[_Gives a heavy purse._

ROD. Oh, my good lord! My generous, noble, lord!

What can I do to deserve your bounty?

(_Aside._) Well, I remember to have heard folks say,

"The devil's not so black as he is painted."

D. DIE. Rodriguez, hark! What thou hast in that purse

Is nothing unto that which thou may'st earn,

If thou succeedest in the task I set.

ROD. Proceed, my lord. I'm all attention. Speak.

D. DIE. Know then that I love thy mistress Inez.

Ay, with the passion of a younger man.

Count not my age--the heart is never old.

I've sought her of her father, and 'twas settled

She should be mine on her arrival home

After her studies at St. Ursula's,

Ay, on the very day. So ran the 'pact.

The marriage, therefore, I have said takes place

This very night, at midnight, in my chapel.

All is prepared.

ROD. 'Tis over soon, my lord.

D. DIE. Peace! peace! I'll brook no waiting, no delay;

I've sworn it shall be so, and it shall be.

What care I, think'st thou, if the wedding dress,

Or this or that be ready, so _I_ be?

Thou knowest our acquaintance is but short;

She scarce has seen my face. No matter that.

Now listen. What I ask of thee is this:

Do thou use all thy influence with the child,

T'induce her to look kindly on my suit,

And to her father's prayers and tears add thine.

But leave her not until she do consent.

And should she e'en at the eleventh hour

Be obdurate, why then, as last resource,

Tell her her father's life hangs on a thread.

Say that his castle and all that he hath

Will instantly be sold over his head;

And he and she, and you two servants both

Sent all adrift at once, to beg your bread.

If that work not, then must I fain use force,

And that were against me. So, Rodriguez,

Kind Rodriguez, I pray thee do thy best.

ROD. My lord, you ever shall have my good word

What I can do I will. Albeit, I think

Your grace is over hasty in the matter.

A little time----

D. DIE. No, faith, not one minute

Past the hour fixed. So see to't. I will now

Off to the castle, leaving thee one hour

T'exercise thy powers of persuasion

On thy young noble mistress. After that

I shall appear again and try what I

Myself can do to win her virgin heart.

Use all thy art and strength. Till then, adieu. [_Exit._

ROD. A pretty fix, forsooth! _Use all my art!_

I love the dear child well, and would, I'm sure,

Do all I could to help her to a state

Worthy the better days of this old house.

The Lady of Don Diego! That sounds well.

Mistress of his castle and his servants,

But wedded to a man who's old enough

To be her grandsire! Had he been a gallant--

Yet his money's good. Humph! I suppose I must.

[_Exit slowly; counting her money._