Tales of the Wonder Club, Volume III

by M. Y. Halidom

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! Señor, 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.

Scene II.—The Ravine. Time: Sunrise. Don Pascual sleeping. The Gipsy Queen standing near, watching him. The Gipsy Camp in the background.

D. Pas. (In his sleep.) Oh, Inez, Inez! (Waking with a start.) Ha! was that a dream?
Gip. Q. He wakes.
D. Ped. Oh, that I had thus slumbered on,
Feeling her soothing presence, and so died,
Rather than waken to this cold, bleak, world.
Gip. Q. (Aside.) How I do long to open all my heart!
Unmask this stern exterior, and make
Him master of the secret of his birth.
His wound's but slight, I think he'll bear the news.
I'll try. (To Don Pascual) Young man! Say, how goes it with thee?
D. Pas. I thank thee, mother, I have soundly slept;
My wound's already healed. The gipsy balm
Hath wrought a miracle.
Gip. Q. (Aside.) He calls me mother.
See how the native gipsy blood's instinct
Speaks through the lips of half-unconscious sense.
I'll wager he already half divines
His occult parentage.
D. Pas. (Looking around him.) Mother, where's Inez?
Gip. Q. (Aside.) Mother again; but Inez fills his thoughts.
Hast thou no mem'ry, youth, of last nights fray? [Aloud.
D. Pas. But little, mother; all is still confused.
Gip. Q. Then be thou patient, for I've much to tell.
But say, how is't, thou ever call'st me mother?
D. Pas. In faith I know not how my careless tongue
Could shape a word so tender to thee, Queen,
Who art a stranger to me. Yet I feel,
And felt from the first moment that I gazed
Upon thy dusky brow, a mother's heart
Did beat for me within that hardy breast.
Why I know not. I, too, who never knew
A mother's love, whose infant steps were led
By other than a mother's hand. A good
Kind lady, long since dead, adopted me,
And dying, left me all her patrimony,
Which hitherto has been doled out to me
By guardians, until I should come of age.
One Father Miguel, whom I seldom saw,
Paid my expenses at the seminary;
But when I asked him questions of my birth
I never got intelligent response,
So that I long have thought some mystery
Doth underly the subject of my birth.
Gip. Q. I knew the Lady Angela, and loved her.
D. Pas. Good Heavens! What, that name! The lady who——
Gip. Q. Adopted thee and Father Miguel too.
D. Pas. And Father Miguel!
Gip. Q. Does that surprise thee?
I could tell thee more.
D. Pas. More than that! Ay, then
Who knows thou may'st not discover
The secret of my birth.
Gip. Q. Secrets as strange
Have often been discovered by gipsies.
Am I not a gipsy? Can I not read
The destinies of all, mapped out for thee
By the great heavenly bodies? Think'st thou that
Our meeting was not fashioned by the stars
And known to me beforehand?
D. Pas. Even that!
Gip. Q. Ay, and your meeting with the Lady Inez.
D. Pas. That, too! Nay, tell me more. I fain would hear.
Gip. Q. Not so fast. Thou'rt o'er excitable.
Calm thyself first an thou wouldst hear more
Of that young damsel. But of her anon.
D. Pas. Weird and mysterious being, as I read
Thy mystic brow a whisper seems to say
I've seen thee once before. Say, art thou not
That crone who ever haunts me in my dreams,
Known in my youth, who once gave me this ring?
Gip. Q. The same, the same! I've watched thee from a child.
D. Pas. And by that ring thou knowest me.
Gip. Q. 'Tis true.
D. Pas. Ay, now I know thee. Tell me now, O Queen,
Why tookest thou an interest in my fate?
Gip. Q. The tale is long and sad, but thou must hear.
Be patient and lend an attentive ear.
Know, then, that in Grenada's lofty range
There stands a twin-peaked mountain doubly-crowned,
With two grim feudal castles, old, yet strong.
The owners of these fortresses of yore
Were aye at feud, until at last the one
Subdued the other. Ever since that day
The victor's star in the ascendant seemed,
For though in later times they turned to friends,
Who had been foes, and were allied together
In skirmishes with castles neighbouring,
In which they came off gainers, still, the one—
The larger and the richer one, I mean,
The whilom victor of the other peak—
Did e'er with haughty overbearing sneer
Upon his humbler neighbour, and would bind
The poorer lord with obligations strong,
For favours often granted, till at last
The lesser lord became dependent on
The greater one, and ever poorer grew
And more dependent, and so stands the case.
Things will not long be thus. A change will come.
The Fates predict it, and the proud one's star
Already's on the wane.
D. Pas. In sooth, good Queen!
But tell me what has this to do with me?
Gip. Q. Peace! It concerns thee much, as thou shalt hear.
The father of the present owner of
The richer castle, Don Fernando height,
I do remember well when but a child.
A warrior proud was he, like all his race.
His son, the present lord, is like him. He
Whose name I've vowed shall ne'er more pass my lips.
D. Pas. Ha!
Gip. Q. Interrupt me not. Thou soon shalt hear.
This lord, who shall be nameless, in his youth
(He now is old) did love a gipsy maid,
Who, in the freshness of her virgin heart,
Returned his passion, being but a child,
Whilst he, the villain, was a full-grown man
Of forty years and over. Still he bore
His years so lightly that he younger seemed.
With passion fierce he wooed the gipsy maid,
And pleaded in such moving tropes his love,
That the young gipsy's heart—not then of stone,
Though long since turned to flint—did melt, and he,
Seeing his prey secure, did plot her ruin.
But the child had a father, old and wise,
Of royal blood, too, known as King Djâbel,
And proud, too, of his lineage and his race.
He thought it lowering to true gipsy blood
To mate with pale-faced Christians, even though
'Twere to a Christian king and by the church,
Drawn up with legal document and signed
In all due form, and when he heard that I
Did to a Christian's love lend listening ear.
D. Pas. You? You, O Queen, then, were the gipsy maid.
You're speaking of yourself. I understand.
Gip. Q. (Starting) My tongue has tripped, and traitor turned. Why then
Pursue my tale under false colours? Aye,
Know that I, Pepa, was the gipsy maid
Once beloved of that false Don Diego.
D. Pas. Don Diego.
Gip. Q. Ha! My tongue has tripped again.
I vowed that name should ne'er more pass my lips.
Well, this false lord, with subtle wiles and arts
Did so win my young heart, that King Djâbel,
Furious at first at what he deemed a stain
Upon his lineage, threatened me with death,
And would have killed me, had I brought dishonour
On his fair name. But deem not that I fell.
I loved him—and how dearly! But he found
That the proud gipsy maid, though young, would not
Barter her honour. Not for wealth untold.
He then made promises that I should be
Mistress of all his castle and his lands
After his father's death. Till then, he said,
Our match must be clandestine, as his father
Would disinherit him were he to know
That his son were wedded to a gipsy.
Our plans were well nigh ripe, for oft we met
In secret, and had full time to discuss
Our future prospects, left quite undisturbed.
But one day King Djâbel, suspecting guile,
Did lie in wait for us, and with drawn blade
From ambush out did spring upon the pair,
And straight did fall upon this haughty lord,
The would-be dishonourer of his child.
But Pepa threw herself between her lover
And angered father, and so stayed the blow
And clinging to him, ever called upon
Her furious sire to spare the gentle lord,
And bid him smite her breast if one must die.
But Djâbel loved his daughter, and did pause,
Touched for a moment with her pleading prayer.
When, seeing him more calm, the wily don
Did straight, in full and flowing courteous speech,
Declare his love for me, and how he sought
Not to make me his minion, but his wife.
But Djâbel, answering with haughty scorn,
Said: "Go back to thy castle, Christian lord,
And wed some damsel of the pale-faced herd.
No blood of thine must mar our gipsy race."
The don's eye flashed. He would have spoken words
Full of wild fury and deep bitterness;
But Pepa interposed again, and flung
Herself on bended knees before her sire,
And begged her knight kneel too, and join her prayer.
The don at first loathing much to grovel
Down in the dust before a gipsy chief,
Whom he esteemed a savage, yet did yield,
And for my sake did bend his haughty knee.
And thus we knelt together, clinging to
King Djâbel's robe and choked with sobs and tears,
Did pray and plead, and plead and pray for long,
But all in vain our pleading and our prayers,
For dark as midnight grew King Djâbel's brow,
And stern his glance of cold and deep disdain,
Saying: "Humblest thou thyself, O haughty don?
Methinks thou might'st have spared thyself the pains.
Rise from the dust. Thy prayers are but as the wind
That blows against the granite mountain's side,
Yet harms it not, nor will it budge an inch,
E'en though it blow a hurricane. So I
Remain unmoved by all thy puny prayers."
Stung to the quick, and rendered desperate,
The haughty don with one bound sprang erect,
And darting lightning flashes from his eye,
Blushing the while at having bent the knee,
Humbling himself in vain, now cried aloud,
"Have at thee, then, dark chief, for one must die.
I fear thee not, and will not lose my hold
Upon thy daughter, whom I love as life.
Give her me, an it please thee, but if not
I'll wrest her from thee, so do thou thy worst."
Then straight the fray began. Each drew his blade
And fell upon the other, whilst my tears
And screams availed not, for the two were locked
Firm in each other's grasp, and tugged and pulled
In equal match, whilst I with streaming hair,
Torn robe, and tearful eyes, did cry aloud
For help in vain, till this poor frame, o'erwrought
With multiplex emotions, did give way,
And, swooning, I fell heavily at their feet,
Grasping my father's garment in my fall.
The fight was stayed awhile, and each took breath.
"Look to your daughter, chieftain," were the first
Words that I heard on wakening from my swoon.
And soon as e'er my tongue was loose, I cried,
In accents feeble still, "Oh, father, stay
This wicked brawl. Say, dost thou love thy child?"
With heaving breast and eyes suffused with tears,
And choking sobs, I seized his hand, and cried,
"Spare my young life. I love this Christian lord,
An thou do aught to him, 'twill be my death.
Canst see thy darling wither, droop, and die,
Or, stung to madness, seek a violent death?
Now mark well what I say, O most dread King.
Shouldst thou be guilty of this Señor's blood,
Know me no more for daughter, for I vow
Or him or none to wed, and should he fall,
And by thy hand, I too will follow next.
The oath is sworn." Then from my father's eye
A tear fell, which he brushing soon away,
As if he deemed it shame for man to weep,
And changing to a lighter mood, he cried:
"Girl, thou hast conquered. Christian knight, thy hand.
Let all broils cease between us. Thou hast fought
And won my daughter fairly, showing courage
Worthy a gipsy born. Therefore no more
Will I withhold consent unto this match.
But, mark me well, Sir Knight, this marriage must
Be, though clandestine, legally up-drawn,
That no base shuffling subterfuge may e'er
In after years crop up to thwart the bond."
Thus spake the king Djâbel. My Christian knight
Did vow upon his honour all should be
Exact as nicest lawyer could require.
Alas, for human villainy! What snares
And wiles beset the simple, trusting heart.
I loved him, and did lend a willing ear
To all his schemes, spite my father's counsel,
Suspecting nothing. What should I, poor child,
Know of the world and all its hollowness?
But King Djâbel, suspecting treachery
E'en from the first, and well upon his guard—
For little trust he placed in Christian wight—
Did stand aloof, and watched things from afar.
"Now will I try the faith of this same knight,"
He said, and with a frankness ably feigned,
He bid my lord take all things in his hands,
Saying he trusted him in all, but he,
For his part, was a very simple man,
Unskilled in the world's usances and all
That appertains to life 'neath governments,
'Pon seeing which, the wily Christian lord
Straight sought to profit by his innocence;
Betray the hand that trusted him, and thought
The dusky king, the dark barbarian,
Would fall an easy prey into his hands.
Howbeit, King Djâbel, like crafty foe,
Though simple seeming, sent abroad his spies,
Whilst he himself was absent. From these men—
Men whom he trusted—he was well informed
That this proud don had formed the fell design
That a false priest should join our hands together.
D. Pas. Villain!
Gip. Q. Thou speakest sooth, for villainy
More base or perjured never sprang from hell.
I thought he loved me, but I found too late
He sought to spurn me from him soon as e'er
His lust was sated. So he straightway wrote
To some base profligate and spendthrift friend
Who owed him money, promising that he
Would cancel all his debt and yet advance
Another round sum, if, peradventure,
He should so aid him in his hellish plot
As to enact the part of holy priest,
And satisfy the claims of King Djâbel,
Whilst he himself should be no longer bound
To me by law than it should seem him fit,
E'en as I were but his base concubine.
You see, he loved me not, e'en from the first,
Despite his protestations, since he could
In base cold blood conceive such dire deceit.
But this I knew not at the time, nor all
The foul devices of his reptile heart.
But fondly thinking that he loved me as
I then loved him, I listened to his suit;
Nor was I undeceived, till, ah! too late.
D. Pas. This is most monstrous! Noble Queen, I vow
Your sorrows move me to forget mine own.
I would I had the traitor by the throat,
That I might show him once how I esteem
Him and his villainy. Nay, 'tis a crime
That calls aloud to Heaven for vengeance.
Thou art nought to me Queen, but yet I feel
The wrong done towards thee e'en as though thou wert
My own true flesh and blood. I'd do as much
E'en wert thou thrice mine enemy. I swear
That should this traitor ever cross my path,
Or he or the false priest (I care not which—
Aye, both together, for 'tis nought to me),
By Heaven I swear——
Gip. Q. Hold! Heaven's instruments
Are ever preordained. Thou canst not move
One single step; nay, more, not e'en thy pulse
Could throb again but for the will of Heaven.
Leave him to Fate, for vengeance due will fall
In time, and from that quarter Heaven wills.
D. Pas. True Queen, but tell me more, I fain would know,
What said your royal sire King Djâbel?
Gip. Q. Then list, and thou shalt hear how Djâbel's spies
Did intercept the lines that this false lord
Wrote to his profligate and perjured friend,
So that he received them not. But now mark
What did my royal father? First he went
To seek a Christian priest, long known to him,
Albeit, unknown to this same haughty don;
To him he showed the lines, and through his aid.
Was writ an answer to this foul epistle,
As coming from the friend of this false lord.
This priest was father Miguel.
D. Pas. Ha! that name.
Why beats my heart as it ne'er throbbed before?
Say, what is this new light that bursts upon
My whilom darkened soul? What power is this
That stirs my thoughts within me? But proceed.
I must, and will know more. Proceed, O Queen.
My frame doth tremble in expectancy
For thy next word. Tell me, oh, tell me if——
Gip. Q. (Aside.) Already he doth divine what I would say;
Be still, my heart, and give me strength to tell it.
(Aloud.) This letter, then, by Father Miguel forged,
Ran thus in substance. Making first excuse
That sudden illness made him keep his bed,
But though unable to oblige his friend,
Did, ne'ertheless, not to disappoint him,
(Hearing the case was urgent, and not knowing
How long it might be e'er he should recover)
He thought to do not wrong in sending one,
A trusty friend and boon companion,
One, Don Elviro hight, to act as proxy;
This was the name that Father Miguel bore
To mask his own. Then straightway he set forth
T'wards the inn, from which the letter dated,
The while my lord, who, reading in hot haste
The letter through, and doubting not that he
Were aught else than what the letter stated
(To wit, Elviro, and no priest at all).
So sure was he of this, suspecting nought,
He fondly welcomed him, and many a joke
They cracked together o'er the heartless scheme.
Don Miguel acting well his part throughout
With ribald jest, and oft full merrily
Alluding to his tonsure newly shorn,
Asked of his patron how he liked his garb,
And if he did not look a priest indeed.
At this his lord laughed heartily, and thus
Time passed away till I should don the veil,
And we were married before witnesses.
The ceremony over, all passed o'er
Right merrily, nor knows my lord e'en now,
Not even to this day, that he is married.
D. Pas. Well done, by Heaven! And Father Miguel hail!
So was the base would-be seducer paid
Back in his own base coin. This should e'er be.
Gip. Q. Ay, but thinkest thou I knew aught of this,
Or was partaker in Don Miguel's scheme?
Oh, no; of this my father told me nought,
Nor knew I aught of all this base intrigue,
This would-be marriage false, by false priest blessed,
Till later years; in fact, until the time
That King Djâbel upon his death bed lay.
He then confessed to me the foul design
By him so ably thwarted. But e'en then
The traitor had abandoned me already.
He thought his marriage false, and told me plain
I had no hold on him. I sought my sire,
And then the truth came out. The blow was great,
To find myself abandoned and deceived
By him I loved and trusted, e'en though I
Knew well that I stood right before the law,
He had no right to leave me, that I knew.
'Twas heartless, as I then was big with child;
His father, too, was dead, old Don Fernand,
And I, by rights, his castle should have shared,
As he had promised, but old King Djâbel
Did counsel me, "Be patient yet awhile;
A day will come when thou shalt vengeance take.
Nature hath made me prophet. I can see
Now that my sun is sinking far beyond
This earthly sphere, all that shall come to pass
In future years. Delay thy vengeance, then,
Still a few years, and I will be thy guide;
I, Djâbel, from over this side the grave
Will guide thy steps and shape thy destinies
Until the hour arrive." Thus spake Djâbel,
And falling back upon his rugged couch,
Did breathe his last, clasping my hand in his;
He now sleeps with his fathers. Rest his soul!
And I, now left an orphan, and so young;
Abandoned, too, by the base man I loved,
How fared it with me, being then with child?
The days of mourning for my father o'er,
I could not keep my mind from wandering back
To our first days of courtship, when my lord
First wooed me, and did win my virgin heart.
I dwelt upon the memory of his words—
How he had promised me in days of yore,
His father being dead, old Don Fernand,
That I should mistress of his castle be.
How had he kept his promise? Don Fernand
Was long since dead, yet he no offer made
About his castle, but did keep me e'er
Within a little cottage that he built
During his father's lifetime for me, when
We first were married. Here I lived content,
For he then oft would visit me, and when
He came not, yet I had full trust in him,
And waited patiently, beguiling time
By tending flowers in my garden home,
For this was aye my passion from a child,
And thus the hours passed full happily.
But one day, seeing my lord with murky brow,
And not divining what the cause mote be,
I, with fond heart and young simplicity,
Did offer all that consolation
That loving wife will offer to her lord
In moments of deep sadness. But he spurned
Me coldly from him, and when I did ask
In what way I had my lord offended,
Deigning no direct reply, made answer,
He loved me not. I had no hold on him,
Should ne'er be mistress of his father's hall,
Our marriage being but a mockery,
To last as long as it should please himself.
He left me with a laugh of bitter scorn,
Whilst I, as if by lightning struck, did fall
Flat to the earth, and waking, sought my sire.
Thou knowest how my father, dying, left
A promise he would ever guide my steps
In hour of vengeance; so I patience kept.
Meanwhile our son was born. That son art thou!
D. Pas. Oh, mother! mother!

[They embrace and weep on each others' necks.

(On recovering.) I did half divine
The truth from the beginning of thy tale,
But at the name of Father Miguel
My heart did smite so loud against my ribs
As like to burst them; e'en as were it charged
From Heaven with joyful tidings to my soul.
I ever knew that man in some strange way
Was mixed up in the mystery of my birth.
Gip. Q. 'Twas he that christened thee, abandoned by
Thy all unworthy father. He that holds
Proofs that our marriage valid is by law,
Without which proofs thou'dst been born a bastard,
A stray, an outcast, slave to this world's scorn.
The Lady Angela, that kind, good soul,
Whose counsellor and priest Don Miguel was,
Knew all thy history, and pitied thee.
She was thy godmother while at the font.
Don Miguel marked thee with the Christian's sign,
And being a widow lady without heirs,
And rich withal, she straightway did resolve
T'adopt thee, and 'neath Father Miguel's care
To have thee educated as a priest.
Poor pious soul! But thou know'st best of all
How thine own wilful temper at the school—
Thy wild, impatient, roving gipsy blood,—
Did give small promise for a like career,
Which Father Miguel seeing from the first
(Though not until repeated efforts made
To tame thy stubborn nature proved in vain)
Did finally, now weary of his charge,
Abandon thee unto thine own wild ways,
Doling the money out from time to time,
Till thou should'st come of age. That time has come.
D. Pas. Ha! ha! I well do call to mind the time
When Father Miguel, with church dogmas sought
To warp my stubborn brain, and if I asked
Him to explain some of that lore he taught,
And fain would burden my poor skull withal,
Then straight it was a mystery. I must
Have faith, he said; nor ask the reason why.
Against this answer my young soul rebelled.
And long and fierce the battles that we fought.
He called me insubordinate and rude.
Said I lacked discipline, humility,
That I must subjugate my intellect
Unto the church's dictates, threatening me
With purgatory and everlasting fire
Unless I thought as he did, branding me
As atheist, Jew, or heretic, whilst I
Called him a fool. Then losing all control
Over his passions, this good, holy man
Did raise his hand to strike me, seeing which
I seized a knife and threw it at his head,
Leaving a scar upon his cheek; then laughed.
As I grew older matters mended not,
So he sent me to a seminary,
Thinking to curb my will by discipline;
But they soon found the worse they treated me
The worse was I, and so all gave me up.
'Tis years since we have met. We were not formed
To live together. Greater opposites
In character Nature ne'er formed from clay.
I owe the holy man no grudge; not I.
He did his best, I mine to understand him.
We were formed differently from our birth.
Gip. Q. A wild boy thou wert ever. That is true.
I've watched thee oft when thou thought'st me afar.
Thou knew'st me not for mother, nor would I
Unveil the myst'ry of thy parentage,
Nor bring disgrace on Lady Angela,
Who had so kindly offered to adopt
Thee, the poor outcast gipsy's mongrel son,
And rear him like the proudest of the land.
Why should I, with my narrow, selfish love,
Oppose a barrier to my son's advance,
Refuse the lady's bounty, and drag down
My son unto the level of myself.
A wand'ring gipsy! Yet I loved thee. Ay,
I loved thee e'en with more than mother's love.
I would that all should love thee. As for those
Who loved thee not, these I vowed should fear thee.
I'ld see thee feared and envied, proud and great
High up above thy fellows; and for this
I smothered in my heart all outward show
Of my affection, and so hid myself.
Still, I was near and watched thee day by day
Expand as the young plant before the sun.
And I was happy in my heart of hearts
To know that thou wert happy, and to know
I was thy mother, though thou knew'st it not.
And so for years I've watched thee, till thine own
Wild wand'ring nature bid thee roam abroad.
'Twas then for years that I lost sight of thee;
This also was predicted by the stars,
And so I gave to thee this gipsy ring
That I might know thee when we met again.
D. Pas. Ay, I do mind me well, when yet a child,
How once a gipsy gave it me, and bid
Me wear it ever, and 'twould bring me luck;
And how I, childlike, straight returned home,
Pleased with the gift, to show my mother, or
The lady whom I thought my mother then.
But tell me, queen or mother, which thou wilt,
Why, if as I think, all thy tale be true
And thou wert really married to Don Diego,
Knowing the law to be upon thy side,
Why didst thou not at once set up thy claim
Of lawful wife, instead of waiting now,
A score of years and more! Thou could'st have claimed——
Gip. Q. Thou askest me why I did not avail
Myself of that protection that the law
In my case would enforce. I'll tell thee, then.
I was, indeed, then counselled so to do
By Father Miguel and some other friends,
Who knew that legal marriage was performed;
But being mindful of the promise made
Unto my father on his bed of death,
And having strict confidence in his words,
Those deep prophetic words which never erred,
Then finding, too, when I did scan the stars
Good reason his for bidding me postpone
My vengeance for a season less ill-starred.
D. Pas. What saw'st thou, mother, in the stars to make
Thee to abandon all thy rightful claims
And crave the charity of an alien?
Gip. Q. I craved no charity. The lady who
Did stand to thee in lieu of mother, came
Herself and craved of me permission
To take thee home and rear thee as her child;
Which offer I, though with much reluctance,
At length accepted, ever mindful of
The brilliant future that the stars foretold.
D. Pas. What sign was that that caused thee then such fear?
Gip. Q. A star malefic in thy house of life;
Threatening thee with speedy violent death
From some traitor's hand. That hand, thy father's.
Had I ta'en counsel of well-meaning friends
And urged my rights, ay, had I moved a step,
Thy life and mine had dearly paid for it.
D. Pas. How this may be, I know not. If the stars
Do really rule our destinies, or if
Thy woman's fears but made thee dread contact
With men in power. Have we not the law?
Gip. Q. Justice may be bought. The oppressor's star
Was then in the ascendant. 'Tis no more.
Now mark, and I will show thee how the stars
Have worked and ripened for my just revenge.
Thou knowest well, 'tis now full many years
I have lost sight of thee, though I have learned
From Father Miguel thou wast still alive;
The stars foretold our meeting. Until now
I've waited for thee, and the stars likewise
Predicted that almost at the same time
Another I should meet, whose destiny
Did figure so in thy young house of life.
D. Pas. What! The Lady Inez?
Gip. Q. Ay, even she.
D. Pas. Then Heav'n be praised for happier destiny
Ne'er fell to lot of man.
Gip. Q. Nay, not so fast;
There're dangers still to pass, and thou must bear
Thyself right bravely if thou would'st succeed.
D. Pas. Dost doubt my courage, mother? My good blade
Shall carve me fortune wheresoe'er it turns.
Gip. Q. Hot headed youth! Guard well thy strength until
'Tis needed. Thou art weak from loss of blood,
And need'st repose e'er thou set forth to work.
The sun is high in heaven. Ere nightfall
Thou wilt have need of all thy youthful strength.
Ere midnight I will lead thee to a wood,
Accompanied by all my followers,
From thence we must ascend a rugged path
That leads to the tyrant's stronghold.
D. Pas. What tyrant?
Gip. Q. The nameless. Thy rival and thy father.
D. Pas. Don Diego! 'Twas he, then, that yester-eve
Did snatch the Lady Inez from my breast
As I lay faint and bleeding?
Gip. Q. Ay, e'en he;
And now he fain would marry her perforce,
With or without her answer; he has sworn
To wed her straight, scarce struck the midnight hour,
And hurries on with most indecent haste
This mockery of a marriage 'gainst the will
And inclinations of the girl herself,
And also 'gainst the wishes of her sire,
Whom, poor man, the tyrant holds in 's power,
As hawk doth hold a dove, obliging him
To give consent to this most monstrous match
With his fair daughter, only late arrived
Home from the convent of St. Ursula
(Albeit he knows not, I've the proofs in hand
Of our real marriage. Read them an you list)

[Handing papers to Don Pascual.

He needs must hasten on his base design,
For fear of interruption. Be it ours
To baulk this rabid eagle of his prey,
Snatch from his reeking claws the innocent lamb,
And rescue chastity from guilt's device.
Let this be Pepa's mission upon earth,
To succour virtue and avenge the wrong,
And thou, Pascual, stand thou me true in this,
Let no wrong pass, but quickly search it out,
And boldly in the light of day proclaim
The tyrant's wrong, in spite of odds or force.
D. Pas. Mother, I swear. Fear not thou'lt find me apt;
My sword is at thy service, e'en had I
No more incentive to avenge thee than
The sense of wrong that ever stirs my blood.
But now I have my own more selfish ends
To serve. The maid 'fore all most near my heart
To rescue from the talons of a foe;
The mother, too, who gave me birth to shield
From foul dishonour, and the tyrant who
Begat me, yet fain would dub me bastard,
Still to chastise. With these wrongs to redress,
Or e'en the half, what coward would not turn brave?
What mouse would not turn lion? Rest in peace,
This night thou art avenged. Pascual doth swear it.
Gip. Q. Spoke like my own true son. And now to rest;
Thou needest sleep, to calm thy jaded nerves,
And brace thee for the work thou hast to-night.

[They embrace. Pascual throws himself upon his couch. Gipsy Queen sits watching him. Scene changes.

Scene III.—Inez' bedchamber in Don Silvio's castle; an old four posted bed, with faded hangings—old faded tapestry. A prie-dieu in front of a picture of our Lady of Pain. Crucifixes and pious relics adorn the chambers. Don Silvio is discovered pleading earnestly. Inez weeping.

Inez. (Tearing herself away.) Cease, father, cease; I cannot, dare not yield.
How can you ask me, after all you've said?
What! Wed a man I never saw before,
A man whose age, too, full quadruples mine!
And at a moment's notice! Fie! for shame!
Was it for this then that you call'dst me home,
To barter soul and body for mere gold?
Is it not thus the lowest of our sex,
Led on by glitter to fill Satan's ranks,
Fall, ne'er to rise again? Ah! woe is me.
Think, father, think. What could such union be
Before the eyes of Heaven? Would it not
Be foul adultery, base, incestuous lust?
And this you'ld have from me, your only child?
Oh, father! 'twas not thus that you once spake.
Where are your noble maxims, father, now?
Alas! alas! all scattered to the winds
Before the first blast of the tempting fiend.
D. Sil. (Aside.) Now this is most just, by Heav'n! that I be
Thus by my own child humbled and reproved,
For falling back from truth in hour of trial.
Dear inn'cent soul! How could she yield to terms
Alike repugnant to her virgin heart
As mine own conscience? But, then, what to do?
Ah! cursed be the hour I gave consent
Unto that monstrous pact! What would I give
Now to undo the same, were't in my power?
But my inexorable foe has sworn
To have his bond, and Diego never jests.
Most dire necessity doth bid me save
Myself and household from disgrace and death.
Ay, from starvation. Nothing short of that
Should make me recreant to my conscience law.
She, young and hopeful, realises not
The want and misery that must ensue
To us on her refusal. Be it so.
Occasion presses. Time must not be lost.
I will try again, though conscience brand me.
(Aloud.) Inez!
Inez. Father!
D. Sil. Bethink thee, yet, my child.
Inez. Parent, no more!
D. Sil. What am I, then, to do?
I, thy poor agèd father, sent abroad
To beg my bread. No shelter from the wind
And rain. No food; no hospitable roof.
Our servants, too, must all our ills endure;
And all through thee, through thine own obdurate heart.
But 'twill not serve thee. Not one whit, for though
Thou still resist, Don Diego will use force;
His myrmidons——
Inez. I fear them not, when God is on our side.
This is a trial, and we must have faith.
D. Sil. (Desperate.) My child! Will nothing move thee? On thy head
Will be thy father's blood. My life's at stake.
Inez. Think of thy soul, old man, and trust in God.
Thou, who didst teach mine infant lips to pray,
Canst thou not pray, or wilt thou learn of me
Now thou art old? Hast thou no faith, father?
D. Sil. Alas! alas! 'Tis many years these knees
Have bowed no more in prayer. When I was young,
And yet had faith, 'twas then I used to pray.
Inez. But now; Oh, father! Heaven! What can have caused
This falling off of piety in age?
For years not bent the knee unto thy God!
I wonder not He hath abandoned thee.
Come, learn of me. Look here. Gaze on this form,

[Snatches a crucifix from the wall, and thrusts it into Don Silvio's unwilling hands.

This bleeding image. See this crown of thorns,
These nails, that side thrust; and then learn how He
Suffered and died for us. Canst thou not bear
One little pang an 't be the will of Heaven?
What is thy grief to His, who suffered more
Than mortal man e'er suffered? Father, pray
God will not desert those who trust in Him.
D. Sil. Nay, thou art young and hopeful. I am old.
Inez. Kneel, father, kneel; and look not so downcast.
Behold the blessed Virgin Mary, pierced
And sorrowing for our sins. Come, father, kneel.
Do as I do, and throw thyself before
This blessed image, and repeat these words.

[Throws herself on the prie-dieu, and clasps her hands together in front of the picture of our Lady of Pain. Don Silvio still standing.

Oh! Holy Virgin, Mother of our Lord;
Chosen of God, immaculate, Divine;
Thou, who hast promised aye to intercede
With thy dear Son, the living God of Heaven
For us poor mortals when oppressed with woe,
From that high heaven where thou sittest enthroned
'Midst glorious angels, mercifully look down
Upon thy humble votaries, who groan
'Neath the oppression of a tyrant world.
Oh! thou who never turnest a deaf ear
Unto a suppliant's prayer, send down thy grace,
And succour her from evil men's designs
Who puts her trust in thee. Thwart thou their schemes,
And, for the glory of thy holy name,
Avenge thy handmaid's wrongs, and punish those
Who, strong in the abuse of worldly power,
Would fain defile the virgin chastity
Of her who seeks thy aid; rain down thy grace.
Oh! Holy Mother, who canst never see
The wrong to triumph and the right to fall,
Soften my father's heart, and let him kneel
To thee, and join with me in heartfelt prayer
And supplication, that the evils which
Do threaten us alike may be withdrawn.

[Don Silvio drops crucifix, and exit slowly and moodily.

Oh, Holy Saints! Oh, Holy Virgin Mother!
Look down in pity on this suppliant pair,
Who all unworthy are to raise our eyes
To that high Heaven, whence thou art, and seek
Thy aid and guidance, strengthen us, O Lord!
Strengthen our faith, and let our trust in Thee
Never abate, e'en in temptation's hour.

[Draws forth a rosary, and remains for some time counting her beads. Then rises.

I thank thee, Holy Virgin. Thou hast heard
The prayer of faith, and——(looking round her) What! my father gone!
Too proud to pray, alas! Oh, Heaven grant
My doting father more humility,
More faith, more hope; and aye within this breast
Keep thou my faith alive, lest Satan send
Some emissary forth to thwart thy will.

Enter Rodriguez, smiling towards Inez, who starts, looks suspiciously at her, and shudders.

Rod. What! my young mistress taken by surprise,
And scared at poor Rodriguez! I've no doubt
Some transient fever, brought on by the shock
You late have suffered, made you shiver so.
Come to old Rodriguez, my pretty bird,
Pour forth into old nurse's willing ear
All its past troubles. Did the gipsy gang
Run off with pretty darling, and insult
Her and old Pedro! Sweetest, grieve no more
Now all is over, but take courage from
Old nurse Rodriguez, who was ever wont
To smooth its pillow, and to share its griefs.
Inez. Good nurse, Rodriguez, 'tis not, as you think,
The gipsy tribe that causes me this dread.
I have another and a secret grief
I daren't divulge to thee. Nay, leave me, pray.
Rod. What! my young mistress has a secret grief;
And I, poor old Rodriguez, am debarred
From sharing it. Leave you alone, forsooth!
Leave my young mistress Inez all alone,
To brood and mope over her secret grief!
Never! You ill know nurse Rodriguez, child.
Inez. (Aside.) This is intolerable.
Rod. As you say,
It cannot be about the gipsy tribe
My darling frets. The danger's gone and past,
Thanks to the noble conduct of my lord,
The brave and gallant Don Diego, who
At risk of his own life, with sword in hand,
Did rescue you from the dark gipsy gang.
'Twas bravely done. And how he wears his years!
Just like a stripling—and how fine a man;
How courteous, too, and what a merry eye
He has for all his favourites. I'm sure
That you yourself are one, judging from how [Inez draws back scornfully.
He looks at you askance, then turns away
And sighs so deeply, little thinking that
Rodriguez guesses what he bears within.
Inez. Rodriguez, silence! Of this trash no more.
Rod. Nay, Mistress Inez; pray not angered be
With poor old nurse. She loves a jest at times.
Inez. I'm in no jesting mood, I promise you.
I pray you, leave me.
Rod. There you are again,
Wishing me to leave you alone to mope;
But, dear, Rodriguez better knows than leave
Her little mistress all uncomforted.
Away with nasty grief, and courage take
From kind old nurse, and, like her, merry be.
Inez. Your consolation, nurse, is, perhaps, well meant.
Albeit, at present, 'tis superfluous.
Rod. What! Hoity, toity! child; would'st have me see
My little Inez pining and downcast,
E'en though it be for nought at all; and ne'er
Say word to cheer her? Nay, 'tis my duty
To my mistress. So here I mean to stick
Until I've made you laugh. Come now, madam.
Inez. (Aside.) She's insupportable.
Rod. Were I a maid once more, I'd show you how
I'd laugh and enjoy the world. Not as you,
Pent up these years within a convent cell,
Till you've grown musty. A pest on convents all!
Keep them for cripples and incurables.
For those who from birth so ill-favoured are,
They find not husbands. These may chant and sing,
And moan and fast, an't please them; but, for you,
A maid of Lady Inez's beauty, jammed
Within these walls—'tis sacrilege, I ween.
Inez. Rodriguez, now you must not lightly talk
Against those holy women, who have fled
All worldly joys to win the peace of Heaven.
Rod. Each to their taste. For me, I love the world.
Inez. I know it, nurse; but at your age 'twere fit
You'd higher thoughts.
Rod. At my age! Pooh! tut, tut!
Those with a merry heart are never old.
Look at Don Diego, how he bears himself,
And all because he has a merry heart.
Had he been priest or monk, he had been old
At thirty. But just look how proud his step,
How clear his eye, how red his manly cheek.
Were I a maid once more, just of your age,
I straight should lose my heart, and that's a fact.
Heigh ho!
Inez. A truce to this unseemly banter.
Nor dare to name that man to me again.
Rod. That man! What, poor Don Diego? In what way
Hath he offended, that you treat him thus?
I'm sure he is not conscious of his fault,
Or he would die with grief; the dear, good man,
Fond of you as he is, as all can see.
Inez. Rodriguez, cease! I'll hear no more, I've said.
And let me tell you, nurse, now once for all,
It ill becomes thy years and sex, t'enact
A part, of all parts most contemptible.
Rod. What part, my pretty child? Don't so misjudge
Poor nurse Rodriguez as to think that she
Could counsel you for aught but for your good
Remember, you are young, my mistress dear,
And have yet to unlearn your convent life,
That so ill fits you for our merry world.
Your father, poor mistaken man——
Inez. Hold there,
And reverence my father as thy lord.
Rod. Ne'er doubt me, mistress mine, but e'en my lord
Would counsel you as I would counsel you.
Inez. Thou speak'st of counsel. How would'st counsel me?
Rod. Nay, then, nought 'gainst your interests; that's clear.
Had I your youth and beauty, and your chance,
I'd have a care, nor throw such chance away.
Lend not the ear to ev'ry stripling, child,
Because he's smooth of mien, but look behind
The outer gloss, and seek for solid gold.
Inez. Your counsel, nurse, is mercenary.
Rod. Tut, tut.
We've got to live; to live we've got to eat;
Then comes our dress, our servants, and what else
May appertain unto a lady born,
As was your mother, Lady Dorothea,—
Of blessed mem'ry,—when this ancient hall
Looked livelier than at the present day.
Now hark! my dear young mistress, and attend
To these my words, as were they from the lips
Of your own sainted mother, who looks down
From her high post, and sees all that we do.
What, think you, would your fondest mother say,
To see this castle go to rack and ruin,
Her darling child descend in social scale,
Because she would espouse some popinjay.
Whose wealth was all he carried on his back?
When she could get a chance to marry one
(A goodly man, if more mature in years)
A great hidalgo, and of wealth untold,
By means of which she could redeem this hall,
And make it worthy of its better days;
Pay off her father's debts, and thus content
Him and his household, and all else beside.
Why, marry, 'twere rank madness to let slip
Such glorious chance, and such a chance have you.
Inez. Enough.
Rod. Nay, I will speak in duty bound,
And tell you, willy-nilly, that the man
Who thus would lay his riches at the feet
Of my poor master's daughter is none else
Than noble Lord Don Diego.
Inez. I have said
I will not have thee mention that man's name;
I did divine thy mission from the first,
And doubt me not that thou wert amply paid
To play the go-between; but learn for once,
Base woman, that my heart must not be bought;
The purest gift of Heaven was not made
To be an article of merchandise.
My heart's in mine own keeping, and must ne'er
Be given up save to the man I love.
Though this pile fall to ruins o'er our heads;
Though hunger threaten; though my father's life
And other lives at stake be; nay, e'en though
This robe be turned to rags and I be sent
Abroad to beg my bread, and from the cold
Night storm or tempest ne'er a shelter find;
Nay, come what will, nought 'gainst the will of Heaven
Must e'er be done to suit the present hour.
Rod. Nay, speak not thus, young mistress, but be calm;
Rodriguez, too, was once a girl and thought,
E'en as you do now.
Inez. More's the pity then
That years, instead of bringing purer thoughts,
Should cancel all the purity of youth.
Rod. Nay, mistress mine, what I would say is this:
That being in youth, even as yourself,
More swayed by my heart than my interests,
I gave my heart unto the man I loved,
Disdaining higher offer, but soon found
Cause to repent for having thrown away
A better chance; for Carlos, when he saw
That I had nought, and he had nought, he 'gan
To lose the love he had for me, and then
He beat me, and we quarrelled. Soon he died.
And being left destitute, was fain t'accept
The place of servant in your father's house.
Inez. And by this tale of sorrows thou would'st prove
That we in this life are in duty bound
To sell our souls unto the highest bidder.
Away with such foul subtleties, with which
The arch-fiend baits his hook to tempt God's own.
Give me the quiet of a convent cell,
Rather than rank and splendour with disgrace.
Rod. Disgrace! Nay, honour. When the knot is tied
You will be held in honour by the world.
It is not mere protection that is offered,
But legal marriage. There's the difference.
Inez. The marriage that 'fore Heaven legal is,
Is that in which two souls are joined in one,
And not the forced and bitter mockery
Born of man's interest, by him approved.
Such match as thou would'st counsel were no match,
But lust and policy combined in one;
Most foul adultery in Heaven's eyes,
Ay, e'en despite the blessing of the church.
But, to cut short this most distasteful theme,
Perhaps thou'lt tell me, as an after-clause
Included in the pact, should I accept
This offer that Don Diego deigns to make,
'Twere necessary that this match take place
This night at midnight, without more delay.
Rod. Why, some such clause there is, I must confess,
A mere caprice. What matters it? But then
The offer is so splendid. Only think!
Inez. In case of my refusing him. What then?
Rod. You surely would not think of such a thing,
If you knew how he loved you.
Inez. Still I ask,
What's the alternative should I refuse?
Rod. I would not counsel you to brave his ire.
He loves you most devotedly, I know,
And 'tis for that he'd hasten on the match,
'Tis over-eagerness and fear to lose
His prize. A groundless fear, I do admit.
But he was ever an eccentric man:
A good man though.
Inez. So all I have to fear
Is but his ire?
Rod. I know not though what form
His ire might take. He's powerful and great,
Accustomed to obedience, to command,
Like all great military leaders who
Hold up their heads above their fellow-men.
He might use force. I would not you advise
To thwart his will, but quietly to yield.
Inez. And art thou woman, who would'st counsel me,
Through fear of violence of mortal man,
To so offend against all chastity
As yield obedience to this man's lust?
A veteran full four times mine own age,
And that, in all hot haste this very night,
When I have scarce had time to see his face!
Is't this that thou call'st love? Now fie! Now fie!
I did think better of thee, nurse Rodriguez,
Than that thy tongue could have been bought for gold
In such base cause. But since 'tis come to this—
Away from me! and tell the fiend who sent thee,
Inez would rather die a thousand deaths
Than barter her virtue for all his gold.
Rod. I dare not tell him so, my pretty bird.
Inez. Then send him here, I'll tell him so myself.
I fear no man when God is on my side.
Rod. Nay, mistress, dear, forbear. You know him not.
Inez. Yet thou would'st have me marry him. For shame!
Rod. I know not what to say. 'Twas urgency,
Most dire necessity, that made me speak;
Fear for your father's life, mine own, and Pedro's,
And last, not least, yourself, my darling child.
I am bewildered and half gone mad.
What shall we do? Oh, Heaven grant us help.
Inez. I trust as ever in the help of Heaven.
Sustain us, Lord, in our adversity,
And let us lack not faith. [A knock at the door.
Oh, holy saints!
Pedro. (Without.) Rodriguez! What ho! Donna Rodriguez!
My lord Don Diego awaiteth thee below.
Rod. I come, I come. (Aside.) Ah me! what shall I say? [Exit.
Inez. Now, saints protect us! Holy Virgin, thou
Be still my guide, nor let me pray in vain.

[Inez throws herself half fainting on the prie-dieu, and the scene closes.

Scene IV.—A Wood of chestnuts. Moonlight. Gipsies in ambush. Don Diego's castle seen towering above the trees.

Enter Gipsy Queen and Pascual.

Gip. Q. Behold the spot I told thee of, from whence
We must begin th' ascent. (To Gipsies.) Is all prepared?
Gipsies Together. Ay, Queen.
Gip. Q. And Father Miguel?
A Gipsy. He comes anon.
D. Pas. What, even Father Miguel! Will he join?
Gip. Q. He is, as ever, our most staunch ally,
And doth possess a keen and ready wit
In time of need. A soft and oily tongue
And gentle manner, that may well disarm
All base suspicion. Such sound policy
As may enable him to win the day,
When all such brainless braggadocio
As thine might fail.
D. Pas. Bravo, Father Miguel!
An he be practised in the use of 's tongue,
As I am in the use of my good blade
We shall do well together.
Gip. Q. See, he comes.

Enter Father Miguel. He walks straight up to Gipsy Queen.

F'th. M. Pepa, well met. Is this young man your son?
D. Pas. (Stepping forward.) Ay, holy father. Dost remember me?
F'th. M. But little, son. It is so many years
We have not met, and thou art altered much.
Thou wert then but a lad—a naughty lad,
A very naughty lad.
D. Pas. Ha, ha! Ha, ha!
The accusation, I admit, is just,
But hope, after to-night, that we may learn
To know each other better.
F'th. M. So say I.
And now, for what doth most concern us all.
To Gipsy Queen. I doubt not this youth's courage. Nay, his fault,
An I remember right in days gone by.
Was being too precipitous and rash.
Now listen, both of ye, to what I say;
We must not mar our plot with useless show
Of ill-timed valour, but hoard well our strength
Till needed, and if possible dispense
With blood and slaughter, which God grant we may.
D. Pas. How, holy father? I don't understand.
Are we not here assembled to attack
The tyrant's stronghold. Are the men-at-arms
That guard the castle made of such poor stuff,
As let a powerful and armed band
Approach without resistance. Think you, he
The man that I blush to call my father,
Is so utterly without resources
As let us tamely rob him of his prize,
Under his very nose, and not resent?
Too old a fox, I ween, our veteran foe,
For to be caught asleep.
F'th. M. Nay, hear me, son.
Gip. Q. Ay, true my, son. Have patience and attend
To the good father's counsel.
D. Pas. Father, speak.
F'th. M. I have bethought me of a scheme, which, if
Well carried out, will bring us through the guard
Without the loss of blood. Once entered in,
And passed the threshold, let me lead the way.
Your mother will present herself anon,
Assert her rights in presence of them all;
You then will follow, ready to protect
Yourself and us, should an assault be made
Upon our persons. (To Gipsies.) You bold gipsies all,
Keep close at hand a little in the rear
Ready for action, but beware to lift
A finger until called upon to fight
Through grim necessity. D'ye hear me all?
Gipsies (Together.) Ay, ay, Sir Priest.
D. Pas. You have not told us yet
The means you will adopt to pass the guards
Without resistance.
F'th. M. Listen, then, awhile.
I have to aid me in this daring plot
A tried and trusty friend, a mountaineer;
This peasant hath across his shoulders slung
A keg of choicest wine, by me well drugged
With such a potent powder, that one drop
But taken on the tongue were full enough
In a few minutes to induce a sleep
So dull, lethargic, heavy, and profound,
That earth might quake, winds blow, and thunder growl,
And yet the victims of this potent drug
Would still sleep on, their long and death-like sleep,
And much I doubt me if the archangel's trump
Would fully wake them.
D. Pas. 'Tis not poison, father?
F'th. M. Nay, 'tis harmless. How could you think that I,
As priest, could do aught to take human life?
I come to hinder carnage, not to slay.
D. Pas. This may be difficult, though, nevertheless,
The men are many. There are always dogs
That bark and bellow at the foe's approach.
F'th. M. Leave all to me, my son. As for the dogs,
I've poison brought, most instantaneous,
With which I've baited meat, that I have now
About my person, whilst this peasant here.
What ho! Felipe!

Enter a PEASANT with a keg of wine slung round him.

This same honest man
Will go ahead with me, but as we near
The castle we will separate, and choose
Two divers paths, so that in case we meet
With any man we seem not to belong
One to the other. He will chant an air
Such as our mountaineers are wont to sing,
And go his way, as one who's light of heart;
Myself, will pass on by another route,
To meet the peasant at a given point
Close to the castle and within the hearing
Of all the soldiers; and if accosted,
I have my answer ready. Do not fear.
When within hearing of the men-at-arms,
I shall call out to this same mountaineer,
As to a stranger: "Hold, friend. Where bound?"
"To the next village, father," shall he say?
"Trav'lling with wine. A buyer wants to try
A sample, and I bring him of the best."
"Ha!" shall I say, "then, prithee, let me taste.
I, too, would buy a barrel, but for me
It must be good indeed, else, keep your wine."
Then shall I feign to drink and smack my lips,
Swearing 'tis nectar worthy of a king,
And straight make offer to buy all he has,
While trudging on together by the way.
Presently we will come upon the guards,
Some of whom know me well. Suspecting nought,
These men will easily be lured to try
The vaunted liquor. Having gone the round
Of seneschal and warder and the rest,
I shall find access to the castle hall
Without much trouble, offr'ing as excuse,
I come to let Don Diego taste the wine.
Once entered fairly in the castle hall,
Ere long all hands will sound as dead men sleep,
Then shall I blow this whistle. At the sound,
March on, and fear not, for the game is ours.
D. Pas. Hail! Father Miguel! once again I say.
F'th. M. Now to our task. 'Tis just about the hour,
And better be too early than too late.
D. Pas. True, holy father.
F'th. M. Well, go softly on
Ahead, whilst you all keep well in the rear,
Advance ye not until ye hear this call.

[Exeunt Father Miguel and Felipe.

D. Pas. Why, what an acquisition to our cause
Is this same priest! I vow I know not how
We should have done without him.
Gip. Q. You say well.
Besides our cause, that he has much at heart,
He revels in all plotting and intrigue.
D. Pas. It suits his peculiar genius. Why,
He might have been prime minister of Spain,
This same poor unknown priest.

[A distant mountaineer's chant is heard.

Gip. Q. Hark! Do you hear?
D. Pas. Ay. The mountaineer's chant. The game's begun.
Gip. Q. List patiently, and we shall hear anon
Don Miguel's whistle. Silence, all of ye.

[A long pause. All place themselves in listening attitude. Gipsy Queen advances slowly. Pascual in the background, still listening.

Gip. Q. The hour fast draws near when my intent,
That purpose that the heav'ns have writ in blood,
Must be accomplished. Be still, my heart.
Shade of my father Djâbel, stand thou near;
Nerve thou this arm so that it shall not fail,
For work is to be done, and that right soon.
That man is doomed, and by this hand he dies;
Heav'n hear my oath! Respond, ye elements.

[Sky grows dark. Thunder and lightning. Owls and bats flit about. Commotion in the camp.

The oath is writ in Heav'n. Recording sprites
Have taken down the gipsy's oath of blood;
And now shall all men see, all nations tell,
How, from the ashes of this trampled heart
Did all triumphant rise the gipsy queen.

[A distant whistle heard.

D. Pas. The signal, mother! Didst hear the signal?
Gip. Q. Ay, son. Onward, then;
I'll lead the way myself. Be firm and true.

[The ascent begins, led by the Gipsy Queen, and the scene closes.

Scene V.—A hall in Don Diego's castle communicating with the chapel. The chapel is in the centre of the background. Through curtains is disclosed the altar lighted up, and a priest ready to officiate. In the hall, which is illuminated, a long table is spread with fruit and other delicacies. Music. Enter guests, discoursing animatedly and laughing.

First Guest. (To his Partner.) Have you yet seen the bride? They say she's fair.
Partner. They say so, but I have not seen her yet.
Howbeit, a friend of mine who knew her well
When at the Convent of Saint Ursula,
Says she is over young. Just turned sixteen;
And how a man of Lord Don Diego's years
Could fall in love with such a chit, beats me.

[They pass on. Two other guests advance.

Lady of Second Guest. (To her Partner.) Ay, true, I think it would more seemly be
Were he to marry one of years more ripe.
Second Guest. (To his Lady.) The older that men grow the more they're pleased
With youth. I'm sure I should be so myself.

[They pass on. Third couple advance.

Third Guest. (To his Lady.) Nay, who'd have thought that poor Don Silvio
Could thus so easily pay off his debts?
He's in luck's way. As for the blushing bride,
Not every day doth heaven rain such fortune.
Lady. (To Third Guest.) Yet they say that she is most unwilling.
Third Guest. Then, she's a fool.

[They pass on. Fourth couple advance.

Lady. (To Fourth Guest.) Nay; I have heard it said
She weeps and frets, and hath so desp'rate grown,
That nought save violence could aught avail
To lead her to the altar.
Fourth Guest. What a girl!
To throw away so glorious a chance!

[They pass on. Two gentlemen meeting.

First Gent. What, comrade, you invited! Ha, ha, ha!
The old boy's got some life in him as yet.
Second Gent. And good taste, too. I just now caught a glimpse
Of the fair bride; and, zounds! I do begrudge
Her to the veteran. I myself would choose
Just such an one, and were it not her face
Were marred by excess of weeping.
First Gent. Indeed!
Ha! ha! I never could make out why girls
Cry at their wedding. Just the very thing
They've looked for, prayed for, schemed for all their lives;
Yet, when it comes to don the bridal veil
And figure at the altar, then comes straight
A bucketful of tears. Hypocrisy!

Enter Don Diego, followed by Don Silvio pleading.

Second Gent. Here comes the bridegroom; and, as it would seem,
Not in the best of humours. Let's withdraw.

[They pass on.

D. Die. (To Don Silvio.) Silvio, no more! I'll not be flouted thus
Before my guests, in mine own castle, too.
I've said that it shall be, and it shall be.
I ne'er take back my word. So bid her haste,
And put a better face upon the matter.
The time is up, and all my guests attend.
Go, bring her, then. (To Guests.) Friends! welcome to this hall.
Guests All. Long live Lord Don Diego, with much happiness!
D. Die. Thank ye, my friends. I do regret to say,
'Fore this august and gracious company,
That we are likely to experience,
This night, some difficulty on the part
Of our fair bride. Some singular caprice;
Transient, no doubt, but not the less unfit
For gay festivity. The fact is that
My youthful bride is of a temperament
Too highly wrought and o'er hysterical.
She only late hath left her convent cell;
Her education, therefore, until now
Hath rendered her unfit to face the world.
Impressionable natures, as we know,
Recoil before aught that can cause a strong
And powerful emotion. 'Tis the shock
They dread. 'Tis nothing. Nay, I do condole
With her; ay, from the bottom of my heart.
But yet I think it not well to indulge
Young folk in such caprice. Therefore, should I,
My honoured guests, be forced to assume
An air of stern severity unmeet
This gay assembly, deem it but as naught;
'Tis firmness that is needed in this case.
We men must not be conquered by caprice.
As for the girl herself, she loves me well;
Nay, passionately.
Inez. (Within, distractedly.) No! 'tis false, 'tis false.

[Titter and commotion among the guests.

D. Die. (To Don Silvio.) Silvio! Why stand you there, with folded hands?
Did I not tell you to lead forth the bride?
D. Sil. She says she will not come.
D. Die. Will not? Ha! ha!
This to my face! Will not, indeed. We'll see.
My worthy guests, bear with me if I lose
My wonted patience, and in haste let slip
Some casual word that may seem unfit
The presence of guests so illustrious.
My temper's somewhat choleric, and if
My will is thwarted I may lose restraint.
Silvio, bring forth the maiden straight, I say,
Or I will have her dragged to me by force.
Inez. (Within.) Oh, mercy! Mercy! Heaven hear my prayer.
A Gentleman. Poor little jade! How I do pity her.
A Lady. And so do I. It makes my heart quite bleed.
D. Die. A truce to this. Ho! pages, drag her forth.

[Exeunt two pages, who re-enter, dragging Inez in, who utters a piercing scream. She is dressed in a white dressing gown, her hair dishevelled, and grasping a crucifix. Father Miguel and Gipsy Queen appear at the open door cautiously. Behind lurk Don Pascual and Gipsies.

Inez. "Oh, Holy Virgin! Save me; save me yet.
Thou wilt not thus abandon me."
D. Die. (Seizing her by the hair, and dragging her towards the Chapel.) So jade,
Since thou hast deemed fit to flout me thus
Before my guests, and spurn'st my tenderness,
Learn how obedience can be enforced.
Come priest. Be ready.
A Guest. Nay, but this is rape!
I cannot stay and see injustice done.
I repent me that I was invited.
Another Guest. True, and so do I. This is no marriage,
But filthy lust and mere abuse of power.
D. Die. (To Guards.) Help! Hell and Furies! or I'll have her drugged.
Guests All. Shame! Shame! Down with Don Diego.
Seize the tyrant.
D. Die. What! Flouted by my very guests. What next?
Guests All. Virtue to the rescue! Save the maiden!

Enter Gipsy Queen hurriedly, and stands fixing Don Diego with her eye, who recoils.

Gip. Q. Hold! I forbid the banns.
Inez. Thanks, Holy Virgin,
That hast heard my prayer, and sent an angel
Down from your high Heaven in hour of need.
What glorious halo do I see around
That sainted vision!

[Inez falls fainting into the arms of Don Silvio.

D. Die. Nay, this is madness.
Gip. Q. Hear me, swarthy hag. This castle is mine,
And not for such as thee. Begone, I say,
Or I will have thee hanged, ere breaks the dawn,
From the loftiest turret of this pile.
Gip. Q. Villain, I fear no threats.
Look on this bond.
D. Die. What folly's this? Say, who let these men in?
F'th. M. (Advancing.) I, Don Miguel, whom you basely thought
To use as instrument in your foul plot,
Twenty-two years ago, when you did plan
The mockery of a marriage to induce
This trusting gipsy to accede to what
Your own dark soul did lust for; thinking that
'Twere easy work to dupe the innocent.
So, writing to a worthless boon companion,
Already in your debt, you promised him
To cancel all his debt, and further add
Another sum in recompense, were he
To condescend to sink himself so low
As to enact the part of priest in this
False marriage. But that letter never reached
Its destination. Djâbel, gipsy king,
This woman's father, once suspecting guile,
As well he might, did send his spies abroad,
And so this letter, fell into my hands.
I quick conceived the plan to pen reply,
As coming from the tool you sought to use,
In which 'twas stated that he lay in bed,
Ill of a fever, and so could not come,
And therefore he would send a substitute
To act for him. That substitute was I.
I, Father Miguel, with dissembling mien,
By you too fully trusted, had access
Unto your presence, as you fondly thought,
To help you in your plot of the feigned match.
But know, base villain, you alone were duped,
Your marriage was a real one, and holds good.
D. Die. This is some false concocted tale, got up
For some hellish purpose.
Priest. (At the altar, advances.) Lord Don Diego,
I tell you this is no invented tale,
This Father Miguel is well known to me,
A worthy priest of our most holy Church.
The bond is valid.
D. Die. Flouted on all sides!
How now! Do I dream? Am I master here,
Or am I not?
F'th. M. Another Master there's
Above us all, more powerful than thou,
Dispensing justice and avenging wrong.
D. Die. What cant is this? Ho! guards, cut down the rabble.

[Some halberdiers advance. D. Pascual and gipsies put themselves on the defensive.

F'th. M. Raise but a finger, or cause to be raised
An arm in thy defence, and dread the worst.
D. Die. This from a shaven crown! A pretty plight
For feudal lord to be in! What ho! guards.

[A skirmish ensues, and guards are beaten back by gipsies.

On, cowards, on! Where are my men-at-arms?
F'th. M. All drugged, and powerless by my device.
They sleep like dead men. Seek no help from them.
D. Die. Damnation! Am I worsted by a priest
And gang of squalid gipsies? Ho! my men,
Go, rouse the sluggards! Bring my armour, quick.
F'th. M. (To Guards.) Budge but an inch, and not a man of ye shall see to-morrow's sun.
D. Die. How now! Who's he
That threatens and gives orders in my hall?
Have I no friends among these honoured guests
To save me from these insults? Who am I?
F'th. M. A sinner, made amenable to law.
D. Die. (Laughs diabolically.) Ha, ha! This craven's insolence is such
It well nigh moves my laughter. How now! guests,
Not one sword drawn! No single arm upraised.
A Guest. My Lord Don Diego, in a cause that's just
My sword is at your service. So say all
The others. But we will not fight for wrong.
Let us be first persuaded if this priest
Have right upon his side. Show us the bond.
D. Die. The bond is but a forgery.
D. Pas. 'Tis false,
Thou lying knave. I'll make thee eat thy words.
D. Die. Who is this mongrel gipsy, bold of tongue,
Who beards us with drawn sword.
F'th. M. Your lawful son,
Of this poor gipsy born in holy marriage.
D. Die. The tale is too preposterous.
Officiating Priest. Nay, look
Well on the bond, Don Diego.
Guests All. Ay, the bond.
D. Die (To Officiating Priest.) And thou, Sir Shaveling, didst thou not come here
To-night to draw up deed of legal marriage?
And dost thou now come forward and take part
With this base priest, who for some plan of his——
Off. Priest. My compliance was but in appearance.
I came, well knowing of your former marriage,
Twenty-two years ago, as saith the bond,
With her they call the Gipsy Queen. All this
I had from Father Miguel; and besides,
Have well perused the bond, which, being valid,
I could not undertake to tie the knot
In conscience, and have no intent to do 't.
D. Die. I was but mocked, then?
Guests All. Come, the bond! the bond!
D. Die. Give me the bond. I'll soon cut short this work.

[Snatches the bond from the hands of Gipsy Queen. Glances hastily over it, and proceeds to tear it.

'Tis false. This is no signature of mine.
Gip. Q. Darest to deny thy bond? Die, villain, then,
In this thy perjury! [Stabs Don Diego.
D. Die. Help! help! I bleed. [Falls.
Guards. Don Diego to the rescue! Seize the hag.

[Guards and a few guests lay hands on Gipsy Queen.

D. Pas. (Furiously.) Leave go, my mother. He that lays a hand
Upon her person, I'll send straight to hell.
A Guest. (Advancing with drawn sword.) Secure this furious and audacious youth.
D. Pas. Have at thee, then. [Kills guest.
Guest I die. [Dies.
Two Guests. (Advancing.) Hold him! hold him!

[Both guests attack Pascual at once, but are driven back. Guards come up and attempt to seize him. Gipsies attack guards, and a general skirmish ensues. Two guards are killed by gipsies. One gipsy falls. Don Silvio bears off Inez in the confusion.

F'th. M. Peace, brethren, for a while, and no more blood.
A Guest. Look to Don Diego, friends, and seize the hag.

[All surround Gipsy Queen, who stabs herself and falls. All draw back.

Gip. Q. This life is forfeit. I for vengeance lived;
My mission is accomplished upon earth.
I vowed to heaven. Heaven has heard my prayer.
And I depart.
D. Pas. (Rushes up, and throws himself beside the Gipsy Queen.) Oh, mother! dear mother.
D. Die. Help! help! Who has put out the lights and left
Me all in darkness?
A Guest. No one, noble lord.
F'th. M. 'Tis but the darkness of thine own dark soul,
Now upon the brink of eternity;
I counsel thee, confess, and then receive
The consolation that the Church affords.
D. Die. Water! I thirst. Alas! how grim is death!
I am afraid to die. I burn! I burn!
How hideous all the forms that flit around;
Officiating Priest. My lord Don Diego, prithee die not thus;
But ask forgiveness first, of all you've wronged.
D. Die. Good father, willingly; but who would grant
Forgiveness unto such a wretch as I?
Gip. Q. I, Pepa, thy true wife, forgiveness grants,
And craves the like from thee.
D. Die. What! Pepa, thou;
Thou canst forgive me? Thou, my poor wronged wife.
Let us exchange forgiveness then, for I
Have well deserved this blow. Come round me, friends,
Whilst breath yet lasts, and witness bear to this.
I leave my castle, all my lands and goods,
Unto my lawful son. How is he called?
F'th. M. Pascual.
D. Die. Son Pascual, thy hand. Forgive the wrongs
I've done thee, e'en as thou thyself wouldst hope
In thy last hour to be forgiven. Hold,
There's still another I have deeply wronged,
From whom I'd crave forgiveness. Bring her here.
F'th. M. (To Attendant.) Don Diego means the Lady Inez. Haste
And bring her hither, with Don Silvio. [Exit Attendants.

Enter Don Silvio, supporting Inez.

D. Die. Behold me, Inez, penitent, subdued.
Art thou content that heaven hath heard thy prayer?
I've wronged thee much. I frankly do confess.
Forgive me, Inez child, ere I depart
An thou canst.
Inez. I do.

[Giving her hand and sobbing.

D. Die. And friend Silvio,
The like I'd have from thee, and all I've wronged.
D. Sil. Friend Diego, take his hand. I would not add
One pang to that which thine own heart must feel,
By holding back my pardon at the last.
Therefore, with all my heart I pardon thee.
D. Die. Thanks, old friend, Silvio; I already feel
Better prepared to die. Farewell, my friends.

[Inez for the first time perceiving Pascual.

Inez. Pascual!
D. Pas. Inez!
D. Die. Come now, my children both,
I know your minds. Come let me join your hands.

[Pascual and Inez kneel beside Don Diego, who joins their hands.

Receive my blessing, children, and forgive
A poor old sinner when he is no more.
Pray for my soul, and ere this clay be cold,
Let this hand clasp thy mother's, son Pascual.
Pepa, thy hand.
Gip. Q. Diego, with all my heart.

[Pascual joins their hands.

Let us die thus, and hand in hand to heaven
Let our souls soar. Kiss me, my children, both.
Look how my father Djâbel smiles on us,
And beckons us away from earth. Adios.

[Don Diego and Gipsy Queen expire.

[Guests kneel and pray. Curtain.

End of the Gipsy Queen.

---

At the conclusion of the play our tragedian rolled up his MS. and returned it to his pocket, while various were the expressions of approval from the members of the club.

All now seemed to look towards Mr. Oldstone for his criticism of the play before pronouncing any decided opinion of their own. This was a deference they paid him as chairman, and because he was the oldest member present. It was evident that this worthy was accustomed to be appealed to in matters of importance, and expected it in the present instance in particular, for he had already stretched out his legs, thrown himself back in his arm-chair, closed his eyes, and clasped his hands together over his comely paunch, while his thumbs performed a rotary motion, one round the other, a sure sign with him that whatever his lips might utter would be the result of deep thought and mature deliberation. Our members awaited in silence the words of wisdom about to issue from the lips of the oracle.

To fill up the time in the interim, Professor Cyanite filled up a pipe of tobacco, and was about to light it. Mr. Crucible drew out his snuff box, and was preparing to take a copious pinch. Dr. Bleedem looked at his watch, when suddenly a knock at the door caused the members to raise their heads.

"Come in!" cried several voices at once. The door opened, and Helen stood in the doorway.

"If you please, gentlemen," said the girl, blushing, and with charming modesty, "Mr. McGuilp says that he has finished my portrait, and would the gentlemen of the club like to look at it before it gets too dark."

"Of course we will, my dear, of course we will," answered Mr. Oldstone, his fingers immediately unclasping themselves and grasping the arms of the chair, preparatory to rising to his feet.

"Come along, gentlemen." No further invitation was needed. Professor Cyanite laid down his pipe unlighted. Mr. Crucible replaced the grains of snuff, he had intended conveying to his nose, back into his snuff box, which he closed with a snap and returned to his pocket. There was a general stir among the members, who rose and followed Helen to the room upstairs, that our artist had pro tem. transformed into a studio.

Jack Hearty and his spouse were already in the room when the members of the club appeared at the door.

"Yes, that's our Helen, to a T, and no mistake," he was saying. "Well, its just wonderful, and as like her mother, when she was her age, as one egg is to another. Eh? Molly," said he, addressing his spouse.

"Beg pardon, sir. I hope no offence," continued the landlord, turning deferentially towards our artist.

"But what might such a picture be worth, if I might ask?"

"The wealth of the universe wouldn't purchase it, my good host," replied McGuilp. "It is the best thing I ever did, and that perhaps I ever shall do. No, this one is not for sale. I do not say but that at some future time I might do another from it, and then——"

At this juncture, the members of the club, headed by Mr. Oldstone, entered the studio. Our host and hostess respectfully withdrew, in order to give the gentlemen a better chance of examining the picture, but even then the room was as crowded as an exhibition on a private view day. Mr. Oldstone had placed himself in front of the easel, and was soon loud in his expressions of enthusiasm.

"Excellent! most excellent! Beautiful! beautiful! beautiful! What flesh tints! What colouring! What refinement of drawing and expression! As a likeness it is perfect, there is no gainsaying. Then, the pose—simple, graceful, and natural. My dear young friend," he said, shaking our artist by the hand, and seeming overcome by emotion, "Do you know what you have realised? Why, it is the hand of a master!" etc., etc.

Then each of the members in turn made their own remarks upon the portrait.

"What a picture of life and health!" cried Dr. Bleedem.

"What a face for the stage!" remarked the tragedian.

"Ah! why was not I born a painter?" sighed Mr. Parnassus.

The analytical chemist made a few scientific remarks upon the properties of pigments, in which Professor Cyanite joined, whilst our artist silently removed the colours from his palette.

"And what do you propose doing with the portrait, Mr.—er—Mr. McGuilp?" inquired Mr. Hardcase. "Keep it," replied our artist, laconically.

"What! keep it all to yourself!" exclaimed Mr. Oldstone. "For your own selfish gratification, thereby depriving others of the pleasure to be derived therefrom! Mr. McGuilp, I am surprised at you. Gentlemen," proceeded the antiquary, addressing his fellow members, "I protest against this decision of our young friend. That picture does not leave this inn if I can help it. Mr. McGuilp, your price. What is it? We will all club together and buy it, won't we gentlemen?"

"Ay, ay! so say we all," cried several voices at once.

"Impossible, my dear sir—impossible," remonstrated our artist.

"Impossible! Why?"

"I feel I shall never surpass this," answered McGuilp. "It is a sample work. I can make use of it in many ways as a study. But this I will do. I will protract my stay yet a few days, though I have already remained longer than I intended, and I will make a copy of the picture, which it shall be my pleasure to present to the honoured members of this club." Murmurs of applause and thanks followed this speech, after which the company dispersed until dinner-time.

---