ROL.—Alonzo, know me.
ALON.—What voice is that?
ROL.—'Tis Rolla's. [Takes off his disguise.
ALON.—Rolla, my friend (Embraces him.) Heavens!—how could'st thou pass the guard?—Did this habit—
ROL.—There is not a moment to be lost in words. This disguise I tore from the dead body of a friar as I passed our field of battle; it has gained me entrance to thy dungeon: now, take it thou and fly.
ALON.—And Rolla—
ROL.—Will remain here in thy place.
ALON.—And die for me? No! Rather eternal tortures rack me.
ROL.—I shall not die, Alonzo. It is thy life Pizarro seeks, not Rolla's; and from thy prison soon will thy arm deliver me. Or, should it be otherwise, I am as a blighted plantain standing alone amid the sandy desert—nothing seeks or lives beneath my shelter. Thou art—a husband and a father; the being of a lovely wife and helpless infant hangs upon thy life. Go! go, Alonzo! Go, to save, not thyself, but Cora and thy child!
ALON.—Urge me not thus, my friend! I had prepared to die in peace.