High-Priest. A gentle, genial warmth!—these words sound well, indeed—But whom does thy flame illumine?—whom does it warm?
Rolla. (With indifference) I feel what you would say.
High-Priest. You feel it, yet are not ashamed?—Young man!—endowed with powers to achieve the noblest deeds, perhaps to form the blessing of a whole hemisphere, you contract your circle of action—within a cave!—Inca, born of the race of the children of the sun, entitled to become one of the first bulwarks of the throne, you fly—into a cave!—Leader; entrusted by your native country with the conduct of her armies, and thus called upon, by a succession of noble actions, to prove yourself worthy so honourable a confidence, you can yet bury yourself—in a cave!—
Rolla. Would you seduce me to be a boaster?—As Inca, and as leader of the armies of my country, I have fulfilled my duty through wounds and victories!—Have I not at various times proved myself deserving of her confidence!—Was not this more particularly proved on that awful day when Ataliba’s throne was shaken by Huascar’s power, and Rolla’s sword dyed the fields of Tumibamba with the blood of his sovereign’s enemies. Know you not the history of that day?—One arrow was lodged in my left arm, another pierced my breast; I received a large gash in my cheek from a sword, and was stunned by the stroke of a club upon my forehead. Look at the scars of those wounds, here, and here, and here!—Yet I never stirred from the field of battle.—Tell me now, have I given my country cause to repent her confidence?
High-Priest. (Much affected) Brave youth!—But were the blessings of thy native-country, the friendship of thy sovereign, and the love and shouts of thy army, no recompense to thy heart?
Rolla. (With a sigh) They were!
High-Priest. But are so no longer?
Rolla. No!
High-Priest. Oh ye gods! ’tis thus by annihilating the former man, that you chastise this unworthy love which blights every noble germ implanted in the heart!