Don Lorenzo. Mother!
Juana. It offends you that I am such—I see it.
Don Lorenzo. Do you think so ill of me?
Juana. Well, if it does not offend you, you are ashamed of me as your mother?
Don Lorenzo. I ashamed of you! To-morrow the world will know that I am your son.
Juana. To-morrow! What do you mean? [With terror.] My hearing is dull, and I cannot rightly have understood what you said.
Don Lorenzo. I made a mistake. Not to-morrow. You must leave Spain first, and then, when you are in some safe place, since man's justice can often be very cruel, I will proclaim the truth aloud. I will give up a name that is not mine, as well as an appropriated fortune. That is what I have decided to do.
Juana. Christ above!
Don Lorenzo. And then along with Ángela and my poor child I will join you.
Juana. You, poor and dishonoured, with only a stained and contemptible name! And why? Wherefore? What compels you? Speak, my son. My wits forsake me. What forces you to it?