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 Peñas
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.