Though not revolting to be ruled by him,
I could not rule myself. And so we lived
Both in one house, but wholly apart in soul,
Only alike in being equally
My mother’s misery. Alas, my mother!
My heart is with her still! Why, think, Don Mendo,
That, would she see me, I must creep at night
Muffled, a tip-toe, like a thief, to her,
Lest he should know of it! Why, what a thing
That such a holy face as filial love