Don J. Why then, Elvira,
Let me not lose this opportunity
Of telling you how sad a man I am
To see you in this posture, and to assure you
How gladly I would lay down life and fortune
To serve you in Don Fernando's absence.
Elv. Your generosity I make no doubt of:
But is Fernando gone?
Don J. I cannot say
That he is gone; for he was not himself,
With the thought of leaving you, and yet less
Himself, whene'er he thought of staying near you;
Tortur'd by two such contrary passions,
As love and sharp resentment.
Elv. He is gone then?—— [She pauses.
Ah, generous Don Julio, [Putting her handkerchief to her eyes.
You needs must be indulgent to a weakness
Which, whilst that he was present, indignation,
And a just sense of what I am, had pow'r
To keep within myself; but now I find
That check remov'd, nature will have its tribute,
And you must pardon my withdrawing, where [She weeps.
Such grief may pay it with unwitness'd tears. [Exit Elvira.
Don J. Can a demeanour so compos'd, so noble,
And yet so tender, want true innocence?
It cannot be. It grieves my heart, I swear,
T' have given her new affliction; but the secret
Of Don Fernando's close concealment here
Is so important, it necessitated
My saying what I did, since secrets are
Ever kept best by those that know them least.
Enter Blanca and Francisca.
Now, high dissimulation play, thy part! [Aside.
Good morrow, sister, have you rested well?
And do you rise serene, as does the sun?
Free from distemper, as the day from clouds?
Your looks persuade it me, they are so clear
And fresh this morning.
Blan. The pleasure of seeing you puts life into them,
Else they'd be dull enough, this ugly headache
Having tormented me all night. You might
Have heard me call Francisca up at midnight.
Fran. That was well thought on, for 'tis possible
He may have heard some noise. [Aside.
Don J. How cunning she is! [Aside.
Faith, now you put me in mind of it (I think)
'Twixt sleep and waking, I once heard some stirring.