S.: Why? Are you not here secure? What do you fear? Have I not told you——?
B.: In vain I seek repose. My agitated spirit wakes; my afflicted soul recalls the past and trembles for the future. There are moments, when I feel that I shall go mad!
S.: You tremble, are cold—Blanca, calm yourself.
B.: The memory of this misfortune haunts me.
S.: You still insist——!
B.: You attempt to conceal it from me, in vain.... Last night I overheard, when Fortun announced to you the death of this—of this marquis.
S.: Well! What of that?—Man’s days are numbered. His hour of punishment arrives.
B.: Moreover, I can not conceal it from you, Sancho; the passing moments seem to me eternities.—We cannot continue living thus.—It is necessary that God should sanctify this union.
S.: Soon—very soon.
B.: This is not my house. Much as I love you, much as I have sacrificed my dignity upon the altar of this love, I cannot be tranquil. I feel something here, in my breast, of which I had no idea before,—and—you see, I cannot venture to raise my eyes in your presence.—The blush, which inflames my cheek, is the shame of guilt——