V.: And, who, who has been—? Who—? Do not tell me his name, that matters nothing! Tell me where he is,—tell me that—because I desire his life’s blood.
S.: Calm, Señor Viceroy, more calm!
V.: Calm! and she is not at my side—Calm! and the hours pass.—Calm! and the grief increases and the suffering grows stronger, and despair kills!
S.: You suffer greatly!
V.: Tell me who it is, Sancho! You know it. I see it in your eyes.—Tell me.—You know that here I am the equal of the King! The King, himself, is not more powerful than I! Ask, from me, riches, honor, position,—all, all, for your single word! Speak! You know! Is it not so?
S.: Yes. It is true.
V.: Oh, joy! And you will tell me!
S.: No.
V.: (Furious.) No?—You will not tell me, you? (He directs himself toward the door, raising his voice)—Halloa, here!
S.: (Gently detaining him.) Ah! I will close this door because a draught enters. (Locks the door with a key. The Viceroy looks at him with frightened surprise.)