Vice. I doubt the soundness of your head, not the sentiments of your heart—yet it must be risked—Venoni, I came hither in search of father Michael—I heard your voice, and hastened to embrace you once more. Doubtless, I shall not be permitted to see this friar; be that your care. He writes, that what he has to disclose is of extreme importance; that it concerns—but you shall hear his letter— (reading) “I have secrets to divulge of consequence too great to be confided to paper. Suffice it, that your friend Venoni is in danger; totally in the power of his most cruel enemy——”
[At this moment the prior enters; the viceroy hastily conceals the letter in his bosom.]
Prior. (in an humble voice) I heard that your excellence was in the convent, and was unwilling to deprive you of an uninterrupted interview with your friend. But the hour is come, when our rules enjoin us solitude; pardon me then, when my duty compels me to observe——
Vice. I understand you, father; it is time that I should retire: yet surely your rules are not so strict as to prohibit my conversing with Venoni for one half hour more?
Prior. It grieves me to inform your excellence, that I have already in some degree infringed upon the scrupulous observance of our regulations. It may not be.
Venoni. How, father? a single half hour surely——
Prior. Ah, what do you request of me, my son? the viceroy’s visit aims at depriving me of my dearest friend; of that friend whom I have selected from all mankind; and shall I not oppose the perseverance of his efforts? I know well the count Benvolio’s influence over your mind, and tremble at the power of his persuasions. I cannot, and I ought not to abandon you to the tender anxious insinuations of generous but misjudging friendship; and I must not permit your eyes to dwell too long upon the deceitful pleasures of that world, which you have quitted with so much reason, and to which with such mistaken kindness your friends would force you back.
Vice. Father, this eagerness——
Prior. You have promised to be my brother, to be that which is far dearer, my friend: and shall I renounce a treasure so invaluable at the very moment, which ought to make it mine forever? No, no! Venoni, nor will I fear your exacting from me so great a sacrifice. He whose tears I have dried, whose sorrows I have shared—who has told me a thousand times that I was his only consolation, and that my sympathy shed the only gleam over his days of mourning. No! never will I believe that he will now reward my friendship with caprice, with desertion, with ingratitude so cruel, so cutting, so unlooked for!
Venoni. Oh, good father—I know not how——