LITMIR.BIZ

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hear the law! Obey and disappear!

       Pancho. And if in seventy days you are not gone,

      Dead or alive I make you all my slaves.

      (The Gypsies go out in confusion, showing signs of fear and

      discontent. PANCHO follows.)

       Padre C. A righteous law! A very righteous law!

      Pray you, sit down.

      Pedro C. I thank you heartily.

      (They seat themselves on a bench at the PADRE CURAS door. Sound of guitars heard at a distance, approaching during the dialogue which follows.)

      A very righteous judgment, as you say.

      Now tell me, Padre Cura—you know all things,

      How came these Gypsies into Spain?

       Padre C. Why, look you;

      They came with Hercules from Palestine,

      And hence are thieves and vagrants, Sir Alcalde,

      As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus,

      And, look you, as Fray Jayme Bleda says,

      There are a hundred marks to prove a Moor

      Is not a Christian, so 't is with the Gypsies.

      They never marry, never go to mass,

      Never baptize their children, nor keep Lent,

      Nor see the inside of a church—nor—nor—

       Pedro C. Good reasons, good, substantial reasons all!

      No matter for the other ninety-five.

      They should be burnt, I see it plain enough,

      They should be bunt.

      (Enter VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO playing.)

      Padre C. And pray, whom have we here?

       Pedro C. More vagrants! By Saint Lazarus, more vagrants!

       Hyp. Good evening, gentlemen! Is this Guadarrama?

       Padre C. Yes, Guadarrama, and good evening to you.

       Hyp. We seek the Padre Cura of the village;

      And, judging from your dress and reverend mien,

      You must be he.

       Padre C. I am. Pray, what's your pleasure?

       Hyp. We are poor students, traveling in vacation.

      You know this mark?

      (Touching the wooden spoon in his hat-band.

      Padre C. (joyfully). Ay, know it, and have worn it.

       Pedro C. (aside). Soup-eaters! by the mass! The worst of vagrants!

      And there's no law against them. Sir, your servant.

       [Exit.

       Padre C. Your servant, Pedro Crespo.

       Hyp. Padre Cura,

      Front the first moment I beheld your face,

      I said within myself, "This is the man!"

      There is a certain something in your looks,

      A certain scholar-like and studious something—

      You understand—which cannot be mistaken;

      Which marks you as a very learned man,

      In fine, as one of us.

       Vict. (aside). What impudence!

       Hyp. As we approached, I said to my companion,

      "That is the Padre Cura; mark my words!"

      Meaning your Grace. "The other man," said I,

      Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench,

      Must be the sacristan."

       Padre C. Ah! said you so?

      Why, that was Pedro Crespo, the alcalde!

       Hyp. Indeed! you much astonish me! His air

      Was not so full of dignity and grace

      As an alcalde's should be.

       Padre C. That is true.

      He's out of humor with some vagrant Gypsies,

      Who have their camp here in the neighborhood.

      There's nothing so undignified as anger.

       Hyp. The Padre Cura will excuse our boldness,

      If, from his well-known hospitality,

      We crave a lodging for the night.

       Padre C. I pray you!

      You do me honor! I am but too happy

      To have such guests beneath my humble roof.

      It is not often that I have occasion

      To speak with scholars; and Emollit mores,

      Nec sinit esse feros, Cicero says.

       Hyp. 'T is Ovid, is it not?

       Padre C. No, Cicero.

       Hyp. Your Grace is right. You are the better scholar.

      Now what a dunce was I to think it Ovid!

      But hang me if it is not! (Aside.)

       Padre C. Pass this way.

      He was a very great man, was Cicero!

      Pray you, go in, go in! no ceremony.

       [Exeunt.

      SCENE III. — A room in the PADRE CURA'S house. Enter the PADRE

      and HYPOLITO.

       Padre C. So then, Senor, you come from Alcala.

      I am glad to hear it. It was there I studied.

       Hyp. And left behind an honored name, no doubt.

      How may I call your Grace?

       Padre C. Geronimo

      De Santillana, at your Honor's service.

       Hyp. Descended from the Marquis Santillana?

      From the distinguished poet?

       Padre C. From the Marquis,

      Not from the poet.

       Hyp. Why, they were the same.

      Let me embrace you! O some lucky star

      Has brought me hither! Yet once more!—once more!

      Your name is ever green in Alcala,

      And our professor, when we are unruly,

      Will shake his hoary head, and say, "Alas!

      It was not so in Santillana's time!"

       Padre C. I did not think my name remembered there.

       Hyp. More than remembered; it is idolized.

       Padre C. Of what professor speak you?

       Hyp. Timoneda.

       Padre C. I don't remember any Timoneda.

       Hyp. A grave and sombre man, whose beetling brow

      O'erhangs the rushing current of his speech

      As rocks o'er rivers hang. Have you forgotten?

       Padre C. Indeed, I have. O, those were pleasant days,

      Those college days! I ne'er shall see the like!

      I had not buried then so many hopes!

      I had not buried then so many friends!

      I've turned my back on what was then before me;

      And the bright faces of my young companions

      Are wrinkled like my own, or are no more.

      Do you remember Cueva?

       Hyp. Cueva? Cueva?

      

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