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The Count of Lara tells me

      She is not virtuous.

       Hyp. Did I say she was?

      The Roman Emperor Claudius had a wife

      Whose name was Messalina, as I think;

      Valeria Messalina was her name.

      But hist! I see him yonder through the trees,

      Walking as in a dream.

       Don C. He comes this way.

       Hyp. It has been truly said by some wise man,

      That money, grief, and love cannot be hidden.

      (Enter VICTORIAN in front.)

      Vict. Where'er thy step has passed is holy ground!

      These groves are sacred! I behold thee walking

      Under these shadowy trees, where we have walked

      At evening, and I feel thy presence now;

      Feel that the place has taken a charm from thee,

      And is forever hallowed.

       Hyp. Mark him well!

      See how he strides away with lordly air,

      Like that odd guest of stone, that grim Commander

      Who comes to sup with Juan in the play.

       Don C. What ho! Victorian!

       Hyp. Wilt thou sup with us?

       Vict. Hola! amigos! Faith, I did not see you.

      How fares Don Carlos?

       Don C. At your service ever.

       Vict. How is that young and green-eyed Gaditana

      That you both wot of?

       Don C. Ay, soft, emerald eyes!

      She has gone back to Cadiz.

       Hyp. Ay de mi!

       Vict. You are much to blame for letting her go back.

      A pretty girl; and in her tender eyes

      Just that soft shade of green we sometimes see

      In evening skies.

       Hyp. But, speaking of green eyes,

      Are thine green?

       Vict. Not a whit. Why so?

       Hyp. I think

      The slightest shade of green would be becoming,

      For thou art jealous.

       Vid. No, I am not jealous.

       Hyp. Thou shouldst be.

       Vict. Why?

       Hyp. Because thou art in love.

      And they who are in love are always jealous.

      Therefore thou shouldst be.

      Vict. Marry, is that all?

      Farewell; I am in haste. Farewell, Don Carlos.

      Thou sayest I should be jealous?

      Hyp. Ay, in truth

      I fear there is reason. Be upon thy guard.

      I hear it whispered that the Count of Lara

      Lays siege to the same citadel.

       Vict. Indeed!

      Then he will have his labor for his pains.

       Hyp. He does not think so, and Don Carlos tells me

      He boasts of his success.

       Vict. How's this, Don Carlos?

       Don. C. Some hints of it I heard from his own lips.

      He spoke but lightly of the lady's virtue,

      As a gay man might speak.

       Vict. Death and damnation!

      I'll cut his lying tongue out of his mouth,

      And throw it to my dog! But no, no, no!

      This cannot be. You jest, indeed you jest.

      Trifle with me no more. For otherwise

      We are no longer friends. And so, fare well!

       [Exit.

       Hyp. Now what a coil is here! The Avenging Child

      Hunting the traitor Quadros to his death,

      And the Moor Calaynos, when he rode

      To Paris for the ears of Oliver,

      Were nothing to him! O hot-headed youth!

      But come; we will not follow. Let us join

      The crowd that pours into the Prado. There

      We shall find merrier company; I see

      The Marialonzos and the Almavivas,

      And fifty fans, that beckon me already.

       [Exeunt.

SCENE IV. — PRECIOSA'S chamber. She is sitting, with a book in

       Table of Contents

      her hand, near a table, on which are flowers. A bird singing in its cage. The COUNT OF LARA enters behind unperceived.

      Prec. (reads).

       All are sleeping, weary heart!

       Thou, thou only sleepless art!

      Heigho! I wish Victorian were here. I know not what it is makes me so restless!

      (The bird sings.)

      Thou little prisoner with thy motley coat, That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon singest, Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee, I have a gentle jailer. Lack-a-day!

      All are sleeping, weary heart!

       Thou, thou only sleepless art!

       All this throbbing, all this aching,

       Evermore shall keep thee waking,

       For a heart in sorrow breaking

       Thinketh ever of its smart!

      Thou speakest truly, poet! and methinks More hearts are breaking in this world of ours Than one would say. In distant villages And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, And grow in silence, and in silence perish. Who hears the falling of the forest leaf? Or who takes note of every flower that dies? Heigho! I wish Victorian would come. Dolores!

      (Turns to lay down her boot and perceives the COUNT.)

      Ha!

       Lara. Senora, pardon me.

       Prec. How's this? Dolores!

       Lara. Pardon me—

       Prec. Dolores!

       Lara. Be not alarmed; I found no one in waiting.

      If I have been too bold—

       Prec. (turning her back upon him). You are too bold!

      Retire! retire, and leave me!

       Lara. My dear lady,

      First hear me! I beseech you, let me speak!

      'T is for your good I come.

       Prec. (turning toward him with indignation). Begone! begone!

      You are the Count of Lara, but your deeds

      Would make the statues of your ancestors

      Blush on their tombs! Is it Castilian honor,

      Is it Castilian pride, to steal in here

      Upon a friendless girl, to do her wrong?

      O

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