Chapter VII: Act III

SCENE I.—_A cross-road through a wood. In the background a distant village spire._ VICTORIAN _and_ HYPOLITO, _as travelling students, with guitars, sitting under the trees_. HYPOLITO _plays and sings_.

SONG.

Ah, Love!
Perjured, false, treacherous Love!
Enemy
Of all that mankind may not rue!
Most untrue
To him who keeps most faith with thee.
Woe is me!
The falcon has the eyes of the dove.
Ah! Love!
Perjured, false, treacherous Love!

_Vict._ Yes, Love is ever busy with his shuttle,
Is ever weaving into life’s dull warp
Bright, gorgeous flowers and scenes Arcadian;
Hanging our gloomy prison-house about
With tapestries, that make its walls dilate
In never-ending vistas of delight.

_Hyp._ Thinking to walk in those Arcadian pastures,
Thou hast run thy noble head against the wall.

SONG [_continued_].
Thy deceits
Give us clearly to comprehend,
Whither tend
All thy pleasures, all thy sweets!
They are cheats,
Thorns below and flowers above.
Ah, Love!
Perjured, false, treacherous Love!

_Vict._ A very pretty song. I thank thee for it.

_Hyp._ It suits thy case.

_Vict._ Indeed, I think it does.
What wise man wrote it?

_Hyp._ Lopez Maldonado.

_Vict._ In truth, a pretty song.

_Hyp._ With much truth in it.
I hope thou wilt profit by it; and in earnest
Try to forget this lady of thy love.

_Vict._ I will forget her! All dear recollections
Pressed in my heart, like flowers within a book,
Shall be torn out, and scattered to the winds!
I will forget her! But perhaps hereafter,
When she shall learn how heartless is the world,
A voice within her will repeat my name,
And she will say, “He was indeed my friend!”
O, would I were a soldier, not a scholar,
That the loud march, the deafening beat of drums,
The shattering blast of the brass-throated trumpet,
The din of arms, the onslaught and the storm,
And a swift death, might make me deaf for ever
To the upbraidings of this foolish heart!

_Hyp._ Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more:
To conquer love, one need but will to conquer.

_Vict._ Yet, good Hypolito, it is in vain
I throw into Oblivion’s sea the sword
That pierces me; for, like Excalibar,
With gemmed and flashing hilt, it will not sink.
There rises from below a hand that grasps it,
And waves it in the air; and wailing voices
Are heard along the shore.

_Hyp._ And yet at last
Down sank Excalibar to rise no more.
This is not well. In truth, it vexes me.
Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time,
To make them jog on merrily with life’s burden,
Like a dead weight thou hangest on the wheels,
Thou art too young, too full of lusty health
To talk of dying.

_Vict._ Yet I fain would die!
To go through life, unloving and unloved;
To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul
We cannot still; that longing, that wild impulse,
And struggle after something we have not
And cannot have; the effort to be strong;
And, like the Spartan boy, to smile, and smile,
While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks;
All this the dead feel not,—the dead alone!
Would I were with them!

_Hyp._ We shall all be soon.

_Vict._ It cannot be too soon; for I am weary
Of the bewildering masquerade of Life,
Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as strangers;
Where whispers overheard betray false hearts;
And through the mazes of the crowd we chase
Some form of loveliness, that smiles, and beckons,
And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us
A mockery and a jest; maddened,—confused,—
Not knowing friend from foe.

_Hyp._ Why seek to know?
Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth!
Take each fair mask for what it gives itself,
Nor strive to look beneath it.

_Vict._ I confess,
That were the wiser part. But hope no longer
Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man,
Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner,
Who, struggling to climb up into the boat,
Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off,
And sinks again into the weltering sea,
Helpless and hopeless!

_Hyp._ Yet thou shalt not perish.
The strength of thine own arm is thy salvation.
Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there shines
A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star!

[_Sound of a village-bell in the distance._]

_Vict._ Ave Maria! I hear the sacristan
Ringing the chimes from yonder village belfry!
A solemn sound, that echoes far and wide
Over the red roofs of the cottages,
And bids the labouring hind a-field, the shepherd
Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer,
And all the crowd in village streets, stand still,
And breathe a prayer unto the blessed Virgin!

_Hyp._ Amen! amen! Not half a league from hence
The village lies.

_Vict._ This path will lead us to it,
Over the wheat fields, where the shadows sail
Across the running sea, now green, now blue,
And, like an idle mariner on the main,
Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten on. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.—_Public square in the village of Guadarrama. The Ave Maria still tolling. A crowd of villagers, with their hats in their hands, as if in prayer. In front, a group of Gipsies. The bell rings a merrier peal. A Gipsy dance. Enter_ PANCHO, _followed by_ PEDRO CRESPO.

_Pan._ Make room, ye vagabonds and Gipsy thieves!
Make room for the Alcalde and for me!

_Cres._ Keep silence all! I have an edict here
From our most gracious lord, the King of Spain,
Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands,
Which I shall publish in the market-place.
Open your ears and listen!

[_Enter the_ PADRE CURA _at the door of his
cottage_.]

Padre Cura,
Good day! and, pray you, hear this edict read.

_Padre._ Good day, and God be with you. Pray, what is it?

_Cres._ An act of banishment against the Gipsies!

[_Agitation and murmurs in the crowd._]

_Pan._ Silence!

_Cres._ [_reads_]. “I hereby order and command
That the Egyptian and Chaldean strangers,
Known by the name of Gipsies, shall henceforth
Be banished from the realm, as vagabonds
And beggars; and if, after seventy days,
Any be found within our kingdom’s bounds,
They shall receive a hundred lashes each;
The second time, shall have their ears cut off;
The third, be slaves for life to him who takes them,
Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I, the King.”
Vile miscreants and creatures unbaptized!
You hear the law! Obey and disappear!

_Pan._ And if in seventy days you are not gone,
Dead or alive I make you all my slaves.

[_The Gipsies go out in confusion, showing signs of fear
and discontent._ PANCHO _follows_.]

_Padre._ A righteous law! A very righteous law!
Pray you, sit down.

_Cres._ I thank you heartily.

[_They seat themselves on a bench at the_
PADRE CURA’S _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 Gipsies into Spain?

_Padre._ 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 ’tis with the Gipsies.
They never marry, never go to mass,
Never baptize their children, nor keep Lent,
Nor see the inside of a church,—nor—nor——

_Cres._ 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 burnt.

[_Enter_ VICTORIAN _and_ HYPOLITO
_playing_.]

_Padre._ And pray, whom have we here?

_Cres._ More vagrants! By Saint Lazarus, more vagrants!

_Hyp._ Good evening, gentlemen! Is this Guadarrama?

_Padre._ 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._ I am. Pray, what’s your pleasure?

_Hyp._ We are poor students, travelling in vacation.
You know this mark?

[_Touching the wooden spoon in his hat-band._]

_Padre_ [_joyfully_]. Ay, know it, and have worn it.

_Cres._ [_aside_]. Soup-eaters! by the mass!
The worst of vagrants!
And there’s no law against them. Sir, your servant.
[_Exit._

_Padre._ Your servant, Pedro Crespo.

_Hyp._ Padre Cura,
From 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._ 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._ That is true.
He is out of humour with some vagrant Gipsies,
Who have their camp here in the neighbourhood.
There is 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._ I pray you!
You do me honour! 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._ ’Tis Ovid, is it not?

_Padre._ 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._ 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._ So then, Señor, you come from Alcalá,
I am glad to hear it. It was there I studied.

_Hyp._ And left behind an honoured name, no doubt.
How may I call your Grace?

_Padre._ Gerónimo
De Santillana, at your Honour’s service.

_Hyp._ Descended from the Marquis Santillana?
From the distinguished poet?

_Padre._ 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 Alcalá,
And our professor, when we are unruly,
Will shake his hoary head, and say, “Alas!
It was not so in Santillana’s time!”

_Padre._ I did not think my name remembered there.

_Hyp._ More than remembered; it is idolized.

_Padre._ Of what professor speak you?

_Hyp._ Timoneda.

_Padre._ 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_. 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?

_Padre_. Fool that I am! He was before your time.
You’re a mere boy, and I am an old man.

_Hyp._ I should not like to try my strength with you.

Padre. Well, well. But I forget; you must be hungry.
Martina! ho! Martina! ’Tis my niece.

[_Enter_ MARTINA.]

_Hyp._ You may be proud of such a niece as that.
I wish I had a niece. _Emollit mores._ [_Aside._
He was a very great man, was Cicero!
Your servant, fair Martina.

_Mart_. Servant, sir.

_Padre_. This gentleman is hungry. See thou to it.
Let us have supper.

_Mart_. ’Twill be ready soon.

_Padre_. And bring a bottle of my Val-de-Peñas
Out of the cellar. Stay; I’ll go myself.
Pray you, Señor, excuse me. [_Exit._

_Hyp._ Hist! Martina!
One word with you. Bless me! what handsome eyes!
To-day there have been Gipsies in the village.
Is it not so?

_Mart._ There have been Gipsies here.

_Hyp._ Yes, and they told your fortune.

_Mart_. [_embarrassed_]. Told my fortune?

_Hyp_. Yes, yes; I know they did. Give me your hand.
I’ll tell you what they said. They said,—they said,
The shepherd boy that loved you was a clown,
And him you should not marry. Was it not?

_Mart_. [_surprised_]. How know you that?

_Hyp_. O, I know more than that.
What a soft, little hand! And then they said,
A cavalier from court, handsome, and tall,
And rich, should come one day to marry you,
And you should be a lady. Was it not?
He has arrived, the handsome cavalier.

[_Tries to kiss her. She runs off. Enter_ VICTORIAN
_with a letter_.]

_Vict_. The muleteer has come.

_Hyp._ So soon?

_Vict._ I found him
Sitting at supper by the tavern door,
And, from a pitcher that he held aloft
His whole arm’s length, drinking the blood-red wine.

_Hyp._ What news from Court?

_Vict._ He brought this letter only. [_Reads._
O cursed perfidy! Why did I let
That lying tongue deceive me! Preciosa,
Sweet Preciosa! how art thou avenged!

_Hyp._ What news is this, that makes thy cheek turn pale,
And thy hand tremble?

_Vict._ O, most infamous!
The Count of Lara is a worthless villain!

_Hyp._ That is no news, forsooth.

_Vict._ He strove in vain
To steal from me the jewel of my soul,
The love of Preciosa. Not succeeding,
He swore to be revenged; and set on foot
A plot to ruin her, which has succeeded.
She has been hissed and hooted from the stage,
Her reputation stained by slanderous lies
Too foul to speak of; and, once more a beggar,
She roams a wanderer over God’s green earth,
Housing with Gipsies!

_Hyp._ To renew again
The Age of Gold, and make the shepherd swains
Desperate with love, like Gaspar Gil’s Diana.
Redit et Virgo!

_Vict._ Dear Hypolito,
How have I wronged that meek, confiding heart!
I will go seek for her; and with my tears
Wash out the wrong I’ve done her!

_Hyp._ O beware!
Act not that folly o’er again.

_Vict._ Ay, folly,
Delusion, madness, call it what thou wilt,
I will confess my weakness,—I still love her!
Still fondly love her!

[_Enter the_ PADRE CURA.]

_Hyp._ Tell us, Padre Cura,
Who are these Gipsies in the neighbourhood?

_Padre._ Beltran Cruzado and his crew.

_Vict._ Kind Heaven,
I thank thee! She is found! is found again!

_Hyp._ And have they with them a pale, beautiful girl,
Called Preciosa?

_Padre._ Ay, a pretty girl.
The gentleman seems moved.

_Hyp._ Yes, moved with hunger,
He is half-famished with this long day’s journey.

_Padre._ Then, pray you, come this way. The supper waits.
[_Exeunt._

SCENE IV.—_A post-house on the road to Segovia, not far from the village of Guadarrama. Enter_ CHISPA, _cracking a whip, and singing the cachucha_.]

_Chis._ Halloo! Don Fulano! Let us have horses, and quickly. Alas, poor Chispa! what a dog’s life dost thou lead! I thought, when I left my old master Victorian, the student, to serve my new master, Don Carlos, the gentleman, that I, too, should lead the life of a gentleman; should go to bed early, and get up late. For when the abbot plays cards, what can you expect of the friars? But, in running away from the thunder, I have run into the lightning. Here I am in hot chase after my master and his Gipsy girl. And a good beginning of the week it is, as he said who was hanged on Monday morning.

[_Enter_ DON CARLOS.]

CARLOS. Are not the horses ready yet?

CHIS. I should think not, for the hostler seems to be asleep. Ho! within there! Horses! horses! horses! [_He knocks at the gate with his whip, and enter_ MOSQUITO, _putting on his jacket_.]

_Mos._ Pray, have a little patience. I’m not a musket.

_Chis._ Health and pistareens! I’m glad to see you come on dancing, padre! Pray, what’s the news?

_Mos._ You cannot have fresh horses; because there are none.

_Chis._ Cachiporra! Throw that bone to another dog. Do I look like your aunt?

_Mos._ No; she has a beard.

_Chis._ Go to! Go to!

_Mos._ Are you from Madrid?

_Chis._ Yes; and going to Estramadura. Get us horses.

_Mos._ What’s the news at Court?

_Chis._ Why, the latest news is, that I am going to set up a coach, and I have already bought the whip.

[_Strikes him round the legs._]

_Mos._ Oh! oh! you hurt me!

_Carlos._ Enough of this folly. Let us have horses. [_Gives money to_ MOSQUITO.] It is almost dark; and we are in haste. But tell me, has a band of Gipsies passed this way of late?

_Mos._ Yes; and they are still in the neighbourhood.

_Carlos._ And where?

_Mos._ Across the fields yonder, in the woods near Guadarrama.

[_Exit._

_Carlos._ Now this is lucky. We will visit the Gipsy camp.

_Chis._ Are you not afraid of the evil eye? Have you a stag’s horn with you?

_Carlos._ Fear not. We will pass the night at the village.

_Chis._ And sleep like the Squires of Hernan Daza, nine under one blanket.

_Carlos._ I hope we may find the Preciosa among them.

_Chis._ Among the Squires?

_Carlos._ No; among the Gipsies, blockhead!

_Chis._ I hope we may; for we are giving ourselves trouble enough on her account. Don’t you think so? However, there is no catching trout without wetting one’s trousers. Yonder come the horses. [_Exeunt._

SCENE V.—_The Gipsy camp in the forest. Night. Gipsies working at a forge. Others playing cards by the fire-light._

GIPSIES [_at the forge sing_].

On the top of a mountain I stand,
With a crown of red gold in my hand,
Wild Moors come trooping over the lea,
O how from their fury shall I flee, flee, flee?
O how from their fury shall I flee?

_1st Gipsy_ [_playing_]. Down with your John-Dorados,[28] my pigeon. Down with your John-Dorados, and let us make an end.

GIPSIES [_at the forge sing_].

Loud sang the Spanish cavalier,
And thus his ditty ran:
God send the Gipsy lassie here,
And not the Gipsy man.

[28] The Gipsy words in this scene may be thus interpreted:—

_John-Dorados_, pieces of gold.
_Pigeon_, a simpleton.
_In your morocco_, stripped.
_Doves_, sheets.
_Moon_, a shirt.
_Chirelin_, a thief.
_Murcigalleros_, those who steal at nightfall.
_Rastilleros_, footpads.
_Hermit_, highway robber.
_Planets_, candles.
_Commandments_, the fingers.
_Saint Martin asleep_, to rob a person asleep.
_Lanterns_, eyes.
_Goblin_, police officer.
_Papagayo_, a spy.
_Vineyards and Dancing John_, to take flight.

_1st Gipsy_ [_playing_]. There you are in your morocco.

_2d Gipsy._ One more game. The Alcalde’s doves against the Padre Cura’s new moon.

_1st Gipsy._ Have at you, Chirelin.

GIPSIES [_at the forge sing_].

At midnight, when the moon began
To show her silver flame,
There came to him no Gipsy man,
The Gipsy lassie came.

[_Enter_ BELTRAN CRUZADO.]

_Cruz._ Come hither, Murcigalleros and Rastilleros; leave work, leave play; listen to your orders for the night. [_Speaking to the right._] You will get you to the village, mark you, by the stone cross.

_Gipsies._ Ay!

_Cruz._ [_to the left_]. And you, by the pole with the hermit’s head upon it.

_Gipsies._ Ay!

_Cruz._ As soon as you see the planets are out, in with you, and be busy with the ten commandments, under the sly, and Saint Martin asleep. D’ye hear?

_Gipsies._ Ay!

_Cruz._ Keep your lanterns open, and, if you see a goblin or a papagayo, take to your trampers. “Vineyards and Dancing John” is the word. Am I comprehended?

_Gipsies._ Ay! ay!

_Cruz._ Away, then!

[_Exeunt severally._ CRUZADO _walks up the stage and disappears among the trees. Enter_ PRECIOSA.]

_Pre._ How strangely gleams through the gigantic trees
The red light of the forge! Wild, beckoning shadows
Stalk through the forest, ever and anon
Rising and bending with the flickering flame,
Then flitting into darkness! So within me
Strange hopes and fears do beckon to each other,
My brightest hopes giving dark fears a being
As the light does the shadow. Woe is me!
How still it is about me, and how lonely!

[BARTOLOMÉ _rushes in_.]

_Bart._ Ho! Preciosa!

_Pre._ O, Bartolomé!
Thou here?

_Bart._ Lo! I am here.

_Pre._ Whence comest thou?

_Bart._ From the rough ridges of the wild Sierra,
From caverns in the rocks, from hunger, thirst,
And fever! Like a wild wolf to the sheepfold,
Come I for thee, my lamb.

_Pre._ O touch me not!
The Count of Lara’s blood is on thy hands!
The Count of Lara’s curse is on thy soul!
Do not come near me! Pray, begone from here!
Thou art in danger! They have set a price
Upon thy head!

_Bart._ Ay, and I’ve wandered long
Among the mountains; and for many days
Have seen no human face, save the rough swine-herd’s.
The wind and rain have been my sole companions.
I shouted to them from the rocks thy name,
And the loud echo sent it back to me,
Till I grew mad. I could not stay from thee,
And I am here! Betray me, if thou wilt.

_Pre._ Betray thee? I betray thee?

_Bart._ Preciosa!
I come for thee! for thee I thus brave death!
Fly with me o’er the borders of this realm!
Fly with me!

_Pre._ Speak of that no more. I cannot.
I am thine no longer.

_Bart._ O, recall the time
When we were children! how we played together,
How we grew up together; how we plighted
Our hearts unto each other, even in childhood!
Fulfil thy promise, for the hour has come.
I am hunted from the kingdom, like a wolf!
Fulfil thy promise.

_Pre._ ’Twas my father’s promise,
Not mine. I never gave my heart to thee,
Nor promised thee my hand!

_Bart._ False tongue of woman!
And heart more false!

_Pre._ Nay, listen unto me.
I will speak frankly. I have never loved thee;
I cannot love thee. This is not my fault,
It is my destiny. Thou art a man
Restless and violent. What wouldst thou with me,
A feeble girl, who have not long to live,
Whose heart is broken? Seek another wife,
Better than I, and fairer; and let not
Thy rash and headlong moods estrange her from thee.
Thou art unhappy in this hopeless passion.
I never sought thy love; never did aught
To make thee love me. Yet I pity thee,
And most of all I pity thy wild heart,
That hurries thee to crimes and deeds of blood.
Beware, beware of that.

_Bart._ For thy dear sake,
I will be gentle. Thou shalt teach me patience.

_Pre._ Then take this farewell, and depart in peace.
Thou must not linger here.

_Bart._ Come, come with me.

_Pre._ Hark! I hear footsteps.

_Bart._ I entreat thee, come!

_Pre._ Away! It is in vain.

_Bart._ Wilt thou not come?

_Pre._ Never!

_Bart._ Then woe, eternal woe, upon thee.
Thou shalt not be another’s. Thou shalt die. [_Exit._

_Pre._ All holy angels keep me in this hour!
Spirit of her who bore me, look upon me!
Mother of God, the glorified, protect me!
Christ and the saints, be merciful unto me!
Yet why should I fear death? What is it to die?
To leave all disappointment, care, and sorrow,
To leave all falsehood, treachery, and unkindness,
All ignominy, suffering, and despair,
And be at rest for ever! O, dull heart,
Be of good cheer! When thou shalt cease to beat,
Then shalt thou cease to suffer and complain!

[_Enter_ VICTORIAN _and_ HYPOLITO
_behind_.]

_Vict._ ’Tis she! Behold, how beautiful she stands
Under the tent-like trees!

_Hyp._ A woodland nymph!

_Vict._ I pray thee, stand aside. Leave me.

_Hyp._ Be wary.
Do not betray thyself too soon.

_Vict._ [_disguising his voice_]. Hist! Gipsy!

_Pre._ [_aside, with emotion_].
That voice! that voice from heaven! O speak again!
Who is it calls?

_Vict._ A friend.

_Pre._ [_aside_]. ’Tis he! ’Tis he!
I thank thee, Heaven, that thou hast heard my prayer,
And sent me this protector! Now be strong,
Be strong, my heart! I must dissemble here.
False friend or true?

_Vict._ A true friend to the true.
Fear not; come hither. So, can you tell fortunes?

_Pre._ Not in the dark. Come nearer to the fire.
Give me your hand. It is not crossed, I see.

_Vict._ [_putting a piece of gold into her hand_]. There is the cross.

_Pre._ Is’t silver?

_Vict._ No, ’tis gold.

_Pre._ There’s a fair lady at the Court, who loves you,
And for yourself alone.

_Vict._ Fie! the old story!
Tell me a better fortune for my money;
Not this old woman’s tale!

_Pre._ You are passionate;
And this same passionate humour in your blood
Has marred your fortune. Yes; I see it now;
The line of life is crossed by many marks.
Shame! shame! O you have wronged the maid who loved you!
How could you do it?

_Vict._ I never loved a maid;
For she I loved was then a maid no more.

_Pre._ How know you that?

_Vict._ A little bird in the air
Whispered the secret.

_Pre._ There, take back your gold.
Your hand is cold, like a deceiver’s hand!
There is no blessing in its charity!
Make her your wife, for you have been abused;
And you shall mend your fortunes, mending hers.

_Vict._ [_aside_]. How like an angel’s speaks the tongue of woman,
When pleading in another’s cause her own——
That is a pretty ring upon your finger.
Pray give it me. [_Tries to take the ring._]

_Pre._ No; never from my hand
Shall that be taken!

_Vict._ Why, ’tis but a ring.
I’ll give it back to you; or, if I keep it,
Will give you gold to buy you twenty such.

_Pre._ Why would you have this ring?

_Vict._ A traveller’s fancy,
A whim, and nothing more. I would fain keep it
As a memento of the Gipsy camp
In Guadarrama, and the fortune-teller
Who sent me back to wed a widowed maid.
Pray, let me have the ring.

_Pre._ No, never! never!
I will not part with it, even when I die;
But bid my nurse fold my pale fingers thus,
That it may not fall from them. ’Tis a token
Of a beloved friend, who is no more.

_Vict._ How? dead?

_Pre._ Yes; dead to me; and worse than dead.
He is estranged! And yet I keep this ring.
I will rise with it from my grave hereafter,
To prove to him that I was never false.

_Vict._ [_aside_]. Be still, my swelling heart! one moment, still!
Why, ’tis the folly of a love-sick girl.
Come, give it me, or I will say ’tis mine,
And that you stole it.

_Pre._ O, you will not dare
To utter such a fiendish lie!

_Vict._ Not dare?
Look in my face, and say if there is aught
I have not dared, I would not dare for thee!

[_She rushes into his arms._]

_Pre._ ’Tis thou! ’tis thou! Yes; yes; my heart’s elected!
My dearest-dear Victorian! my soul’s heaven!
Where hast thou been so long? Why didst thou leave me?

_Vict._ Ask me not now, my dearest Preciosa.
Let me forget we ever have been parted!

_Pre._ Hadst thou not come——

_Vict._ I pray thee, do not chide me!

_Pre._ I should have perished here among these Gipsies.

_Vict._ Forgive me, sweet! for what I made thee suffer.
Think’st thou this heart could feel a moment’s joy,
Thou being absent? O, believe it not!
Indeed, since that sad hour I have not slept,
For thinking of the wrong I did to thee!
Dost thou forgive me? Say, wilt thou forgive me?

_Pre._ I have forgiven thee. Ere those words of anger
Were in the book of Heaven writ down against thee,
I had forgiven thee.

_Vict._ I’m the veriest fool
That walks the earth, to have believed thee false.
It was the Count of Lara——

_Pre._ That bad man
Has worked me harm enough. Hast thou not heard——

_Vict._ I have heard all. And yet speak on, speak on!
Let me but hear thy voice, and I am happy;
For every tone, like some sweet incantation,
Calls up the buried past to plead for me.
Speak, my beloved, speak into my heart,
Whatever fills and agitates thine own.

[_They walk aside._]

_Hyp._ All gentle quarrels in the pastoral poets,
All passionate love scenes in the best romances,
All chaste embraces on the public stage,
All soft adventures, which the liberal stars
Have winked at, as the natural course of things,
Have been surpassed here by my friend, the student,
And this sweet Gipsy lass, fair Preciosa!

_Pre._ Señor Hypolito! I kiss your hand.
Pray, shall I tell your fortune?

_Hyp._ Not to-night;
For, should you treat me as you did Victorian,
And send me back to marry maids forlorn,
My wedding-day would last from now till Christmas.

_Chispa_ [_within_]. What ho! the Gipsies, ho! Beltran Cruzado!
Halloo! halloo! halloo! halloo!

[_Enters booted, with a whip and lantern._]

_Vict._ What now?
Why such a fearful din? Hast thou been robbed?

_Chis._ Ay, robbed and murdered; and good evening to you,
My worthy masters.

_Vict._ Speak; what brings thee here?

_Chis._ [_to_ PRECIOSA]. Good news from Court; good news!
Beltran Cruzado,
The Count of the Calés, is not your father;
But your true father has returned to Spain
Laden with wealth. You are no more a Gipsy.

_Vict._ Strange as a Moorish tale!

_Chis._ And we have all
Been drinking at the tavern to your health,
As wells drink in November, when it rains.

_Vict._ Where is the gentleman?

_Chis._ As the old song says,

His body is in Segovia,
His soul is in Madrid.

_Pre._ Is this a dream? O, if it be a dream,
Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet!
Repeat thy story! Say I’m not deceived!
Say that I do not dream! I am awake;
This is the Gipsy camp; this is Victorian,
And this his friend, Hypolito! Speak! speak!
Let me not wake and find it all a dream!

_Vict._ It is a dream, sweet child! a waking dream,
A blissful certainty, a vision bright
Of that rare happiness, which even on earth
Heaven gives to those it loves. Now art thou rich,
As thou wast ever beautiful and good;
And I am now the beggar.

_Pre._ [_giving him her hand._] I have still
A hand to give.

_Chis._ [_aside_]. And I have two to take.
I’ve heard my grandmother say, that Heaven gives almonds
To those who have no teeth. That’s nuts to crack.
I’ve teeth to spare, but where shall I find almonds?

_Vict._ What more of this strange story?

_Chis._ Nothing more.
Your friend, Don Carlos, is now at the village
Showing to Pedro Crespo, the Alcalde,
The proofs of what I tell you. The old hag,
Who stole you in her childhood, has confessed;
And probably they will hang her for the crime,
To make the celebration more complete.

_Vict._ No; let it be a day of general joy;
Fortune comes well to all, that comes not late.
Now let us join Don Carlos.

_Hyp._ So farewell,
The student’s wandering life! Sweet serenades,
Sung under ladies’ windows in the night,
And all that makes vacation beautiful!
To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcalá,
To you, ye radiant visions of romance,
Written in books, but here surpassed by truth,
The Bachelor Hypolito returns,
And leaves the Gipsy with the Spanish Student.

SCENE VI.—_A pass in the Guadarrama mountains. Early morning. A muleteer crosses the stage, sitting sideways on his mule, and lighting a paper cigar with flint and steel._

SONG.

If thou art sleeping, maiden,
Awake and open thy door,
’Tis the break of day, and we must away
O’er meadow, and mount, and moor.

Wait not to find thy slippers,
But come with thy naked feet;
We shall have to pass through the dewy grass,
And waters wide and fleet.

[_Disappears down the pass. Enter a Monk. A Shepherd appears on the rocks above._]

_Monk._ Ave Maria, gratia plena. Olá! good man!

_Shep._ Olá!

_Monk._ Is this the road to Segovia?

_Shep._ It is, your reverence.

_Monk._ How far is it?

_Shep._ I do not know.

_Monk._ What is that yonder in the valley?

_Shep._ San Ildefonso.

_Monk._ A long way to breakfast.

_Shep._ Ay, marry.

_Monk._ Are there robbers in these mountains?

_Shep._ Yes, and worse than that.

_Monk._ What?

_Shep._ Wolves.

_Monk._ Santa Maria! Come with me to San Ildefonso, and thou shalt be well rewarded.

_Shep._ What wilt thou give me?

_Monk._ An Agnus Dei and my benediction.

[_They disappear. A mounted Contrabandista passes, wrapped in his cloak, and a gun at his saddle-bow. He goes down the pass singing._]

SONG.

Worn with speed is my good steed,
And I march me, hurried, worried;
Onward, caballito mio,
With the white star in thy forehead!
Onward, for here comes the Ronda,
And I hear their rifles crack!
Ay, jaléo! Ay, ay, jaléo!
Ay, jaléo! They cross our track!

[_Song dies away. Enter_ PRECIOSA, _on horseback, attended by_ VICTORIAN, HYPOLITO, DON CARLOS, _and_ CHISPA, _on foot, and armed_.]

_Vict._ This is the highest point. Here let us rest.
See, Preciosa, see how all about us
Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty mountains

Receive the benediction of the sun!
O glorious sight!

_Pre._ Most beautiful indeed!

_Hyp._ Most wonderful!

_Vict._ And in the vale below,
Where yonder steeples flash like lifted halberds,
San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries,
Sends up a salutation to the morn,
As if an army smote their brazen shields,
And shouted victory!

_Pre._ And which way lies
Segovia?

_Vict._ At a great distance yonder.
Dost thou not see it?

_Pre._ No, I do not see it.

_Vict._ The merest flaw that dents the horizon’s edge.
There, yonder!

_Hyp._ ’Tis a notable old town,
Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct,
And an Alcázar, builded by the Moors,
Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Blas
Was fed on _Pan del Rey_. O, many a time
Out of its grated windows have I looked
Hundreds of feet plumb down to the Eresma,
That, like a serpent through the valley creeping,
Glides at its foot.

_Pre._ O, yes! I see it now,
Yet rather with my heart than with mine eyes,
So faint it is. And, all my thoughts sail thither,
Freighted with prayers and hopes, and forward urged
Against all stress of accident, as, in
The Eastern Tale, against the wind and tide,
Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic Mountains,
And there were wrecked and perished in the sea!
[_She weeps._]

_Vict._ O gentle spirit! Thou didst bear unmoved
Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate!
But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee
Melts thee to tears! O, let thy weary heart
Lean upon mine! and it shall faint no more,
Nor thirst, nor hunger; but be comforted
And filled with my affection.

_Pre._ Stay no longer!
My father waits. Methinks I see him there,
Now looking from the window, and now watching
Each sound of wheels or footfall in the street,
And saying, “Hark! she comes!” O father! father!

[_They descend the pass._ CHISPA _remains behind_.]

_Chis._ I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. Alas and alack-a-day! Poor was I born, and poor do I remain. I neither win nor lose. Thus I wag through the world, half the time on foot, and the other half walking: and always as merry as a thunder-storm in the night. And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox. Who knows what may happen? Patience and shuffle the cards! I am not yet so bald that you can see my brains; and perhaps, after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and come back Saint Peter. Benedicite!

[_Exit._

[_A pause. Then enter_ BARTOLOMÉ _wildly, as if in pursuit, with a carbine in his hand_.]

_Bart._ They passed this way! I hear their horses’ hoofs!
Yonder I see them! Come, sweet caramillo,
This serenade shall be the Gipsy’s last!

[_Fires down the pass._]

Ha! ha! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo!
Well whistled!—I have missed her!—O, my God!

[_The shot is returned._ BARTOLOMÉ _falls_.]

_Evangeline._

A TALE OF ACADIE.

1847.

PREFATORY NOTE.

The story of “EVANGELINE” is founded on a painful occurrence which took place in the early period of British colonization in the northern part of America.

In the year 1713, Acadia, or, as it is now named, Nova Scotia, was ceded to Great Britain by the French. The wishes of the inhabitants seem to have been little consulted in the change, and they with great difficulty were induced to take the oaths of allegiance to the British Government. Some time after this, war having again broken out between the French and British in Canada, the Acadians were accused of having assisted the French, from whom they were descended, and connected by many ties of friendship, with provisions and ammunition, at the siege of Beau Séjour. Whether the accusation was founded on fact or not, has not been satisfactorily ascertained; the result, however, was most disastrous to the primitive, simple-minded Acadians. The British Government ordered them to be removed from their homes, and dispersed throughout the other colonies, at a distance from their much-loved land. This resolution was not communicated to the inhabitants till measures had been matured to carry it into immediate effect; when the Governor of the colony, having issued a summons calling the whole people to a meeting, informed them that their lands, tenements, and cattle of all kinds were forfeited to the British crown, that he had orders to remove them in vessels to distant colonies, and they must remain in custody till their embarkation.

The poem is descriptive of the fate of some of the persons involved in these calamitous proceedings.

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the
hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the
twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the
forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that
beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of
the huntsman?
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,—
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers for ever
departed,
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of
October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far over
the ocean.
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of
Grand-Pré.

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is
patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman’s devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the
forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.