'Tis Pedro-no, Diego,-a dark Spaniard;
A linguist, learned and noble; a cadet
Of the great house of-of Medina, sir.
PRINCE. You know him well?

CESARIO. I know him, yet not well.
PRINCE. Shouldst think him honest?
CESARIO. Honest, sir? Oh, surely.
PRINCE. Then he'd not betray
Your uncle, as I hear he has done?
CESARIO. Sir! He?

He could not be so base. My uncle was
His first and excellent friend.

PRINCE. I thought the world

Was not so bad. Now listen, Cesario,
And you shall hear a curious history.
Keep Diego in your mind the while, and think
That he's the hero of it. Last night a man
Came masked unto a rich lord's house (here in
Palermo)-Do you hear how Etna mutters?

CESARIO. It sends a terrible sound, indeed, my lord. PRINCE. This man petitioned for his life. He said That he had sworn to act a horrid deed

And came to make disclosure. The great lord
(His was the life in danger) promised full
Forgiveness-But you do not hear my words?
CESARIO. Pardon me, sir, I hear.

PRINCE. The culprit said

A youth on whom this lord had lavished wealth
And kindness and good precept had forgot
His better tutoring, and lent deaf ears

To those divinest whispers which the soul
Breathes to prevent our erring. He resolved
To kill his benefactor. That was bad.

CESARIO. Oh! he deserved

PRINCE. We'll talk of that hereafter.

Well, this bad man whose mind was spotted thus-
Was leprosied by foul ingratitude-

Had sworn to murder this his friend.

CESARIO. My lord!

PRINCE. I see it pains you. Yes, for the sake of gold, He would have slain his old and faithful friend,

Had spurned the few gray locks that time had left
And stopped the current of his reverend blood,
Which could not flow much longer

CESARIO. Are you sure?

PRINCE. The plan was this: They were to bind him fast (To slay him here were dangerous) and transport His body to some lonely place.

CESARIO. What-place?

PRINCE. I'll tell you, for I once

Was housed there through a storm: A castle stands
Fronting Calabria on the rough seacoast.

A murder once was done there, and e'er since

It has been desolate; 'tis bleak, and stands
High on a rock, whose base was caverned out
By the wild seas, ages ago. The winds

Moan and make music through its halls, and there
The mountain-loving eagle builds his home.

But all's a waste; for miles and miles around
There's not a dwelling.

CESARIO. It's near the

eastward foot

Of Etna, where Muralto's villa stands?

PRINCE. Yes, yes; well guessed. I see you know the spot. Now, dear Cesario, couldst thou think a man,

Setting aside all ties, could do a deed

Of blackness there? Why, it's within the reach

Of Etna, and some thirty years ago

(The last eruption), when the lava rivers

Went flaming toward that point, this dwelling stood
In danger. I myself stood near the place,

And saw the bright fires stream along, when they
Crumbled the chestnut forests and dark pines
And branching oaks to dust. The thunder spoke,
And the rebel waves stood up and lashed the rocks,
And poured their stormy cries through every cave.
Each element rose in riot. The parched earth
Staggered and spouted fire

CESARIO. Sir, no more!

PRINCE. Fancy, Cesario, in this desolate house, How ghastly the poor murdered wretch would look,His hanging head and useless neck, his old Affectionate heart that beats so fondly, now

I could not kill

Like a stilled instrument.

A dog that loved me; could you?

CESARIO. No, sir,-no.

PRINCE. Why, how you tremble!
CESARIO. 'Tis a fearful picture.

PRINCE. Yet might it have been true.
CESARIO. We'll hope not.

PRINCE. Hope! That hope is past. How will the Spaniard

look,

Think you, Cesario, when the question comes

Home to his heart? In truth, he could not look

More pale than you are now, Cesario!

The eye of God has been upon him.

CESARIO. Yes, I hope—————

PRINCE. Beware.

CESARIO. My lord!

PRINCE. Beware, how you curse him; for he is loaded

heavily.

Sin and fierce wishes plague him, and the world

Will stamp its malediction on his head,

And God and man disown him.

CESARIO. Oh, no more!

No more, my dearest lord! Behold me here,
Here at your feet, a wretch indeed, but now
Won quite from crime. Spare me!

PRINCE. Rise. I forgive.

The ingratitude to me; but men like you

Base, common, bribed stabbers-must not roam

About the world so freely.

CESARIO. Oh! that now you could but see my heart. PRINCE. I would not see your bosom's base and black in

habitant.

Now listen to me again; speak not, but listen.

This is a different tale, Cesario!

When first you came to Sicily, you were
A little child. Your noble father, worn
By toil and long misfortune, scarce had time
To beg protection for you ere he died.
Since then, if in your memory I have failed
In kindness tow'rd you, or good counseling,
Reproach me.

CESARIO. You have been most kind,-too kind.

PRINCE. Once, 'twas in terrible sickness, when none else Would tread your infectious chamber (think on that), I, though your prince

CESARIO. In pity!

PRINCE. Hear me speak.

I gave that healing medicine to your lips,
Which, wanting, you had died. I tended you,

And was your nurse through many a sultry night;

For you were quite abandoned

CESARIO. Quite, quite, quite!

PRINCE. Time passed, and you recovered, and could use Your sword again. You tried it 'gainst my blood

(My nephew then), and I forgave it.

CESARIO. That was in the heat of quarrel.

PRINCE. I have said that I forgave it. Then a most mean

wish

(You wished my wealth) possessed you. I could never, I own it, have guessed at that.

CESARIO. O sir, not so.

PRINCE. Well, then, it was not; but Aurelia's charms (That cunning Phryne) have o'erwhelmed your sense, All gratitude and good being gone.

CESARIO. My lord! my father!

me. I

Oh, once more believe

Do not deserve you should, but if you can
Once more credit me, may hell's fierce torments-
But, no; I will not pain or shame your love,—
Nay more, I will deserve it. I can die

Now, for my mind has grown within this hour
To firmness; yet, I now could wish to live,
To show you what I am.

PRINCE.

Cesario, hear me,

Hear and forget now what your old friend says.
The world will blame me, but I'll try you still:

You can not have the heart (I know you have one)
Again to harm me. Once, imperial Cæsar
Upon the young deluded Cinna laid

His absolute pardon. 'Twas a weight that he
Could ne'er shake off.

Cesario, thus

From my soul I now forgive you.

PRINCE. What, ho! Cesario, faint not. Why, thou'rt weaker

now

Than when Aurelia kissed your lip, and won

Your soul to sin. Come,-nay, there's no one knows
Our quarrel. Let us bury it in our breasts,

And talk as we were wont.

CESARIO. A little time, my lord, and I may thank you. Now, if I

Might dare to ask it, I would fain retire,

And dwell on all your goodness.

PRINCE. Farewell, then.

CESARIO. My noble prince, rest soundly; you have gained Cesario's soul twice over. If a knave

Should say I wrong you now, believe him not.

If I myself should swear I was your foe,
Discredit me. Oh, once more on my knees,

I thank you. Dearest father, look upon

Your prodigal son. Thanks-from my heart.

PRINCE. Farewell, farewell, Cesario. Nay, compose your

self.

Now go. Farewell, farewell.

WHO SHOULD WIPE THE DISHES.

MARY KELLY.

"Dously, as he tied the strings of the kitchen apron

ON'T you think, Minerva," said Mr. Backenstots, anx

firmly around his waist, and tucked his whiskers carefully behind the bib to keep them out of the dishwater, "don't you think that we are carrying this idea of cooperation in domestic matters to extremes? I have been washing dishes for a week now, and between times I have been doing a little scriptural reading, and I can't find in the Bible any authority for men doing kitchen work. On the other hand, women are frequently spoken of in this connection: 'She looketh well to the ways of her household,'' She worketh willingly with her hands,'' She riseth while it is yet night and giveth meat to her household.' These quotations, Minerva, would seem to war