(Enter a Servant.)

Serv. The dancing-girl, and with her the musicians
Your grace was pleased to order, wait without.

Arch. Bid them come in. Now shall your eyes behold
In what angelic yet voluptuous shape

The devil came to tempt Saint Anthony.

(Enter PRECIOSA, with a mantle thrown over her head. She advances slowly, in a modest, half-timid attitude.)

Card. (aside). Oh, what a fair and ministering angel
Was lost to heaven when this sweet woman fell!

Prec. (kneeling before the ARCHBISHOP). I have obeyed the
order of your grace.

If I intrude upon your better hours,

I proffer this excuse, and here beseech
Your holy benediction.

Arch.

May God bless thee,

And lead thee to a better life. Arise.

Card. (aside). Her acts are modest, and her words discreet! I did not look for this! Come hither, child.

Is thy name Preciosa?

Prec.

Thus I am called.

Card. That is a Gipsy name. Who is thy father?

Prec. Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Calés.

Arch. I have a dim remembrance of that man;

He was a bold and reckless character,

A sun-burnt Ishmael!

Card.

Thy earlier days?

Prec.

Dost thou remember

Yes; by the Darro's side

My childhood passed. I can remember still
The river, and the mountains capped with snow;
The villages, where, yet a little child,

I told the traveller's fortune in the street;

The smuggler's horse, the brigand, and the shepherd;
The march across the moor; the halt at noon;

The red fire of the evening camp, that lighted

The forest where we slept; and farther back,
As in a dream, or in some former life,
Gardens and palace walls.

Arch.

'Tis the Alhambra,

Under whose towers the Gipsy camp was pitched.
But the time wears; and we would see thee dance.
Prec. Your grace shall be obeyed.

(She lays aside her mantilla. The music of the cachucha is played, and the dance begins. The ARCHBISHOP and the CARDINAL look on with gravity and an occasional frown; then make signs to each other; and, as the dance continues, become more and more excited; and at length rise from their seats, throw their caps in the air, and applaud vehemently as the scene closes.)

SCENE III.-The Prado. A long avenue of trees leading to the gate of Atocha. On the right the dome and spires of a convent. A fountain. Evening. DON CARLOS and HYPOLITO meeting.

Don C. Holá! good evening, Don Hypolito.
Hyp. And a good evening to my friend, Don Carlos.
Some lucky star has led my steps this way.

I was in search of you.

Don C.

Command me always.

Hyp. Do you remember, in Quevedo's Dreams,
The miser, who, upon the Day of Judgment,

Asks if his money-bags would rise?*

Don C.

But what of that?

Hyp.

I do;

I am that wretched man.

Don C. You mean to tell me yours have risen empty?
Hyp. And amen! said my Cid Campeador.+

Don C. Pray, how much need you?

Hyp.

Which, with due interest

Don C. (giving his purse).

To put my moneys out at usury?

Some half dozen ounces.

What, am I a Jew,

Here is my purse.

Hyp.

Thank you. A pretty purse,

No; 'tis at your service.

Made by the hand of some fair Madrileña;

Perhaps a keepsake?

Don C.

Hyp. Thank you again. Lie there, good Chrysostom,
And with thy golden mouth remind me often,

I am the debtor of my friend.

Don C.

Come you to-day from Alcalá?

Hyp.

But tell me,

This moment.

Don C. And pray, how fares the brave Victorian ?
Hyp. Indifferent well; that is to say, not well.

A damsel has ensnared him with the glances

Of her dark, roving eyes, as herdsmen catch
A steer of Andalusia with a lazo.

* "¿Y volviéndome á un lado, ví á un Avariento, que estaba preguntando á otro (que por haber sido embalsamado, y estar léxos sus tripas no hablaba, porque no habian llegado si habian de resucitar aquel dia todos los enterrados), si resucitarian unos bolsones suyos?"-El Sueno de las Calaveras.

'Amen, dixo mio Cid el Campeador."-Line 3044.

A child of air; an echo of his heart;
And, like a lily on a river floating,
She floats upon the river of his thoughts!*

But who is

Don C. A common thing with poets.
This floating lily? For, in fine, some woman,
Some living woman,—not a mere ideal,—
Must wear the outward semblance of his thought.
Who is it? Tell me.

Hyp.
Well, it is a woman!
But, look you, from the coffer of his heart
He brings forth precious jewels to adorn her,
As pious priests adorn some favourite saint
With gems and gold, until at length she gleams
One blaze of glory. Without these, you know,
And the priest's benediction, 'tis a doll.

Don C. Well, well, who is this doll?
Hyp.

Why, who do you think?
Don C. His cousin Violante.
Hyp.
Guess again.
To ease his labouring heart, in the last storm
He threw her overboard, with all her ingots.
Don C. I cannot guess; so tell me who it is.
Hyp. Not I.

Don C.

Why not?

Hyp. (mysteriously).

Why? Because Mari Franca +

Was married four leagues out of Salamanca !

Don C. Jesting aside, who is it?

Hyp.

Don C. Impossible!

She is not virtuous.

Hyp.

Preciosa.

The Count of Lara tells me

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;

This expression is from Dante :

"Si che chiaro

Per essa scenda della mente il fiume."

Byron has likewise used the expression; though I do not recollect in which of his poems.

A common Spanish proverb, used to turn aside a question one does not wish to answer;

"Porque casó Mari Franca

quatro leguas de Salamanca."

Feel that the place has taken a charm from thee,
And is for ever hallowed.

Mark him well!

Hyp.
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.

Vict. Holá! amigos!

How fares Don Carlos?

Don C.

Wilt thou sup with us?

Faith, I did not see you.

At your service ever.

Vict. How is that young and green-eyed Gaditana That you both wot of?

Don C.

Ay, soft emerald eyes!*

Ay de mi!

She has gone back to Cadiz.

Hyp.

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.

But speaking of green eyes,

Not a whit. Why so?

I think

The slightest shade of green would be becoming,
For thou art jealous.

And they who are in love are always jealous.

Therefore thou shouldst be.

Vict.

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 labour for his pains.

Hyp. He does not think so, and Don Carlos tells me He boasts of his success.

Vict.

IIow'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, farewell!

[Exit.

Hyp. Now what a coil is here! The Avenging Child*
Hunting the traitor Quadros to his death,

And the great Moor Calaynos, when he rode
To Paris for the ears of Oliver,

Were nothing to him! Oh! hot-headed youth!
But come; we will not follow. Let us join

The crowd that pours into the Prado.
We shall find merrier company; I see
The Marialonzos and the Almavivas,
And fifty fans, that beckon me already.

There

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.-PRECIOSA'S chamber. She is sitting, with a book in her hand, near a table, on which are flowers. A bird is 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 gaoler. 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 book, and perceives the COUNT.)

Lara.

Ha!

Señora, pardon me!

Prec. How's this? Dolores!

Lara.

Prec.

Pardon me

Dolores!

Lara. Be not alarmed; I found no one in waiting. If I have been too bold

See the ancient ballads of El Infante Vengador, and Calaynos.
From the Spanish. Böhl's Floresta, No. 282.