TALES OF
THE WONDER CLUB.

BY

DRYASDUST.

VOL. III.

ILLUSTRATED BY

JOHN JELLICOE and VAL PRINCE,

After Designs by the Author.

HARRISON & SONS, 59, PALL MALL,
Booksellers to the Queen and H.R.H. the Prince of Wales.
All rights reserved.

LONDON:
PRINTED BY A. HUDSON AND CO.,
160 WANDSWORTH ROAD, S.W.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

PREFACE TO VOL. III.

Before taking leave of his readers, the author would inform them that at the commencement of these "Tales," the earlier ones dating some thirty years back, nothing was further from his intentions than rushing into print, although repeatedly persuaded to do so by certain well-meaning friends, who from time to time were permitted to peruse the hidden MSS. The tales, nearly all of them, were written when the author was living abroad, and to beguile a period of enforced idleness, which otherwise would have been intolerable.

Never in his wildest dreams did he meditate inflicting them on the public mind. Partly, it may be, that he thought with Lord Tennyson, that "fame is half disfame," and that "in making many books there is no end," as Solomon teaches. Or it may be that he didn't care to augment that already numerous class who are said "to rush on where angels fear to tread." However this might be, time passed and the tales began to accumulate, when the author conceived the idea of stringing them together in a decameron, and later still of illustrating them with his own designs. Still years rolled on, and the tales, long abandoned, were consigned to the limbo of a mysterious black box, where they remained all but forgotten till many years later.

"Why on earth don't you publish them?" was the constant cry of those few who were taken into the writer's confidence.

The author answered by a modest shrug of self-depreciation, and still the unfinished MSS. lay at the bottom of the black box. The fact was that a weight of inertia oppressed him, added to a total lack of experience in business matters of this kind, which prevented him from taking the first step. He recoiled from the thought of calling on a publisher and presenting his own MSS., and being occupied in other ways besides writing, he begrudged the time lost in hunting up printers, publishers, and engravers, together with all the delays contretemps, and disappointments attendant on red tape.

What he wanted was a factotum, "an all round man," who would take, so to speak, the dirty work off his hands. Where was such a man to be found? He knew of none. The author is a man of unusually retired habits, and associates with but few of his kind. By proclaiming his want openly, doubtless, many would have presented themselves for the task, but in matters of this sort a certain amount of intimacy with the person employed seems to be necessary; at least, so the author thought, and thus time rolled on, and the "Tales" were no nearer publication than they were years ago, and might still have remained in this state for years longer but for an unforeseen incident. One morning, whilst taking a constitutional in a neighbouring suburb, the author's attention was attracted by a strange-looking stringed instrument of undoubted antiquity, in the window of an old curiosity shop. He would enquire the price of it. The proprietor, a weasel-faced little man, with a polished bald head, foxy beard streaked with grey, and a nose rather red at the tip, stood at the door of his shop. His ferret eyes spotted a customer.

"What is the price of that instrument?"

"One guinea."

"I'll take it. Wrap it up in paper."

"Right you are, sir. Good morning, sir. Thank you."

And off trudged the author with this new acquisition to his collection of curios.

Little did he imagine at the time what an important part this same weasely little man was destined to play in the drama of his every day life. Soon after this a second visit was paid to the shop. It was a strange place, choked with odd lumber, where any curio might be obtained, from a mermaid to a mummy. A stuffed crocodile hung in the window. There were cases of stuffed birds and animals, dummies in costume, old pictures, antique furniture, armour, weapons, coins, and postage stamps. A third and fourth visit succeeded, and after almost every visit the author's collection was enriched by some new curio. At length, so frequent became these visits to the curio shop, that hardly a day passed without the author putting in an appearance. Some two years may thus have passed away, during which time the author had ample opportunity of studying this human weasel. He learned that he was a bum-bailiff, a commission agent, etc., ready to undertake any odd job for money.

Here, then, at last, was the very man. The author accordingly propounded his plan of publishing the "Tales." That weasel nose sniffed business. With alacrity he seized the MSS., and donning a new top hat, which he did whenever he desired to create an impression of respectability, he climbed to the top of a 'bus, and was soon landed in the thick of our metropolis. From that time all has been comparatively plain sailing. "Ce n' est que le premier pas qui coûte," and cost it did, readers, you may be certain of that.

The Author.

CHAPTER VI.

The Gipsy Queen.—Mr. Blackdeed's New Play.

It was Monday morning. Our members assembled as usual at the breakfast table, after which the host entered with the newspaper, to show his guests an account of some political event of great importance. The appearance of a newspaper in the club was a thing of great rarity, as we have already hinted that politics were only permitted occasionally on sufferance. As Mr. Oldstone was commonly looked up to as the head of the club, if not altogether on account of his age, still as one who was most rigid against any infringement of discipline and decorum, each member glanced timidly towards this worthy, as if to ask his consent and absolution, which having given with a solemn nod of his head, the other members seized with eagerness the mystic folio, and having spread it out upon the table, huddled one behind the other to get the first look at its contents.

As for our artist, he had "metal more attractive," as Mr. Blackdeed might have observed. Nothing would satisfy him but a good long sitting from his enchantress, Helen. So stealing from the company, engrossed as they were with their politics, he retired to his chamber, where he set his palette; and, placing Helen's portrait on the easel, he called his model, who came without much pressing, and having placed her in the old carved high-backed chair, he commenced work. The portrait waxes apace. Our host's daughter is in her very best looks. The painter's hand is inspired not merely by the love of art—great, though that love undoubtedly is with all artists—but spurred on by another, perhaps more powerful feeling, which lends such temper to our artist's ordinary faculties, as to render the painter himself, a rare occurrence, utterly amazed at his own powers. The first hour passes away like five minutes. Scarce a word has been spoken on either side. To those who feel they love, few words are necessary, and in many cases, perhaps the fewer the better. This was a case in point. Our couple loved. Why should we deny it? How futile, indeed, for lovers themselves to deny it to the world? How utterly hopeless a task it is for lovers to attempt to conceal their love one for the other, even when they intend to do so! Murder will out sooner or later. In this, as in many other cases, love given vent to in words could be productive of no good to either party; and, therefore, as we said before, the fewer words spoken, the better.

But what do I say? Will nature be subdued by mere obstinate silence? Will not the trampled down heart rebel and burst its fetters, seeking an outlet in the powerful upheavings of the breast; the electric flashes of the impassioned eye that the strongest efforts of our feeble will in vain endeavour to render cold and indifferent; the involuntary blush, the haggard cheek, the pensive look; the smothered sigh—have they no language? Nay, your very silence speaks for itself. Oh, youth! if you would hide your passion, do so by flight, there is no other way.

This is what McGuilp felt. As for Helen, poor child, her virgin heart was a stranger to the tender passion. She had heard of love, but just heard of it vaguely as the world speaks of it, without being able to realise its power. She would have been incapable of analysing her own feelings, but a mysterious languishing softness welled forth from her large blue eyes, which whispered to the painter's heart things that it dare not acknowledge to her own. Strange, awful, mysterious passion; instilling thy subtle poison into the veins of thy willing victims. Merciless poisoned dart! Swift as thou art deep, inextricable as thou art unerring—who can escape thee?

But let us leave the enamoured couple to themselves for a while. Far be it from us to play the spy upon their actions, and let us return to the club-room, where the members, having exhausted their newspaper, are interrupted in the midst of a political discussion by an authorative thump on the table from Mr. Oldstone, who reminds the company that Mr. Blackdeed has not yet discharged his debt to the club—viz., the recital of his new play, that he had just finished preparing for the stage.

"Ay, ay, the play, the play!" shouted several voices.

"Now then. Blackdeed," said Parnassus, "the play is the thing, you know."

Our dramatist, with some show of modest reluctance, or, as Mr Parnassus observed, "with sweet reluctant amorous delay," produced his manuscript from his ample pocket, inwardly, nothing loath to declaim his late effusion before the august assembly, seated himself with an air of dignity, and having waited till the whole club was fairly settled, and all attention, he thus began:

THE GIPSY QUEEN.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ACT I.

Scene I.—Study of Don Silvio, with large open window, through which is seen the castle of Don Diego on the opposite mountain peak. Don Silvio is discovered at a table covered with books, papers, and scientific instruments. Strewn about the floor and on shelves are various objects of natural science. Don Silvio closes a book he has been reading and advances.

D. Sil. In vain the consolations of deep science,
The chiding voice of grave philosophy,
To wean us from our earthly fond affections,
When once deep-rooted in our bosom's core.
Paternal love, surviving youthful passion,
As autumn's deep'ning tints the summer's green,
Remains mature till the cold wintry blast
Of death hath scattered its last quivering leaf,
And driven us, whither? I have a daughter,
Than whom no saint in heaven purer is.
Fair and virtuous Inez! Sole object left
Me now to love on earth of all my kin.
An old man's pride, and only legacy
Of my late spouse, the sainted Dorothea.
Who, giving birth to this fair angel, left,
After ten years of childless married life,
This, my poor helpless babe, but in exchange
For her own precious self. Long unconsoled
For this, my doleful loss, I sought once more
Relief from sorrow in those studies deep,
Abandoned since my manhood's prime, when I
In Salamanca's university,
Did strive for honors, my child consigning
To a certain faithful old retainer,
The good Rodriguez, who in lieu of mother
Did rear the tender babe until it grew
To years maturer, when I thought it fit
To rescue her from out the hands of one
Who, whatsoe'er her care maternal be,
Is yet too full of vanity to make
A good instructress to my only child,
Whom I designed to educate in mode
Far different from that in which Rodriguez
And all her worldly tribe would seek to do.
With this my aim in view, I took the child
Away from home whilst yet her mind was tender,
And placing her under my sister's care,
The Lady Abbess of Saint Ursula—
A convent distant thirty miles from hence—
I left her until she should reach such age
As maidens having made due preparations
Are deemed fit to marry. Scarce sixteen
Is now my daughter Inez; far too young
To face without a guide the many wiles
And dire temptations of this giddy world;
I fain would keep her longer there, but then,
Then comes the thought that harasses my soul.
Having in youth squandered my patrimony,
Wasting my substance that I might procure
Expensive books and likewise instruments
I needed in the fond pursuits of science,
In gratifiying literary tastes,
And other fancies, thus I soon became
Deeply indebted to my richer neighbour,
The valiant Don Diego, who, much loath
To see an old house ruined, hath full oft
From time to time with liberal hand advanced
Such sums as I could ne'er hope to repay.
This knew he, too, full well, and having seen
Once my little daughter at the castle,
And fancying much her beauty, thereupon
Did make what he then doubtless did consider
An offer fair and not to be refused
By me, a desperate man—his debtor, too—
An offer, namely, for my daughter's hand
When she should have attained her sixteenth year;
And this he gave me well to understand
Would be the only way that he'd consent
To counsel all my former debts to him;
Refusing this, I knew th' alternative.
Don Diego is a soldier fierce and proud
As he is courageous, stern and merciless
Towards those who thwart his will. What could I do?
Unable to pay and in his power,
Groaning 'neath a sense of obligation;
Allured, too, perhaps, by prospects flattering
In worldly sense to her, a poor man's daughter,
I e'en consented. In an evil hour
I gave my word to friend Diego,
A man of my own years, whose castle stands
Upon the opposite peak. Behold it.
A man, I say, who might be her grandsire;
Nor is it mere disparity of years
That makes the gap to gape between the pair.
Besides his age, and now decaying health,
Don Diego all his youth has led a life
The most licentious. Rumours strange and wild
Are busy with his name, for it is known
That he esteems the holy love of woman
But as a flower to pluck and cast aside.
He hath no reverence for religious rites,
And thinks of matrimony but as a bond,
Of all bonds easiest broke. With thoughts like these
How shall it fare then with my poor daughter
When once the knot is tied? His temper then
Is stern and imperious, blunt and rude.
Accustomed to command, he reigns alone
Amidst a flattering troup of followers,
Like petty tyrant, treating men as serfs.
In boasting moods he vaunts of ancestry
Who never thwarted were in lust or hate,
And to this man shall I consign my daughter?
No, no, it was an evil hour when I
O'er hastily did consent to sacrifice
My lovely Inez, purest of her sex,
To this man's savage and rapacious lust.
Repentance came too late, for he doth hold
Me still to my promise, and all in vain
Are pleadings of my daughter's tender age.
The promise of her hand at some time hence,
When she to riper womanhood hath grown,
Excuse or promise unavailing both,
For he, with military punctilio
And lustful hot impatience, doth demand
Her hand at once, and will brook no delay.
He called on me of late, and from his mien
I saw there was but little left to hope.
A father's tears, as ever, failed to soften
His all too stubborn nature, and at length
He threatened me with ruin or with death
And forcible abduction of my daughter
If on a certain day ('tis now at hand)
I gave not him my daughter for his wife.
As yet my child knows nothing of this plan,
But now the time draws near when she must know.
How can I face my daughter? How can I
With humble, piteous whine, say, "Inez,
Thy father is ruined, an thou heed him not?
Save him by the sacrifice of thyself."
Or else, with imperious and austere brow,
Say, "Inez, I command thee as a father
To wed the man I've chosen thee—Don Diego.
Obedience is a filial duty, and
Thy father better knows what's for thy good
Than thou thyself. At once prepare, obey!"
Or should I, contrary to precepts taught
Once by myself when she was yet a child,
When I have preached 'gainst vanities and pomps,
Empty frivolities and lust of greed,
Can I now plead thus, and say, "Daughter mine,
Behold what a grand thing it is to be
One of the great ones of the earth, and move
For ever midst the gay and high-born throng
Of lords and ladies without care or pain,
With means at hand to gratify each wish,
To live the mistress of a noble castle,
With serfs at thy command, with gold, with jewels,
Dress at thy caprice, and hear around thee
Ravishing strains of music in thy halls;
Thy gardens, parks, and pleasure grounds rivalling
Those of the noblest peers, exciting envy
Of all thy neighbours, and this, yes, all this,
Thou hast but to reach out thy hand to take;
Accept the old Don Diego for thy spouse,
His castle's thine, and all that therein is;
Don't be a fool and throw this chance away
Because, forsooth, he's old, somewhat infirm,
Unfair to view, irascible and stern,
And recklessly give up thy giddy heart
To some young spendthrift, all because he's fair;
Throw not such a glorious chance away,
But make thy father's fortune and thine own?"
Is this the strain that I could use to her
After my virtuous lessons and wise saws?
Could she not answer, "Father, is it thou—
Thou who dids't ever counsel me to shun
The whispered words of gallants with the wiles
And impious vanities of this base world,
Dids't inculcate obedience, filial love,
As primary virtues ever with the young?
Was it that I might blindly, passively
Submit my will to thine? Shunning fresh youth;
That at thy bidding I might give my hand,
Loathing, yet passively, unto a man
Whose years do full quadruple mine, and all
Because this man has wealth and I have none?
Is this thy virtue, father? This the end
Of all thy teachings, that I should become
The minion, yes, the minion of a dotard?"
And would she not be right? Could I look up
Into her angel's face unblushingly,
And with a base hypocrisy reply,
"My child, 'tis for thy good. Such is the world."
Would she believe me? Would she not despise
Me and my words, see through my selfishness?
Yet what to do I know not. I am lost.
Would not the world itself proclaim me base?
Would not the mockers say, "Behold the sage,
The philosophic, wise Don Silvio,
He who despises wealth and this world's pomp,
Yet sells his daughter for Don Diego's gold?"
Thus run I counter both to God and man,
And mine own conscience. Crushing my child's heart
That I might save my own grey head from ruin.
Help me, ye saints! for I have need of guidance. [Kneeling.
Soul of my blest departed Dorothea!
Assist me with thy counsels, and send down
From that high heaven where thou in peace doth dwell
A blessing on thy daughter and her sire;
It cannot, sure, be that our Inez shall
Unwillingly and loathingly consent
To wed a vicious dotard for his gold. [Rising.
Time wanes, and with my part I must go through;
Then, as to the rest, let heaven think on't.
I know not if I meditate aright;
Nay, I know I am wrong, but I've no choice.
Hola! Rodriguez!—Rodriguez, I say!

Enter Rodriguez.

How now, Rodriguez, did'st not hear me call?
Rod. Indeed, my lord, I came as soon as I
Did hear you, but it may be that of late
I have grown a little hard of hearing;
Rodriguez now is getting old. How many
Years is it I have served your lordship here?
D. Sil. Cease thy prating tongue, and now lend thine ear.
Rod. I'm all attention, good my lord, proceed.
D. Sil. Well then, here is a letter I have written
To thy young mistress, bidding her return
With fullest speed to the paternal roof.
Rod. What! my young mistress Inez coming home
After full five years' stay within the walls,
The gloomy walls, of grim St. Ursula!
Poor soul! she'll scarce remember old Rodriguez.
How I long to see her! How she'll have grown.
Time will have wrought great changes. But a child
She was when first she left her father's hall,
And now returns a woman. Pretty dear!
Shall I ever forget how she did cry
At leaving me? For you must know, Señor,
That ever with a mother's tender care
I've cherished her as were she child of mine,
And she, sweet soul, ne'er having known her mother,
Looked for no other mother than myself.
And mother she would call me when a babe,
Until she grew and first began to learn
The death of your good lady Dorothea—
Peace be to her soul, the dear sweet lady—
Then she learned to call me Nurse Rodriguez.
Dear little soul! When I did see her last
She had her mother's brow, her mother's hair,
Her eyes, too, and her tiny foot and hand;
Her smile was all her mother's, yet methinks
Something about the nose and mouth and chin
Was from your lordship. How I wonder now
If she be changed, if she do remember
How I was wont to dance her on my knee
To still her cries with sweets, and how she'd ask
Me to tell her all about her mother—
How she looked and spoke, and how she dressed?
I told her all I knew. What I knew not
That straight I did invent to please the child,
And oftimes on a chilly wintry night
Of storm and tempest, when the lightning's flash
Lit up with lurid glare the outward gloom,
And the loud thunder, like to wake the dead,
Shook the old castle walls to their foundation,
On such nights as these, when sleep would desert
Her downy pillow, I would lift her thus,
And wrapping her up in my ample shawl,
I'd draw her to the fire. Then, whilst the warmth
Of the genial element diffused
Itself throughout the chamber, rendering
By the contrast of the black storm without
Its growing blaze more grateful, then would I
Beguile the night with tales of ghosts and ghouls,
Of elves and fairies, and hobgoblins grim,
Of witches, wizards, vampires, dwarfs, and giants,
Pirates, brigands, and unburied corpses,
Whose restless spirits, ever hovering near,
Render the place accursed, and bring ill
To happen unto those who wander there.
Wraiths and doubles, and corpse candles glim'ring
O'er unhallowed graves. Of secret murders,
Of spells, enchantment, and of hidden treasure,
Fights of knights and dragons, Christian damsels
Rescued from Moorish captors by their lovers,
Tales of the Inquisition and its tortures,
Of dungeons dark and drear, and skeletons
Found bleak and bare, laden with rusty chains
That ever and anon at midnight's hour
Were heard to move and shake, with many a tale
Of the wild gipsy tribes that roam these mountains,
Of haunted houses and weird palaces,
That at the magician's word sink 'neath the ground,
Of devils and of fiends—
D. Sil. And all the lore
That gossips love to frighten children with.
Wretch and most wicked beldam! Is it thus
By giving reins to thine accursed tongue
That thou hast sought to poison my child's mind?
Is this why every eve when it grew dark
I've seen her shudder and look o'er her shoulder?
Why she would never enter a dark room?
Why, as I've watched beside her tiny crib,
I've seen her start in sleep with stifled sob?
When I have watched her wan and haggard cheek,
Her thoughtful mien, her dreamy vacant stare,
Until I've fancied her in a decline,
And feared she would not long be left to cheer
My gloomy hearth; then was it this, I say,
Thy foolish wicked lies, torturing thus
Her tender infant brain? I say, for shame!
In good time I rescued her from thy hands.
Rod. I'm sure my lord, I've always sought to—
D. Sil. Hush!
And give me no more of thy silly prate,
I've some affairs on hand, and must away,
O'er long thou hast detained me with thy cant.
Here, take this note, bid Pedro start at once
And bear this safely to my daughter there,
For to-night at the hostel he must sleep,
To-morrow early he must start towards home,
Accompanying my daughter by the way. [Going.
Rod. My lord, I'll see to't.
D. Sil. And hark! Rodriguez,
There's one thing I would caution you against.
Rod. And that is, my lord?
D. Sil. And that is, I say,
That when my daughter home arrives to-morrow,
You fill not her head with foolish stories
And antiquated superstitions.
Above all, talk to her not of gallants,
Of tournaments, elopements, serenades,
Or anecdotes of thine own frivolous life.
Rod. My lord! my lord!
D. Sil. Once for all, I repeat,
Detail not all the follies of thy youth;
Talk to her not of dress or finery,
Nor all the gilded pageantries of courts,
Or such like vanities; and now, adieu,
I must go hence. Think well of what I've said. [Exit.
Rod. (Alone.) Poor, poor gentleman, I fear he's going;
He's growing old now, is my poor master,
And folks when they grow old are ever childish.
He ne'er has been the same since the departure
Of my poor mistress, Lady Dorothea.
What said he about my frivolous life?
Who can cast a stone at Dame Rodriguez?
Oh, his head's gone; that's very clear, alas!
My life! 'Twere well he thought about his own,
Spent here mid dusty books and parchments old,
With dirty bottles and queer instruments.
As no one ever saw the like before.
What he does with them, who can understand?
Shut up here like a hermit all day long.
A plague on him, and all his crotchety ways!
Wait till my mistress Inez doth return;
She will enliven him, and 'twixt us two,
We'll make a clearance of this dusty cell.
"Talk to her not of dress!" Poor silly man!
Why, how on earth is the poor child to know,
Shut up these five years in those convent walls,
Of all the latest fashions of the day?
How should she dress herself without the aid
Of old Rodriguez? See how these men are.
Do we live in a world or do we not?
I should not do my duty to his child
Were I to listen to him. No I must,
The instant she arrives, take her in hand.
"Talk to her not of gallants!" Why, forsooth?
Must the poor child see no society?
Is this hall a convent or a desert?
Was she not born to marry and to mix
With other ladies of her state and rank?
How should she find a husband without me?
She's growing up now, and has no mother,
And as for her poor father, he'd as soon
Think of flying as of his daughter's weal.
No, no; but I will teach her how to cut
A figure in this world as best becomes
Her rank and station. I will teach her, too,
What colours best become her, and how I,
I, Rodriguez, figured once in youth,
When I with train of yellow and scarlet silk,
And stomacher of green, sleeves of sky-blue,
First did meet my Carlos at the bull-fight.
I'll teach her how to dress, to use the fan—
Thus, also thus, and thus, and how to draw,
With well-feigned coyness, the mantilla, thus,
Across her face, leaving one eye exposed,
And ogle, so, the gallants as they pass.
A few good lessons taken from an adept
Will soon prepare her for society.
Pedro. (Without.) Rodriguez, Hola! Rodriguez, What ho!

Enter Pedro.

Rod. Donna Rodriguez, an it please you, sir.
Ped. Well then, be it so, Donna Rodriguez,
I've just met master coming from the castle,
Apparently in no good humour. He
Asked me if you'd given me a letter
Addressed to Donna Inez at the convent,
And bid me thither haste without delay,
Threatening me with mine instant dismissal
Should Mistress Inez fail to arrive to-morrow,
And thus with hasty step and moody brow
He passed me by, as if old retainers
Had not their privileges, eh? Rodriguez—
Donna Rodriguez, I should say. Pardon me.
Rod. Here is the letter; you had best be off.
Stay, Pedro. Did master look so savage?
Ped. Even so.
Rod. Something must have angered him.
Prithee, good Pedro, hast thou not of late
Noted a change in poor Don Silvio?
Ped. Faith, I cannot tell. Since I have known him
He hath been always the same moody man.
Rod. But has he not of late seemed more estranged,
More dull, more gloomy, just as if there were
Something of unusual import that
Were hanging o'er him?
Ped. In truth I know not.
Rod. He sees no company.
Ped. That's nothing new.
Rod. I mean—save that of that old haughty Don,
Old Don Diego from the neighbouring castle,
Who ne'er vouchsafes me word, but when he comes
Passes me by as the veriest slut,
With not so much as "Good-day, Rodriguez,"
But asks me sternly if my master's in.
His visits have been frequent here of late.
What think'st thou is the meaning of all this?
Ped. In faith, I know not, and do not much care.
Rod. Ha! thou carest not? Come now, good Pedro,
Wilt thou that I confide a secret to thee?
Ped. A secret that shall increase my wages,
Take more work off my shoulders? Then declare 't;
If it be ought else, then keep your secret.
I am tired of ever being the slave and drudge
Of my old master for such paltry pay.
I've served here now some twenty years and more.
But matters were not always thus. I've seen
The castle walls look handsomer in my day.
In Lady Dorothea's time I never
Had to wait for my wages, and my suit
Was always clean and new. Then were there more
Servants in the castle who took near all
The work off my hands. Now that they're dismissed
The burden of the household falls on me,
And the wages, 'stead of waxing more,
I have to wait for. I know not how long 'tis
I have not seen the colour of his gold.
Why, the castle's gone to rack and ruin.
I am ashamed to meet my former friends,
The well-fed menials of Don Diego's hall,
When they with grave and supercilious smile
Do thus accost me, "Ha! good man, Pedro,
How fares it with thee and thy poor master?
Thy suit, methinks, grows musty, like his castle,
And, to speak truth, I once have seen thee fatter."
Then straight they talk about their master's bounty.
"Look how we fare," say they; "an I were thou
I'd strike for higher wages or else leave."
And all these taunts I have to bear—for what?
Rod. Well, well, I fare but as yourself; but hark—
Something's astir within the castle.
Ped. (Turning round timidly.) Where?
Rod. Bah! I mean something's about to happen
In this old hall, an I do not mistake.
A change.
Ped. For the better? Out with it, Rodriguez.
Be quick, for with this note I must away. [Going.
Rod. Just so; the letter. What think'st thou there's in 't?
Ped. I never play the spy. Money, think you? [Holding it up to the light.
Rod. I trow not. I spoke but of it's import.
Ped. Marry, what should it be but just to bid
Young Mistress Inez home without delay?
Rod. Exactly; and canst divine the motive?
Ped. Faith! Perhaps the charges of the convent
Have grown too costly for the miser's purse,
Or 't may be having stayed there her full time,
She now returns unto her father's hall.
Rod. Not altogether that, for I well know
Don Silvio would fain have kept her longer.
Hark, Pedro! thou know'st that I've always been
A faithful follower of this ancient house,
And no time-server as some others are.
Ped. (Aside.) Humph! That's meant for me. Time-server, forsooth!
Rod. Ill would 't become a faithful old retainer
Not to take interest in her lord's affairs,
So with this sense of duty upmost, aye,
And marking something most unusual
In these frequent visits of Don Diego,
Then hearing once his voice in angry tones,
And that of our poor master, trembling, meek,
I naturally bent my ear until
It level stood with the chamber's keyhole.
Ped. Naturally, Donna Rodriguez. Well?
Rod. Ha! Now you take more interest in my tale.
Well, then I heard the whining piteous tones
Of our old master's voice in broken sobs.
"Think of her tender age, and your own years.
Can this disparity between you both,
This forced consent on her part, bring to her
Ought but unhappiness? Prithee, reflect.
Think of a father's feelings, and forbear."
"Think of your debts, old man, and of your past,"
Now said a sterner voice; "and if you fail
To have your daughter all in readiness
The next time that I call, so the wedding
May be solemnised within my private chapel
At whatsoever hour I please, hark ye!
I'll sell your ruined castle o'er your head,
Drive you houseless into the open air
To beg your bread; by force abduct your daughter,
And——
Ped. Did he say that?
Rod. Ay, he did, indeed.

Enter Don Silvio musingly behind—he stops and listens.

Ped. Why then he'll do 't; that is, if our old lord
Do not peaceably give up his daughter.
Rod. Oh, it's horrible, horrible. Poor child!
Ped. Horrible for us to be turned adrift.
Poor child, indeed! the best thing that could hap,
I wish the little jade no better luck.
The daughter of a threadbare miser. She
Turn up her nose at such a match as this!
I can't think what our master's scruples are
To such a union. Luck seems on his side.
Rod. Hush. You forget her age, the poor dear child
Has scarce arrived at puberty, and then
Knows nothing of the world, but cometh straight
From that old convent without time to taste
The sweets of life, or choose from out the crowd
Of motley youths who should encompass her
One of her choice, befitting more her age
Than this grey, grim, and surly Don Diego.
Ped. Don Diego is a proper gentleman.
A trifle old, perhaps; so much the better,
He will but die the sooner, and so leave
Our Inez mistress of his lordly hall.
Once left a widow, young and rich, she then
May marry any gallant that she likes.
First let her fill her mouth and clothe her back,
Then indulge her own caprice at leisure.
I'm for Don Diego, and will help his plan
With all my power.
Rod. Oh! you men, you men,
You're all alike, and have no sentiments.
Just such a one is master, who would sell
His only child to pay his debts withal.
Ped. Why, how can he help it? Debts must be paid.
And when the debt is cancelled in this way
I fancy I can see the old miser chuckle
To himself at having got off so cheap.

Don Silvio advances in their midst.

D. Sil. Discussing matters that concern ye not,
Eavesdropping hounds, unmannered miscreants!
Is this your duty and your gratitude?
Knaves that ye are, and base-born time-servers,
Off with ye both! Thou, Pedro, lazy lout,
Off to the convent, as I bade thee. Fly!
Rouse not my wrath; and thou, thou gossiping hag,
Back to thy room and give thy tongue a rest,
Else it will swell and choke thee. Would it might.

[Exeunt severally Pedro and Rodriguez. Don Silvio throws himself into an armchair, and covers his face with his hands.

Scene II.—Interior of the Convent of St. Ursula. Inez discovered pacing up and down dejectedly.

Inez. 'Tis passing strange that all these five long years
That I have lived within these convent walls,
A stranger to the world without, unless
To the narrow limits of our garden.
I ne'er remember to have passed a night
Like last night was. Most strange and fearful dreams
Disturbed my slumber, robbing me of rest;
Confused they were, and I can scarce recall
Aught of their substance, but methought that I
Was caught and roughly handled by rude men
With dark ferocious faces. By their dress
I should have deemed them gipsies; then methought
I saw a female—tall, majestic, old,
Or middle-aged, in strange and wild attire,
Who spoke to me, and questioned me in proud,
Yet calm and kindly accents, and that she
Rebuked the ruffians, so that they fell back
And did no harm to me; yet still I sat
Surrounded by the band, which kept close guard.
My fear was very great, so that I think
I must have fainted, for I knew no more.
It was a dream most unaccountable.
My aunt, the Lady Abbess, says that dreams
Are sent us oftimes by the saints to warn,
Guide, and admonish us. That holy men,
Ay, and women, too, have had many things
Revealed to them in dreams and visions.
Old nurse Rodriguez, too, I can recall,
Oft would relate me hers, and would declare
They all came true, or bore some hidden sense
That none save gifted sybils could explain.
And now, although my memory's much confused,
Methinks Rodriguez formed part of my dream.

Enter Lady Abbess.

Lady Ab. What! Inez, musing—art not well, my child?
Inez. I've slept badly, aunt, and have a headache.
Lady Ab. Here's that will cure it.
Inez. What! A letter?
Lady Ab. Ay, from thy father; it was hither brought
By an old servitor.
Inez. The good Pedro?
Lady Ab. I think the same; I've seen his face before.
Thou know'st, Inez, that it is my custom
To break the seal of all the letters that
Come here directed to my novices,
To prevent clandestine correspondence;
But knowing well my brother's handwriting,
And being well informed of the contents
By this same Pedro, I deemed it useless.
Read it then, dear, thyself.
Inez. (Reads.) "My dearest child,
The time has now come round when thou should'st end
Thy course of studies at St. Ursula's.
It is my wish that thou at once take leave
For ever of thy aunt, the Lady Abbess,
And without more delay prepare to start
In the company of my servant Pedro.
See that thou be not tardy, but straightway,
Quick after the perusal of these lines,
Set off upon thy journey, for I have
Much to say to thee. Greet my good sister.
Your loving father,
Silvio."
Dearest aunt,
I know not if I should laugh for joy or weep,
For, returning home to see my father,
I needs must bid farewell to you, who e'er
Have been a mother to me.
Lady Ab. Dearest child!
I am full loath to part with thee, but still,
In obedience to thy father's orders,
Thou must not tarry. Take my blessing then,
And may the blessed Virgin and the saints
Protect thee from all harm upon the road.
Kiss me, my Inez, and now straight commence
To get thy baggage ready.
Inez. And Pedro?
Lady Ab. He is without. I'll call him. What! Pedro.

Enter Pedro.

Ped. Gracious Donna Inez, I kiss your hands.
Inez. Ah, good Pedro, sure thou scarce knowest me;
These many years have wrought a change in us.
How leftest thou my father? Well, I hope;
And nurse Rodriguez, she, I hope, is well.
Ped. Excellent well, most gracious lady, both.
Inez. I'm glad of 't. And thou thyself, good Pedro?
Ped. I thank the Lord, good lady, I'm not worse—
I'm getting old.
Lady Ab. That is the fate of all;
We cannot aye be young.
Ped. True, good lady.
Inez. And now, Pedro, do thou wait here until
I shall return. I'll try not to be long;
I've my baggage yet to pack, and to say
Some words in private to our Lady Abbess. [Exeunt Inez and Lady Abbess.
Ped. Why, how the little wench has grown, i' faith!
But I'd have known her anywhere, I would,
So strong is the resemblance to her mother—
Her voice, her very manner too's the same
As Lady Dorothy's when first I knew her.
Ah, those were merry days. Would I could live
Them o'er again. Let me see. What was it
The gipsy beldam told me by the road?
Ha! I remember. When about half-way
Between the castle and St. Ursula,
While jogging through a bleak and bare ravine
Upon my mule, and leading on the other,
A crone stood in my path—a gipsy crone.
I know not how old; but past middle age.
Still, from her mien, which was majestic, proud,
I think she had been handsome in her youth.
"Good morrow, Pedro," said the crone. "Speed well"
"Good morrow, Dame," said I. "You know me, then?"
"And have done long. Gipsies know everything.
Wilt have a proof of it? Wilt know thy fortune?
Show me thy palm," she said. "My palm!" said I,
"Know thou, good gipsy, I have nought withal
To pay thee." "Never mind for that," she said;
"I love to gossip with an old retainer.
Thy gossip shall repay me. Quick, thy palm."
Then tracing with her gaunt and taloned finger
A mystic sign across the line of life,
"Not always thus, good Pedro, hast thou been.
Thou hast a master who but ill repays
Thy manifold and useful services.
Thou hadst a mistress once, but she is gone;
With her decease good luck hath fled the house,
But times will change, and luck will reappear,
And thou shalt live content to good old age."
I recollect no more of what she said,
But mighty promises she made of luck.
Then straightway she did ask me of my lord—
How he fared, and also of Don Diego.
"Excellent well," said I, and here I laughed.
"Too well, too well, for one with head so white."
"How mean'st thou?" she said, with searching gaze.
"Why, marry thus!" said I; "they say Don Diego——
Hush, but this is a secret (here I winked)
That old Don Diego, spite his years, doth think
To take to him a young and pretty wife."
Here the crone started somewhat, as I thought,
And o'er her bronzed features came a flush
Like burnished copper, and her eagle eye
Flashed as with fire; but in an instant
Her cheeks grew ashen pale and her lips trembled.
Why I know not; but deeming her unwell,
I offered her a sip of wine from out
The gourd I carried at my saddle's flank;
But she declined. "No wine," saith she, "hath ever
Passed my lips since I was born. Shall I
Break through my abstinence in hoary age?"
Then seeming quite recovered, "Well," she said,
"What was it of Don Diego, thou wert saying?
Thou saidst, he thought to take to him a wife.
Can this be true? Who may the lady be?"
Then, mocking her, I said, "Thou knowest all things,
Know'st thou not, the lady is our Inez,
The daughter of my old lord Don Silvio.
Still in her teens, and staying with her aunt,
Lady Superior at St Ursula's,
From here some fifteen miles, whither I go
By order of her father, at full speed
To carry back his daughter to his hall?
And know'st thou not the wedding day is fixed,
And all in readiness, but that our Inez
As yet knows nought o't; but that to-morrow,
When at eve I bring her to her father,
She will soon learn it all, and willy, nilly,
Will have to wed the old man for his gold?"'
All this I told her. Then she said, "True, true,
The stars already have revealed so much;
But mark me, Pedro, mark me well, I say,
For I know all things. It shall never be
It will not happen. The stars forbid it."
"What! Don Diego's wedding," said I. "We'll see."
And off I trotted till I reached the convent.

Re-enter Lady Abbess and Inez.

Lady Ab. And now, dear Inez, now that all's prepared
For thy long homeward journey, one more kiss.
Salute thy father, and bear well in mind
All I have taught thee. When thou hast arrived
Write to me straight to say that thou art safe.
Thou, Pedro, do thy duty towards thy charge.
And, Inez, love, thou'lt think of me sometimes,
And should chance ever bring thee by this way,
Thou'lt come and see me, eh? And now farewell.
I dare not keep thee longer. Bless thee, Inez.
Adieu; the saints protect thee. Go in peace. [Embracing her.
Inez. Farewell, kind aunt, farewell.

[Exeunt Lady Abbess and Inez weeping, Pedro following.

ACT II.

Scene I.—A country inn in the Sierra Nevada. A table spread under a vine.

Enter Don Alfonso and Don Pascual.

D. Pas. Must thou then really leave me and return
To Salamanca to resume thy studies?
Alas! to think that thou shouldst go alone,
And that I dare not bear thee company.
Tell me, Alfonso, think'st thou the police
Are ever on my track, or else that they
Have now given up all strict and diligent search,
Some weeks having passed o'er since the fatal deed?
D. Alf. I would not counsel thee yet to return.
Too many rash deeds have been done of late
For the law to lie much longer passive;
Besides, the man you murdered was a count,
A great hidalgo, and of haughty race;
His family will leave no stone unturned
Until this murdered member is avenged.
D. Pas. Murdered! say'st thou again? 'Twas in a duel.
D. Alf. Murder or homicide, 'twill go ill with thee,
An thou fall'st in the clutches of the law.
In good time thou leftest Salamanca.
But live and learn; I did ever tell thee
Thou wast over ready with thy weapon.
What! For a hasty word said in hot blood
Must thou be ever quarte, and tierce, and thrust?
D. Pas. Hold, friend, but you must know the case was thus—
I met Count Pablo——
D. Alf. I know the story.
The count was stern and haughty as thyself,
Nor made allowances for others' pride;
He could not brook the independent gaze
Of one whom, perhaps, he deemed of lower birth;
This led to altercation and fierce looks
(I own him wrong, for he began the quarrel),
But it was thou who wast the first to challenge;
And all for a word, too.
D. Pas. And was that nought?
Nought, the being called a gipsy bastard?
What! Call'st thou that a trifle? Bastard! Ugh!
I swear, that had he been ten times my friend,
I would have slain him. Bastard! Gipsy, too!
What! Are we Spaniards of so fair a skin
That he would have me pale-eyed, flaxen-haired,
Like the barbarians of northern climes?
May not a Spaniard have an olive skin
And jetty eye without being gipsy called?
A mystery, I know, hangs o'er my birth;
I ne'er knew my parents. Some secret hand
Doth forward me remittances at times,
That I might be enabled to pursue
My studies at the university.
I cannot think it is my spurious father,
For I do well remember me of one—
Indeed, I think that she was not my mother.
Although she treated me as her own son—
A lady of high rank and ample means,
A widow, too, with kind and gentle ways.
I knew not then that she was not my mother;
But dying when I yet was but a child,
I was put early to a seminary.
It may be I inherited her fortune,
And out of this expenses are disbursed.
When young I made no strict inquiries
As to my origin. Those around me
Told me but little, but I think I heard
I was adopted by this widow lady.
More I ne'er cared to know, until of late,
Being stung by the count's taunt of spurious birth,
I challenged him and killed him in a duel.
And now I fain would have the myst'ry cleared,
E'en should the certain knowledge gall my soul
And I in truth should be a gipsy bastard.
It may be that he spoke the truth. But how
Did he come to know of it? Or, if truth,
That truth was spoke in insult, and so ta'en.
He who would call me gipsy, let him fear
My gipsy blood. Let who would call me bastard
Prepare to feel the sting a bastard feels. [Touching his sword hilt.
D. Alf. Chafe not thyself; the deed is done. No more
Mar not the precious moments of our parting
With fiery words, like braggadocio,
Or vain lamentings of the fatal past,
But let us rather draw unto the table,
And o'er a merry flask of Val de Peñas
Strive to forget all sorrow.
D. Pas. So say I; [Seating themselves at the table.
And here's to thy safe journey and return
To thy most beloved Salamanca.
And here's to the eyes that await thee there.
Here's also to the delicate moustache——
D. Alf. Enough, enough, my friend. Such toasts as these
Keep for thyself. I've other ends in view.
I have to carve my passage through the world,
To which no syren's eyes must be a hindrance.
Wish me but success in all my studies.
D. Pas. Ay, so I do, Alfonso, from my heart.
D. Alf. As to thyself, Pascual, as it seems
Thou art but little formed for study, being
Of a too warm and hasty temperament
To find much solace in the student's page,
Preferring lone rambles and sylvan sports
To the uncertain fame a scholar seeks.
To thee, and such as thee, the love of woman
Thy ardent nature will not fail to find
Out of the many one whom thou canst love.
May she be virtuous as she is fair,
And worthy of thy love as thou of hers.
D. Pas. I thank thee, but as yet my heart is whole.
May I dare hope yet that a time may come
When a woman's love and a happy home
To thee may not be all contemptible.
Heigho!
D. Alf. Thou sighest. Sure thou art in love.
D. Pas. Not so, my friend, not yet.
D. Alf. Then wherefore sigh?
D. Pas. Thou hast awoke strange mem'ries in my mind—
Events long past that I'd but all forgot.
'Tis nothing, thou'lt say—mere childish fancy.
Prithee, friend Alfonso, tell me one thing.
Dost really think I come of gipsy blood?
D. Alf. What! Is it there the shoe still pinches? Ha!
Fill up another bumper of this wine
And wash down the word, else it will choke thee.
D. Pas. Nay, I am serious, and would have thy word.
Tell me in honour, now, what thou dost think.
D. Alf. Bah! What matters it? Thou art somewhat dark;
But, as thou well sayst, so are all our race.
D. Pas. True. But what think'st thou?
D. Alf. Faith! I cannot tell.
Perhaps over dark for a Castilian.
D. Pas. Ha! Say'st thou so? I've long thought so myself.
And what confirms me in the thought is this,
That ever since my earliest youth I've felt
A strange affection for these gipsy tribes—
A sympathy for their wild wandering life
And fierce impatience at the cold restraints
By which well-bred society doth cramp
Our fervid passions. Friend, thou knowest me well.
Thou sayest well I am not formed for study,
That is to say, such studies as thine own—
Th' intricacies of law, philosophy,
The mysteries of theology, and all
The lore for which you students sap your youth.
My book is nature. In the open fields
I've loved to lie at night and watch the stars,
The various aspects of the changing moon,
Or on the giddy mountain peak at morn
To view the first beams of the rising sun
As from the rosy horizon it climbs
Up towards the purple zenith. At midday
I love to rest me in the sylvan shade
And watch the deer grazing on the rich turf,
Or else in company of some jovial friends,
Hunt these poor denizens from their peaceful haunts,
And, heated with the chase, dismount and slake
My parching thirst from out the neighbouring brook.
Full oft in my wild wanderings I have passed
Through desert places, where no dwelling was,
And, overcome by hunger and fatigue,
Have well nigh fainted, but in such cases,
When human hospitality doth fail
Nature comes to the rescue and procures
Its roots and berries, sometimes luscious fruit:
And thus I've journeyed often from my youth,
Encountering many dangers in my path.
Twice captured by the brigands, nor set free
Without heavy ransom. More than once
I've 'scaped unaided from the blades of ruffians,
But not unscathed, and fighting hand to hand.
I've also fallen in with the gipsy tribes,
And lived among them, too, in early youth,
Till I became familiar with their tongue,
Their life and customs, for when yet a child
They stole me from my friends, whoe'er they were,
But I was rescued, and the dusky tribe
Were driven out from that part of the land.
Among my early reminiscences
I can recall the tall and bronzed form
Of one who should have been the queen of them,
For so I've heard her styled. I met her oft;
And when I first remember her she bore
A countenance as beautiful as day.
I have not seen her now for many years.
When last I met her I could plainly see
That time and trouble and a roving life
Had left their stamp upon her dusky brow.
But I had nought to fear from her. The crone
Would call me to her and caress me, too;
Call me endearing names, and, as a proof
Of further love, she gave this ring to me;
Made me swear it ne'er should leave my finger,
And that some day it would protect my life.
For should I fall in with the gipsy band,
On seeing this token they would let me pass
Without let or hindrance, so she said.
For years I have not seen the gipsy band,
And therefore have not put it to the proof;
But still I've kept my vow, and from that time
I ne'er have doffed it. And now tell me, friend,
If what I've just told you does not prove
Me sprung from gipsy blood?
D. Alf. We cannot help
Our birth. What matters it our parentage?
D. Pas. Thou seest not, then, what it is that galls me.
List. If I be of gipsy origin,
I must be likewise bastard, for whoe'er
Did hear of legal marriage in a case
Of love 'twixt Christian and a gipsy maid?
Knowest thou not what the term "bastard" means?
Could I once but meet my spurious father,
He should account for sending me adrift
And nameless through the world, or I'd know why.
For know, whate'er my origin may be,
I have been brought up as a gentleman,
And hope to marry one of gentle blood.
What proud Castilian family would mate
A cherished daughter to a lineage soiled?
D. Alf. I do acknowledge thy perplexity.
But bastard though thou beest, thou'rt still a man.
Would'st 'rase the bar sinister from thy shield,
Or, what is much the same, cast it i' the shade,
So that it appear not for the lustre
Of thy many and resplendent virtues?
Make thy name famous. Fame, however bought,
Hath ne'er failed to win the heart of woman.
A woman's heart being once securely won,
The vict'ry's thine. Th' obstacles that follow
Thou'lt find will not be insurmountable;
I mean, to gain the parents' full consent.
But he must fight who'd win. And now, adieu
I have no time to tarry longer. See,
My mule is saddled, and I must away.
Detain me not, my friend, for I would fain
Reach the adjacent township ere nightfall.
D. Pas. Bless thee, Alfonso, and fortune speed thee.
D. Alf. The like to thee, Pascual, from my heart.

[They embrace. Exit Alfonso. Pascual remains behind and waves his handkerchief from the terrace.

D. Pas. Adios! He is gone. His ambling mule
Has borne its gallant freight far out of sight.
Farewell, Alfonso. Fortune be thy guide,
Truest of comrades, best of counsellors,
Ride thou, my friend, towards fame, whilst I, Pascual,
Like Cain, must roam the earth, a vagabond,
Flying the face of man, by man pursued;
A price set on my head. Not merely bastard,
But vagabond! What was't he said of fame?
He mocked me. Fame for an outlawed gipsy!
An it be not such fame the gallows brings,
Write me down lucky. Would not an attempt
To bring my name to light sign my death warrant?
My friend thought not of this. For such as I
The monast'ry's sequestered cell were good,
Rather than fame. But courage yet! I feel
The blood of our dark race boil in my veins,
And cry shame on my fears. Then fame be it,
But not that fame Alfonso wrings from books.
Not that for me. The valour of my arm,
The patient wasting of my hardy frame
Shall win the fame I seek. For I recall
The words long spoken, and but all forgot,
By that same gipsy queen when first she gazed
Into my infant palm. "Hail to thee, child!
For thou beneath a lucky star was born.
Fortune," she said, "hath marked thee for her own."
These are the words. I cannot choose, but trust.
Shine out, my star, since thou dost lead me on,
For as the loadstone draws the unwilling steel
Unto itself, so man is led by fate.
Avaunt, base fear, and fortune, thus I seize thee. [Exit.

Scene II.—A wild ravine. Gipsies, headed by the Gipsy Queen, in ambush.

Gip. Q. This way she comes. Now to your work; but mark!
Exceed not my commands. Do her no harm,
Show yourselves loyal to your queen, as men,
And not wild beasts.
Several Gipsies. Queen, thou shalt be obeyed.

Enter Donna Inez and Pedro, on mules.

Ped. Cheer up, fair mistress. Banish idle fears.
Already we've accomplished half our journey.
Ere sundown we'll have reached your father's castle.
So follow me. Fear not. And as for dreams,
They are all vain, and bred of convent fare—
Sickly disease engendered in the mind
By monkish legends and low superstition,
Unworthy ladies of your rank. Look ye!
I, Pedro, now am old, and yet I never
Have known a dream of mine that did come true.
No, my young mistress, take Pedro's word for't,
All dreaming is unhealthy—a bad sign.
Live well, sleep soundly, and you'll dream no more.
Dreams proceed but from impaired digestion.
Take my advice and give no heed to them.

[Gipsies advance suddenly and seize the bridles.

First Gipsy. Hola! there, good people. Halt and dismount!

[Inez screams and falls against Pedro.

Inez. Pedro, protect me. Oh, holy Virgin!
Oh, blessed saints and souls in purgatory!
Have mercy on us, or we're lost, O God!
Pedro, dost hear? Assist me. Fly! Call. Help!
Ped. Help, help! To the rescue, I say. What ho!
Second Gipsy. Any attempt at flight or cry for help
Is vain, and may prove fatal. Come, dismount.
Inez. Oh, saints! The very faces, I declare,
That I saw in my dream—and dreams are false.
Holy Virgin, protect us. Help, I say!
Third Gipsy. Ay, call upon your saints. Call on, call on!
And see if they'll come to your assistance.
First Gipsy. An you cease not your screaming, you'll be gagged.

[Pedro and Inez dismount.

Gip. Q. Come, no rough treatment to this young lady,
Or it will be the worse for some of you.
Tie up the mules and bind the serving man,
That he escape not, and so call for help.
As to this damsel, leave her all to me.
(To Inez) Young lady, have no fear, for I am one
Who can command th' entire gipsy band,
Who are my serfs and tremble at my frown.
An you be docile, they shall do no harm.
Raise but your voice, and I will have you bound.
But I, the gipsy queen, would be your friend;
And soon you shall acknowledge me as such;
But not just now. (To the gipsies) Bind not the young lady
Unless she call for help or attempt to escape.
(To Inez) And you, young lady, courage. Tremble not.
Think not I crave your pelf or trinkets rare.
I have no need. Thyself 'tis I'ld detain.
Inez. And why, O strange, O dread, mysterious queen,
All powerful amongst thy dusky band,
If, as thou sayst, thou hast no need of pelf,
And canst and wilt protect me from the hands
Of thy half-savage subjects, wherefore then
Detain a poor and simple maiden bound
For her paternal castle, having left
The Convent of St. Ursula this morn?
Gip. Q. Oh, of your story I am well informed.
Better, perchance, than what you are yourself.
For am I not a gipsy? Know we not
By the aspect of the heavenly bodies
All events that are about to happen?
As to my object in detaining you
Let it suffice you I have an object,
Which you shall know hereafter. (To gipsies) Guard her close.
Methought I did hear footsteps, but 'tis nought.

Enter hastily Pascual with a drawn sword.

Pas. This way I heard the cries. How now! What's this?
Hell and furies! A chaste and lovely maid
Attacked by dusky ruffians! Halt! Forbear!
For, by my soul, I swear I will not leave
One black hide whole among ye, an ye dare
To touch a single hair of her fair head.
Gip. Q. Disarm that vain and too hot-headed youth.

[Gipsies surround Pascual, who defends himself desperately, killing and wounding some of the nearest. Gipsies back a few paces. Pascual follows, and cuts through them.

Unto him, cowards! Seize the presumptuous fool.
Hear ye not, slaves? What! Is a single arm,
And that, too, of a pampered gentleman,
Too much for ye? Shame on ye, cowards, slaves!
First Gipsy. Yield, fellow! and put up thy silly skewer,
An thou be not a-weary of thy life.
Pas. Never! Whilst yet a drop of my heart's blood
Flows freely in my veins. By heaven, I swear
I will release yon damsel ere I die!
Second Gipsy. Why, who is this, though clad in costly gear,
Doth fight as desperately as one of us?
Third Gipsy. Beware, young man! We do not seek thy life;
Yield up thyself. Ask pardon of our queen,
And we will let thee live.
Pas. (Still fighting.) Base curs, avaunt!
My life is nothing. Take it an ye list,
Though ye shall buy it dearly. 'Twill console
My parting spirit somewhat but to know
That it hath rid the surface of the earth
Of even a few of such vile scum as ye.
First Gipsy. Such words to us! Have at thee then, proud youth.

[Wounds Pascual on the head, whilst others attempt to bind him, but he liberates himself and continues fighting.

Inez. He bleeds! he bleeds! Saints, help the noble youth
Who, at the cost of his young precious life,
Would save us both. I fear he's killed. Oh, help! [Screams and faints.
Gip. Q. Hush! minion, or that cry will be thy last.
A Wounded Gipsy. Look, she faints!
Another Gipsy. Bah! 'tis but a trick to 'scape
The easier in the confusion.
Look well to her.
Gip. Q. Make room for me, ye slaves.
I fear no mortal man. Leave him to me.
Sirrah! put down your sword.
Pas. Never, vile crone.
Gip. Q. (Disarming him with her staff.)
Then there it lies, thou vain, presumptuous youth.

[Murmurs of applause among the gipsies.

Pas. Disarmed! And by a woman! Ha! I faint. [Staggers and falls.
Gip. Q. He faints from loss of blood. Bind up his wounds.
He hath fought well. I tell ye, dusky slaves,
This youth to-day hath put ye all to shame.
Do him no hurt. I e'er respect the brave.
He in a sacred cause fought valiantly;
And, faithful to his generous Christian creed,
Did seek to wrest the innocent from wrong.
First Gipsy. Thou wert not wont to praise the Christians, Queen,
Gip. Q. I praise that creed that shows forth in its works
The principles of manhood. Would that thine
Had taught thee what this Christian's has taught him.
First Gipsy. (To Second Gipsy). The queen doth mock us, calls us cowards, slaves;
And yet we did our best; but, to say sooth,
He set upon us in such furious haste,
Such blind and desperate rage, that we did gape
With sheer wonder, and stand aghast with awe
At's prowess, when we should have been fighting.
Second Gipsy. Ay, none but a madman tired of his life
Had fought so desperately.
Third Gipsy. The maid recovers.
Inez. (Recovering.) Where am I? Ah! then 'tis no dream; 'tis true.
Where's my preserver? Let me straight to him,
That I may thank him on my bended knees
For all his deeds to-day.
A Gipsy. There, low he lies.
Inez. (Rising and advancing towards Pascual). What! dead! Oh, heavens! Grant it be not so.
Look, now he moves; then life is not extinct.
Thank God for this! Hail, generous friend! What cheer?
Pas. 'Tis but a bruise, fair maid; 'twill soon be well.
Inez. God grant it may.
Gip. Q. Here, girl, take this balsam.
It is a gipsy cure for all such wounds.
One fair action doth demand another:
For you he shed his blood, thinking that we
Did mean you harm. (How should he tell, poor youth?)
Return now you the courtesy, fair maid;
Bind up his wounds. Anon I will assist.

[Inez commences binding up Pascual's head. The gipsies retire a few paces. The Gipsy Queen fetches water in a gourd.

Quaff from this gourd, young man. The flowing rill
Doth yield thee medicine. [Pascual drinks.
Ha! what is this?
Shade of my father Djâbel! it is he!
My long lost son! my own, my valiant boy:
Methought I knew that semi-gipsy form.
The very ring, too, wrought in virgin gold
And graven o'er with mystic hieroglyphics—
An heirloom of our tribe that I him gave
With my maternal blessing years gone by,
And he hath kept till now. God, I thank thee.
Oh, how I long to press him to this breast!
This breast that nurtured him and gave him strength!
But patience; too precipitous a step
May mar my plans. Enough, I've found my son.
Oh, ye great Powers that move earth and heaven,
Accept a mother's thanks! I faint for joy.
First Gipsy. How far'st thou, noble Queen? Thou art not well.
Gip. Q. Nay, marry, I am well. I'm over well. [Staggering.
Second Gipsy. Look to our queen. She faints. Art wounded, queen?
Gip. Q. (Mastering herself.) Nay, look, I faint not. I am very well.
Third Gipsy. Some strong emotion seems to have stirred our Queen
But yet she masters it. How brave a spirit!

[Gipsies retire some paces and converse in groups. Gipsy Queen remains a little distance off, watching Inez and Pascual. A hunter passes above unseen.

Hunter. (Aside.) What's this? Whom have the gipsies captured now?
A fair maid and a gallant cavalier;
And who is he, yon serving-man, bound there?
I ought to know his face. Why is not he
Don Silvio's servant Pedro? Sure it is,
For oft I've parleyed with him when at times
I've brought the game up to his master's hall.
And these two gentle-folks I ween must be
Guests at Don Silvio's castle. Ah, the knaves!
The arrant gipsy knaves! I'll dog them yet.
I've my own private wrongs that seek redress:
And I'll be even with them, by the saints!
At once I'll off unto Don Silvio's hall,
And warn him of the danger to his guests.
It may be he'll reward me slightly, though
They say that his is but a stingy house.
Still, this much for humanity I'll do. [Exit.
D. Pas. (to Inez.) Nay, I assure you, dearest——
Inez. Hush! Señor.
It ill becomes a maid of gentle blood
Unblushingly to listen to the vows
And fervid protestations of a knight
Upon such slight acquaintance.
D. Pas. Lovely child!
Bid me but hope, and I will rest content.
Inez. Nay, talk not thus, Señor. Pray calm yourself.
Bethink you that your wound is not yet healed.
You're faint from loss of blood. These ecstacies
May e'en prove fatal. Do thyself no harm.
D. Pas. I feel recovered in that thou bidst me live;
And so will do thy bidding, fairest maid,
And live but for thy service and thy love.
Inez. Good saints in Heaven! Will nothing calm thy tongue?
Hush, hush, Señor, I pray. I may not listen.
I am your debtor, or I'd take offence
At too much boldness.
D. Pas. Be not harsh, fair maid,
I meant not to be overbold. I swear
I would the tongue that could give thee offence
Were wrenched from out my throat. Oh, pity me!
It was thy beauty that inflamed me so.
Inez. If so, I must retire, and leave you to
The care and guidance of the gipsy queen.
D. Pas. Thou couldst not be so cruel. What! debar
Your wounded knight, in this wild barren spot,
From the sunshine of those heavenly orbs.
Then bid me bleed to death. My life is thine.
Inez. (Aside) Poor youth! How full of passion are his words!
I feel he loves me, and I do repent
That I have spoke too harshly. Woe is me!
(Aloud. ) Fret not. I did but threaten, gentle youth!
I will not leave thee.
D. Pas. Oh, say that again.
Thou wilt not leave me.
Inez. (Confused.) That is, not yet.
I mean——
D. Pas. Nay, qualify not what was once well said;
I hold thee to thy word. Thou must not leave me.
Inez. Thou wouldst extort a promise. Be but calm,
Obey my orders until thou be well,
And I know not what I may not promise.
D. Pas. I will obey thee, maid.
Inez. Then now be still.
Gip. Q. (Aside.) Drift on, young turtle doves, adown the stream
The balmy course the stars map out for ye.
Pepa can look on at the joys of others
That were denied herself, unenvying.
But mark, Pascual, if thou dost inherit
But one drop of thy hated father's blood,
Whose cursed name shall ne'er more pass my lips,
And thou, with subtle wile, like to thy sire,
Should first attempt to gain the trusting love
Of this fair damsel, and then betray her,
I, Pepa, though thy mother, with this hand
Will quench that spark of life I gave to thee.

Scene III.—Study of Don Silvio. D. Silvio is discovered pacing up and down dejectedly.

D. Sil. The day wears on, and still there is no sign
Of Pedro and my daughter. 'Tis full time.
It wants an hour to sundown; and ere then
I dread another visit from Don Diego;
Before this sand is spent he will be here.
He never yet did come behind his time.
Hark! I hear footsteps in the corridor.
'Tis he. He's come for news about my daughter.
This the very night, too, of the wedding.
What shall I say to him, or how shall I——?

An abrupt knock at the door of the study, and enter Don Diego.

D. Die. Well, friend Silvio, well. Art thou nigh prepared?
Where is the gentle Inez? Bring her forth.
D. Sil. (Humbly.) Worthy Don Diego, I do much regret
My daughter Inez has not yet arrived.
D. Die. Not yet arrived! Why it's long past the time.
D. Sil. I doubt not but what she will soon be here.
D. Die. Soon! Didst thou say soon? Ay, marry ought she,
An she left St. Ursula's at daybreak.
Stay, this casement that opens towards the west
Ought to command a wide extensive view.
Lo! yonder lies the road that she should come;
My sight is good, an yet I see no one.
(Suspiciously) Hark ye, Don Silvio. Some new wile is this.
D. Sil. Nay, on mine honour, Diego. Think not thus.
Be patient yet awhile and thou shalt see——
D. Die. Patience! What, patience! But I'll have my bond.

Enter Rodriguez frantically.

Rod. Oh, holy Virgin and good saints in Heaven!
Oh, blessed martyrs! Souls in Purgatory!
Would that Rodriguez ne'er had seen this day!
Oh, holy saints! Have mercy on us now!
D. Sil. How now, Rodriguez! What means all this riot?
Rod. Oh, peace! my master! Hold me ere I faint.
D. Sil. Speak! Rodriguez.
Rod. Alack! Alack! the day.
D. Sil. Nay, cease thy sobs, and more explicit be.
Rod. Oh, holy San Antonio be our guide!
My master, what ill luck's befallen the house!
D. Die. Explain thyself, vile hag, and prate no more!
Rod. Oh, mercy on us! I can't speak for sobbing.
Oh, what disaster! Oh, what dire mishap!
Help us, ye saints.
D. Die. This is past all bearing!
Speak out, thou limb of Satan, or I swear
By the foul fiend that 'gat thee, I will force
The lying words from out thy strumpet's throat.
Rod. Nay, good my liege, be calm. I'll tell you all.
The Lady Inez——
D. Die. Ha! and what of her?
Rod. In sooth, my lord, but I am very faint.
D. Sil. and D. Die. (Angrily.) Speak out! Speak out!
Alack! and well-a-day!
D. Die. Zounds!
Rod. The Lady Inez and good Pedro
Started from St. Ursula's this morning
Upon their mules, and were about half-way
Upon their journey, when from ambush sprang
Some dusky ruffians of the gipsy band,
Who, having bound, robbed, and detained the pair——
D. Sil. My daughter captured by the gipsies! Oh! [Groans bitterly.
D. Die. Foul hag, thou liest. Now hark ye, Silvio.
This is some farce got up to play me false.
But think not, sirrah, to elude me thus.

[Drawing his sword and seizing Don Silvio by the throat.

Traitor! tell me where hast hid thy daughter.
Rod. (Rallying, and throwing herself between them.)
Help! Murder! Help! Oh, help! What ho! Help! Help!
Don Silvio to the rescue! Help! I say.
D. Die. (Leaving hold of Don Silvio, fells Rodriguez with the pommel of his sword.)
Peace, harlot, or this blade shall make thee dumb.
Arise, and tell me whence thou hadst this news.
Beware now how thou tell me aught but truth,
For by this hand! an thou dost play me false,
I'll have thee burnt alive, or gibbetted
From the highest turret of this castle.
Rod. My noble liege, would that it were not true.
A hunter, an eye-witness of the scene,
Did bring the news unto your servant Juan.
D. Die. My servant Juan! Why, then the tale is true!
No serf of mine would dare tell me a lie.
Go, call him hither.
Rod. He is at the door. [Exit Rodriguez.

Enter Juan.

D. Die. How now, Juan! Say, can this wild tale be true?
What has happened to the Lady Inez?
Juan. My lord, as I heard it you shall hear it.
A certain hunter——
D. Die. Stay, where is this man?
Juan. He is without, my lord.
D. Die. Then call him here.

[Exit Juan and re-enter with hunter.

Hunter. (Bowing to Don, Diego and Don Silvio.) My noble lords——
D. Die. Hold! sirrah. Say, can'st thou
Upon thy oath affirm, thy hopes of Heaven,
That thou wert an eye-witness to this scene?
If so, relate to us in fewest words
How the case happened, and the where, the when.
Hunt. Then thus it came about, my liege. As I
Was wandering, towards mid-day, among the
Many rocks and fissures of these mountainous ranges,
Armed with my carbine, in search of game,
As is my daily wont, I came upon
A deep ravine, yet hidden from my sight
By thorns and bushes and like obstacles,
When soon I heard the hum of human voices.
The spot, if I may judge well, I should say
Was half-way 'twixt St. Ursula's and here.
Well, trampling down the brambles, I stood firm
Upon the brink of a steep precipice;
And lo! beneath me was the gipsy gang,
And chief amongst them, one tall stately form,
A woman's that would seem to be their queen.
D. Die. (Confused) Ahem! Didst say the queen?
Hunt. Ay, my good lord.
And 'mongst the tribe I saw as captives, soon,
A gentle damsel and young cavalier.
D. Die. How, sayest thou, Sirrah? A young cavalier!
Sure, 'twas an aged servitor you saw.
Hunt. An aged serving-man, 'tis true, there was,
And tightly-bound that he could not escape;
I knew him instantly. 'Twas Pedro here,
Don Silvio's servant.
D. Sil. Alas! alas! 'tis true. I was in hopes,
When the hunter spoke of a young gallant,
That he had mistaken some other travellers
For my daughter Inez and my servant.
But since he saith he knoweth Pedro——
D. Die. Hold!
The case is not quite clear to me e'en now,
Silvio! Who's this gallant, as ye term him?
Speak, for ye ought to know.
D. Sil. No, faith, not I.
D. Die. Proceed then, hunter, with thy story. Quick.
Hunt. Well then, my lord, knowing good Pedro's face,
I did presume that the young gentle pair
Were visitors, bound for Don Silvio's castle.
D. Die. (Musingly.) Young gentle pair—ahem! Well, man, proceed.
Hunt. I watched in silence, and they saw me not;
But still, from out my ambush I did take
The whole scene in, and it appeared to me
That the young knight must have resistance made,
For low he lay, sore wounded in the head,
While ever and anon the gentle maid
Would dress his wound, and gaze with tearful eye
And such a fond affection on her knight.
D. Die. (Aside to Don Silvio.) Traitor, thou shalt account to me for this.
(Aloud to Hunter.) Well, man, proceed. Hast thou ought more to say?
Hunt. But little good, my lord; but as I stood
Watching this trusting, loving, pair——
D. Die. (Aside.) Damnation!
Hunt. I thought my heart would bleed from tenderness.
D. Die. (Laughs diabolically). Ha, ha! Ha, ha!
Hunt. So, rising to my feet,
But still unseen of any, I did haste,
As was my bounden duty, to this castle,
T'inform my lord, Don Silvio, of the fate
Impending both his servant and his guests.
D. Die. Good; look ye, fellow. An thy tale be true,
Prepare to marshal me the way thyself,
Without loss of a moment, and may be
That thou shalt taste my bounty.
Hunt. Good, my lord;
The sun hath set, and it is growing dark.
D. Die. No matter, thou shalt have the better pay.
Hunt. As my lord wills.
D. Die. And Juan, see my charger
Be forthwith saddled. Bid my men-at-arms
To mount, armed cap-à-pie; whilst such amongst
The populace as thou canst muster, quick
Arm thou with pikes and loaded carabines,
And bid them follow me, their lord, Don Diego.
Lose not one precious moment, but set forth. [Exeunt Juan and Hunter.
What, gipsies! vagrants! bastard heathen dogs!
I'll clear the country of this filthy scum,
Were it but for the sake of Christendom;
Maybe that some day they will dub me saint. [Exit.

[Don Silvio makes a gesture of despair, and curtain falls.

End of Act II.

ACT III.

Scene I.—Outside the castle of Don Silvio. The castle of Don Diego seen in the background, upon the opposite peak of the mountain. Time: Sunrise. Don Silvio and Donna Rodriguez.

D. Sil. My tears still blind my eyes. Look out, Rodriguez,
And see if there be traces of my daughter.
Alas! alas! this hoary head is bowed
As 'neath the weight of yet a score of years.
Oh, Inez, Inez! What a fate is thine!
An thy young life be spared, could ought repay
Th' injury done thine honour at the hands
Of these bold, lawless, gipsies? Woe is me!
Let me not think on't, or I shall go mad.
Rod. My lord, as I stand gazing towards the west,
Methinks I see a dusty cloud advance;
As were't a troup of horsemen at full speed,
And bearing towards the castle. Now I see
The limbs of horses and the arms of men;
The sound of human voices, too, I hear,
And, as they still approach, the distant tramp
Of horses' hoofs is plainly audible.
And now, unless my eyesight play me false,
Foremost among a file of glittering pikes,
I do discern Don Diego's waving plume.
'Tis he! and bearing at his saddle bow
My mistress Inez. Oh, thank God! she's safe.
Do you not hear, my master, what I say?
Your daughter's safe! Come, cheer up, good my lord.
D. Sil. (Musingly). Safe! didst thou say! My daughter's honour safe?
Rod. How say you, sir? Her honor! Nay, her life?
D. Sil. (Musingly). Life without honor!
Rod. Sure, my lord's not well!
(Aside.) The blow has been too much for him, and turned
His aged head. Oh, my poor, poor master!
I tell him of his daughter's safe return,
And straight he 'gins to prate about her honor.
(Aloud.) Look! look! Señor, at yonder cavalcade,
How it sweeps along; and now, behold,
Next to Don Diego is his servant Juan;
And there is Pedro. Bless his good old soul!
There the valiant hunter. Then all the crowd
Of vassals and retainers, and the guard, [Cheers without.
With the armed populace. Hark! What cheering!
D. Sil. Is it, indeed, my daughter? Let me see;
'Tis she, 'tis she; Oh, Inez!

Enter Inez, accompanied by Don Diego. Behind, Pedro, Juan, Hunter, and Attendants.

Inez. (Embracing Don Silvio.) Father! Father!
Rod. My little mistress, Inez! What, no kiss
For poor old nurse Rodriguez!
Inez. (Embracing Rodriguez.) Good Rodriguez!

[Don Diego comes forward, whilst Inez in the background appears to be relating her adventures to Don Silvio and Donna Rodriguez.

D. Die. (Sotto.) What work I had to quell the dusky band,
And carry off my prize. God only knows
How the black caitiffs fought! Like demons damned;
Incited on by their own swarthy queen,
My former love. Bah! why recall the past,
The ebullitions of a youthful lust,
Now five-and-twenty years agone and more?
And that at such a moment, too, as this,
When, acting bridegroom for the second time,
I now do lay my heart and hand, my wealth,
My land, and castle, all my fair domain
At fair Inez' feet. Poor Silvio's daughter!
A few hour's more, and she will be my own.
In my own private chapel at midnight,
And not one minute later, there a priest
Of my own choice, shall join our hands together.
'Twixt this and then, I must so use the time
To win her fairly, and by wiles t'efface
The prejudice young hearts by Nature have
Against old age. If needs be, I must use
Dissimulation and well act the saint,
That she may not give credit to the tales
That idle gossip may have crammed her with
Against my moral character. And now
I do bethink me that the readiest way
Of all to win her over to my will
Would be to tempt with goodly bribe her nurse
(What will not such a woman do for gold?)
To speak some little word in praise of me;
Talk of my love for her, my name, my fame,
My wealth, my virtues. How this match of hers
Will please her aged father. And again,
Should she be coy, and wickedly refuse
The fortune heaven has strewed along her path,
Let her reflect upon the consequences.
I would act fair with her, for I'd be loath
To lead to the altar an unwilling bride
In sight of all my vassals and retainers.
Yet, an she yield not (for as yet it seems
She looks with cold suspicion on my suit),
Why, then; why, then, however loath to use it,
Force must accomplish all when goodwill fails.
I cannot well expect much help at sixty
From youthful graces, as when first I wooed
My gipsy queen. There! ever and anon
From out the past these memories will arise,
Like phantoms, threatening whether I will or no.
Avaunt! begone! And yet I cannot choose
But call to mind how, middle in the fray,
The dead and wounded lying all around,
Her dusky form arose before my path,
And all undaunted stood with staff in hand
And glance so terrible, I would as lief
Meet with the King of Terrors face to face
As that same virago. Yet there she stood,
And with uplifted arm, in clear tones cried,
"Traitor, beware! Thy star is on the wane,
Think not to conquer always, for a hand
Mightier than thine shall yet subdue thee.
Blood is on thy hand. Thine own blood shall flow.
The stars foretell thy downfall, so look to it."
I heard no more, for I had barely placed
My Lady Inez at my saddle bow,
Mid smoke of carbines and the clash of arms:
Myself with drawn sword cutting right and left,
So could but pay slight heed to what she said,
And set off homeward with my goodly prize,
Leaving the baffled foe behind to moan.
Yet, through the smoke and dust of horses' hoofs,
Still, for a time, I heard the hellish cry:
"Vengeance on the traitor! Vengeance, vengeance!"
I know not why her words cut deeper than
Had they been the words of any other;
But from her lips they came with such a force,
They seemed to rend the air, and enter deep
Into the very caverns of my soul,
Turning my blood to milk, so that my arm
Fell nerveless to my side, and my good blade
Did well-nigh drop from out my hand. But hush!
It never must be known that Don Diego,
Though old in years, quailed before tongue of woman.
Bah! away with all fear of childish threats.
And, swarthy hag! do thou thy devilmost.

[Inez comes forward, between Don Silvio and Rodriguez. Don Silvio motions for Rodriguez to retire. Exeunt Rodriguez and attendants.

Inez. Nay, one thing still doth mar the joy I feel
At having passed the dangers of last night.
Though I stand safely on my father's hearth,
And see him 'live and well, and know that I
Have henceforth naught to fear, yet still my thoughts
Will ever wander towards the gipsy camp,
Close by the couch of that brave youth who fought
At cost of his own life, to rescue me
From out their hands.
D. Die. How say you, lady fair?
What youth? You dream. 'Twas I who rescued you.
Inez. Your pardon, sir; but I was safe already.
I thank you for your courtesy, the same.
You thought to rescue me.
D. Die. How now? Thought to?
D. Sil. Friend Diego, the tale runs thus: My daughter,
Accompanied by our old serving man,
Had hardly been attacked by the gang
And forced to dismount, when a comely youth
Of gentle blood——
D. Die. Ay, ay, the hunter's story!
D. Sil. Just so. Well, my daughter says the gipsies
Meant her no harm. Merely would detain her.
D. Die. Meant her no harm! Ha, ha! Gipsies ne'er do.
Merely detain her! Good again! Ha, ha!
Only so long as they might hope to get
A pretty ransom. Why, friend Silvio?
D. Sil. The pelf and trinkets that she had upon her
Were not demanded.
D. Die. No; 'twas nought to what
They looked forward to as goodly ransom.
Inez. Of their motives I know nothing; but she
Who seemed to be the queen of all the tribe
Did use to me such courtesy and kindness
As had she been my mother. Even when
That noble youth, thinking us in danger,
Rushed in upon them, killing and maiming
All who dared withstand him, till at length
Himself, poor soul! fell wounded in my cause.
E'en then the queen herself had pity on him,
And helped me bind his wounds.
D. Die. What of all this?
Inez. To show you gipsies have good qualities
E'en as Christians.
D. Die. Bah! traitors, all of them.
But, what of this young man? This—this——
Inez. Ah! he,
The noble youth whose bandaged head I still
Was tending when you did separate us,
And bore me off? Did you not see him then?
D. Die. Ay, some such bastard gipsy dog I saw.
What! he of noble blood! He a Castilian!
Some half-bred gipsy. Lady, sure it was
A worse breed, far, than the pure gipsy born.
What! think you, that because of borrowed plumes
The jay will pass for peacock? Or that he,
A base-born mongrel gipsy, just because
Decked in the garments of some plundered lord,
Could e'er deceive the eyes of men like us?
Nay, lady, I do compassionate you.
You are young, and the world to you is fresh,
You know not of its wiles, its vice, its crimes,
But take all men to be just as they seem.
Take my experience, lady. I am old.
Not old; but old enough to know the world
And all its hollowness; and so most fit
To guide and counsel inexperienced youth.
Lean then on me, lady. I'll be your staff;
And trust me faithfully when I tell you
Not all the learning of the convent cell
Is worth one ace of that we gain by age.
Inez. Enough, sir. That the world is full of sin
And treachery I ever have been told.
My aunt, the Lady Abbess, oft would say
We ever should distrust the tongue of men
When most persuasive, be they young or old.
D. Sil. Come, Inez, thou art tired, and need rest
After thy troubles and fatigues. (To Don Diego.) My friend,
You will excuse my daughter for a while,
I've much to say to her in private.
D. Die. Good. [Exeunt Don Silvio and Inez.
Now for my ally. What ho! Rodriguez!

Enter Rodriguez.

Rod. Here I am, good my lord.
D. Die. (Caressingly.) Good Rodriguez,
I know that thou'rt a good and trusty friend
Unto this house. That thou lov'st well thy lord
And also thy young mistress, unto whom
From childhood thou hast acted as a mother.
Rod. Well, sir, I've always tried to do my best.
D. Die. I know it. I know it both by report
And mine own observation. Wherefore, now
Full persuaded of thy many virtues——
Rod. Oh, my lord!
D. Die. Nay, 'tis nothing but the truth.
I say, once more, persuaded beyond doubt
Of thy rare merits and good qualities
And of the value of one such as thou
To my old and long loved friend Don Silvio,
I do repent me of the hasty words
That lately 'scaped my too impatient tongue.
Rod. My lord, pray say no more. Rodriguez ever
Remains your humble servant. (Aside.) Really he
Is not so bad as once I thought he was.
D. Die. Believe me, that those words but rose in haste,
From o'er anxiety about the fate
Of thy young mistress, whom thou lovest so well.
Whom I, too, love so well. I, too, Don Diego.
Rod. I doubt not, sir, with a true father's love.
D. Die. Hark ye! Rodriguez, I must not waste time
In coming to the point; but silence keep.
Rod. Ay, my lord. Who better than Rodriguez
At a secret.
D. Die. Ha! Sayest thou so, brave wench?
Then list to me, and thou shalt never want
For bit or sup, kirtel, or farthingale,
As long thou livest. First accept this purse. [Gives a heavy purse.
Rod. Oh, my good lord! My generous, noble, lord!
What can I do to deserve your bounty?
(Aside.) Well, I remember to have heard folks say,
"The devil's not so black as he is painted."
D. Die. Rodriguez, hark! What thou hast in that purse
Is nothing unto that which thou may'st earn,
If thou succeedest in the task I set.
Rod. Proceed, my lord. I'm all attention. Speak.
D. Die. Know then that I love thy mistress Inez.
Ay, with the passion of a younger man.
Count not my age—the heart is never old.
I've sought her of her father, and 'twas settled
She should be mine on her arrival home
After her studies at St. Ursula's,
Ay, on the very day. So ran the 'pact.
The marriage, therefore, I have said takes place
This very night, at midnight, in my chapel.
All is prepared.
Rod. 'Tis over soon, my lord.
D. Die. Peace! peace! I'll brook no waiting, no delay;
I've sworn it shall be so, and it shall be.
What care I, think'st thou, if the wedding dress,
Or this or that be ready, so I be?
Thou knowest our acquaintance is but short;
She scarce has seen my face. No matter that.
Now listen. What I ask of thee is this:
Do thou use all thy influence with the child,
T'induce her to look kindly on my suit,
And to her father's prayers and tears add thine.
But leave her not until she do consent.
And should she e'en at the eleventh hour
Be obdurate, why then, as last resource,
Tell her her father's life hangs on a thread.
Say that his castle and all that he hath
Will instantly be sold over his head;
And he and she, and you two servants both
Sent all adrift at once, to beg your bread.
If that work not, then must I fain use force,
And that were against me. So, Rodriguez,
Kind Rodriguez, I pray thee do thy best.
Rod. My lord, you ever shall have my good word
What I can do I will. Albeit, I think
Your grace is over hasty in the matter.
A little time——
D. Die. No, faith, not one minute
Past the hour fixed. So see to't. I will now
Off to the castle, leaving thee one hour
T'exercise thy powers of persuasion
On thy young noble mistress. After that
I shall appear again and try what I
Myself can do to win her virgin heart.
Use all thy art and strength. Till then, adieu. [Exit.
Rod. A pretty fix, forsooth! Use all my art!
I love the dear child well, and would, I'm sure,
Do all I could to help her to a state
Worthy the better days of this old house.
The Lady of Don Diego! That sounds well.
Mistress of his castle and his servants,
But wedded to a man who's old enough
To be her grandsire! Had he been a gallant—
Yet his money's good. Humph! I suppose I must.

[Exit slowly; counting her money.

Scene II.—The Ravine. Time: Sunrise. Don Pascual sleeping. The Gipsy Queen standing near, watching him. The Gipsy Camp in the background.

D. Pas. (In his sleep.) Oh, Inez, Inez! (Waking with a start.) Ha! was that a dream?
Gip. Q. He wakes.
D. Ped. Oh, that I had thus slumbered on,
Feeling her soothing presence, and so died,
Rather than waken to this cold, bleak, world.
Gip. Q. (Aside.) How I do long to open all my heart!
Unmask this stern exterior, and make
Him master of the secret of his birth.
His wound's but slight, I think he'll bear the news.
I'll try. (To Don Pascual) Young man! Say, how goes it with thee?
D. Pas. I thank thee, mother, I have soundly slept;
My wound's already healed. The gipsy balm
Hath wrought a miracle.
Gip. Q. (Aside.) He calls me mother.
See how the native gipsy blood's instinct
Speaks through the lips of half-unconscious sense.
I'll wager he already half divines
His occult parentage.
D. Pas. (Looking around him.) Mother, where's Inez?
Gip. Q. (Aside.) Mother again; but Inez fills his thoughts.
Hast thou no mem'ry, youth, of last nights fray? [Aloud.
D. Pas. But little, mother; all is still confused.
Gip. Q. Then be thou patient, for I've much to tell.
But say, how is't, thou ever call'st me mother?
D. Pas. In faith I know not how my careless tongue
Could shape a word so tender to thee, Queen,
Who art a stranger to me. Yet I feel,
And felt from the first moment that I gazed
Upon thy dusky brow, a mother's heart
Did beat for me within that hardy breast.
Why I know not. I, too, who never knew
A mother's love, whose infant steps were led
By other than a mother's hand. A good
Kind lady, long since dead, adopted me,
And dying, left me all her patrimony,
Which hitherto has been doled out to me
By guardians, until I should come of age.
One Father Miguel, whom I seldom saw,
Paid my expenses at the seminary;
But when I asked him questions of my birth
I never got intelligent response,
So that I long have thought some mystery
Doth underly the subject of my birth.
Gip. Q. I knew the Lady Angela, and loved her.
D. Pas. Good Heavens! What, that name! The lady who——
Gip. Q. Adopted thee and Father Miguel too.
D. Pas. And Father Miguel!
Gip. Q. Does that surprise thee?
I could tell thee more.
D. Pas. More than that! Ay, then
Who knows thou may'st not discover
The secret of my birth.
Gip. Q. Secrets as strange
Have often been discovered by gipsies.
Am I not a gipsy? Can I not read
The destinies of all, mapped out for thee
By the great heavenly bodies? Think'st thou that
Our meeting was not fashioned by the stars
And known to me beforehand?
D. Pas. Even that!
Gip. Q. Ay, and your meeting with the Lady Inez.
D. Pas. That, too! Nay, tell me more. I fain would hear.
Gip. Q. Not so fast. Thou'rt o'er excitable.
Calm thyself first an thou wouldst hear more
Of that young damsel. But of her anon.
D. Pas. Weird and mysterious being, as I read
Thy mystic brow a whisper seems to say
I've seen thee once before. Say, art thou not
That crone who ever haunts me in my dreams,
Known in my youth, who once gave me this ring?
Gip. Q. The same, the same! I've watched thee from a child.
D. Pas. And by that ring thou knowest me.
Gip. Q. 'Tis true.
D. Pas. Ay, now I know thee. Tell me now, O Queen,
Why tookest thou an interest in my fate?
Gip. Q. The tale is long and sad, but thou must hear.
Be patient and lend an attentive ear.
Know, then, that in Grenada's lofty range
There stands a twin-peaked mountain doubly-crowned,
With two grim feudal castles, old, yet strong.
The owners of these fortresses of yore
Were aye at feud, until at last the one
Subdued the other. Ever since that day
The victor's star in the ascendant seemed,
For though in later times they turned to friends,
Who had been foes, and were allied together
In skirmishes with castles neighbouring,
In which they came off gainers, still, the one—
The larger and the richer one, I mean,
The whilom victor of the other peak—
Did e'er with haughty overbearing sneer
Upon his humbler neighbour, and would bind
The poorer lord with obligations strong,
For favours often granted, till at last
The lesser lord became dependent on
The greater one, and ever poorer grew
And more dependent, and so stands the case.
Things will not long be thus. A change will come.
The Fates predict it, and the proud one's star
Already's on the wane.
D. Pas. In sooth, good Queen!
But tell me what has this to do with me?
Gip. Q. Peace! It concerns thee much, as thou shalt hear.
The father of the present owner of
The richer castle, Don Fernando height,
I do remember well when but a child.
A warrior proud was he, like all his race.
His son, the present lord, is like him. He
Whose name I've vowed shall ne'er more pass my lips.
D. Pas. Ha!
Gip. Q. Interrupt me not. Thou soon shalt hear.
This lord, who shall be nameless, in his youth
(He now is old) did love a gipsy maid,
Who, in the freshness of her virgin heart,
Returned his passion, being but a child,
Whilst he, the villain, was a full-grown man
Of forty years and over. Still he bore
His years so lightly that he younger seemed.
With passion fierce he wooed the gipsy maid,
And pleaded in such moving tropes his love,
That the young gipsy's heart—not then of stone,
Though long since turned to flint—did melt, and he,
Seeing his prey secure, did plot her ruin.
But the child had a father, old and wise,
Of royal blood, too, known as King Djâbel,
And proud, too, of his lineage and his race.
He thought it lowering to true gipsy blood
To mate with pale-faced Christians, even though
'Twere to a Christian king and by the church,
Drawn up with legal document and signed
In all due form, and when he heard that I
Did to a Christian's love lend listening ear.
D. Pas. You? You, O Queen, then, were the gipsy maid.
You're speaking of yourself. I understand.
Gip. Q. (Starting) My tongue has tripped, and traitor turned. Why then
Pursue my tale under false colours? Aye,
Know that I, Pepa, was the gipsy maid
Once beloved of that false Don Diego.
D. Pas. Don Diego.
Gip. Q. Ha! My tongue has tripped again.
I vowed that name should ne'er more pass my lips.
Well, this false lord, with subtle wiles and arts
Did so win my young heart, that King Djâbel,
Furious at first at what he deemed a stain
Upon his lineage, threatened me with death,
And would have killed me, had I brought dishonour
On his fair name. But deem not that I fell.
I loved him—and how dearly! But he found
That the proud gipsy maid, though young, would not
Barter her honour. Not for wealth untold.
He then made promises that I should be
Mistress of all his castle and his lands
After his father's death. Till then, he said,
Our match must be clandestine, as his father
Would disinherit him were he to know
That his son were wedded to a gipsy.
Our plans were well nigh ripe, for oft we met
In secret, and had full time to discuss
Our future prospects, left quite undisturbed.
But one day King Djâbel, suspecting guile,
Did lie in wait for us, and with drawn blade
From ambush out did spring upon the pair,
And straight did fall upon this haughty lord,
The would-be dishonourer of his child.
But Pepa threw herself between her lover
And angered father, and so stayed the blow
And clinging to him, ever called upon
Her furious sire to spare the gentle lord,
And bid him smite her breast if one must die.
But Djâbel loved his daughter, and did pause,
Touched for a moment with her pleading prayer.
When, seeing him more calm, the wily don
Did straight, in full and flowing courteous speech,
Declare his love for me, and how he sought
Not to make me his minion, but his wife.
But Djâbel, answering with haughty scorn,
Said: "Go back to thy castle, Christian lord,
And wed some damsel of the pale-faced herd.
No blood of thine must mar our gipsy race."
The don's eye flashed. He would have spoken words
Full of wild fury and deep bitterness;
But Pepa interposed again, and flung
Herself on bended knees before her sire,
And begged her knight kneel too, and join her prayer.
The don at first loathing much to grovel
Down in the dust before a gipsy chief,
Whom he esteemed a savage, yet did yield,
And for my sake did bend his haughty knee.
And thus we knelt together, clinging to
King Djâbel's robe and choked with sobs and tears,
Did pray and plead, and plead and pray for long,
But all in vain our pleading and our prayers,
For dark as midnight grew King Djâbel's brow,
And stern his glance of cold and deep disdain,
Saying: "Humblest thou thyself, O haughty don?
Methinks thou might'st have spared thyself the pains.
Rise from the dust. Thy prayers are but as the wind
That blows against the granite mountain's side,
Yet harms it not, nor will it budge an inch,
E'en though it blow a hurricane. So I
Remain unmoved by all thy puny prayers."
Stung to the quick, and rendered desperate,
The haughty don with one bound sprang erect,
And darting lightning flashes from his eye,
Blushing the while at having bent the knee,
Humbling himself in vain, now cried aloud,
"Have at thee, then, dark chief, for one must die.
I fear thee not, and will not lose my hold
Upon thy daughter, whom I love as life.
Give her me, an it please thee, but if not
I'll wrest her from thee, so do thou thy worst."
Then straight the fray began. Each drew his blade
And fell upon the other, whilst my tears
And screams availed not, for the two were locked
Firm in each other's grasp, and tugged and pulled
In equal match, whilst I with streaming hair,
Torn robe, and tearful eyes, did cry aloud
For help in vain, till this poor frame, o'erwrought
With multiplex emotions, did give way,
And, swooning, I fell heavily at their feet,
Grasping my father's garment in my fall.
The fight was stayed awhile, and each took breath.
"Look to your daughter, chieftain," were the first
Words that I heard on wakening from my swoon.
And soon as e'er my tongue was loose, I cried,
In accents feeble still, "Oh, father, stay
This wicked brawl. Say, dost thou love thy child?"
With heaving breast and eyes suffused with tears,
And choking sobs, I seized his hand, and cried,
"Spare my young life. I love this Christian lord,
An thou do aught to him, 'twill be my death.
Canst see thy darling wither, droop, and die,
Or, stung to madness, seek a violent death?
Now mark well what I say, O most dread King.
Shouldst thou be guilty of this Señor's blood,
Know me no more for daughter, for I vow
Or him or none to wed, and should he fall,
And by thy hand, I too will follow next.
The oath is sworn." Then from my father's eye
A tear fell, which he brushing soon away,
As if he deemed it shame for man to weep,
And changing to a lighter mood, he cried:
"Girl, thou hast conquered. Christian knight, thy hand.
Let all broils cease between us. Thou hast fought
And won my daughter fairly, showing courage
Worthy a gipsy born. Therefore no more
Will I withhold consent unto this match.
But, mark me well, Sir Knight, this marriage must
Be, though clandestine, legally up-drawn,
That no base shuffling subterfuge may e'er
In after years crop up to thwart the bond."
Thus spake the king Djâbel. My Christian knight
Did vow upon his honour all should be
Exact as nicest lawyer could require.
Alas, for human villainy! What snares
And wiles beset the simple, trusting heart.
I loved him, and did lend a willing ear
To all his schemes, spite my father's counsel,
Suspecting nothing. What should I, poor child,
Know of the world and all its hollowness?
But King Djâbel, suspecting treachery
E'en from the first, and well upon his guard—
For little trust he placed in Christian wight—
Did stand aloof, and watched things from afar.
"Now will I try the faith of this same knight,"
He said, and with a frankness ably feigned,
He bid my lord take all things in his hands,
Saying he trusted him in all, but he,
For his part, was a very simple man,
Unskilled in the world's usances and all
That appertains to life 'neath governments,
'Pon seeing which, the wily Christian lord
Straight sought to profit by his innocence;
Betray the hand that trusted him, and thought
The dusky king, the dark barbarian,
Would fall an easy prey into his hands.
Howbeit, King Djâbel, like crafty foe,
Though simple seeming, sent abroad his spies,
Whilst he himself was absent. From these men—
Men whom he trusted—he was well informed
That this proud don had formed the fell design
That a false priest should join our hands together.
D. Pas. Villain!
Gip. Q. Thou speakest sooth, for villainy
More base or perjured never sprang from hell.
I thought he loved me, but I found too late
He sought to spurn me from him soon as e'er
His lust was sated. So he straightway wrote
To some base profligate and spendthrift friend
Who owed him money, promising that he
Would cancel all his debt and yet advance
Another round sum, if, peradventure,
He should so aid him in his hellish plot
As to enact the part of holy priest,
And satisfy the claims of King Djâbel,
Whilst he himself should be no longer bound
To me by law than it should seem him fit,
E'en as I were but his base concubine.
You see, he loved me not, e'en from the first,
Despite his protestations, since he could
In base cold blood conceive such dire deceit.
But this I knew not at the time, nor all
The foul devices of his reptile heart.
But fondly thinking that he loved me as
I then loved him, I listened to his suit;
Nor was I undeceived, till, ah! too late.
D. Pas. This is most monstrous! Noble Queen, I vow
Your sorrows move me to forget mine own.
I would I had the traitor by the throat,
That I might show him once how I esteem
Him and his villainy. Nay, 'tis a crime
That calls aloud to Heaven for vengeance.
Thou art nought to me Queen, but yet I feel
The wrong done towards thee e'en as though thou wert
My own true flesh and blood. I'd do as much
E'en wert thou thrice mine enemy. I swear
That should this traitor ever cross my path,
Or he or the false priest (I care not which—
Aye, both together, for 'tis nought to me),
By Heaven I swear——
Gip. Q. Hold! Heaven's instruments
Are ever preordained. Thou canst not move
One single step; nay, more, not e'en thy pulse
Could throb again but for the will of Heaven.
Leave him to Fate, for vengeance due will fall
In time, and from that quarter Heaven wills.
D. Pas. True Queen, but tell me more, I fain would know,
What said your royal sire King Djâbel?
Gip. Q. Then list, and thou shalt hear how Djâbel's spies
Did intercept the lines that this false lord
Wrote to his profligate and perjured friend,
So that he received them not. But now mark
What did my royal father? First he went
To seek a Christian priest, long known to him,
Albeit, unknown to this same haughty don;
To him he showed the lines, and through his aid.
Was writ an answer to this foul epistle,
As coming from the friend of this false lord.
This priest was father Miguel.
D. Pas. Ha! that name.
Why beats my heart as it ne'er throbbed before?
Say, what is this new light that bursts upon
My whilom darkened soul? What power is this
That stirs my thoughts within me? But proceed.
I must, and will know more. Proceed, O Queen.
My frame doth tremble in expectancy
For thy next word. Tell me, oh, tell me if——
Gip. Q. (Aside.) Already he doth divine what I would say;
Be still, my heart, and give me strength to tell it.
(Aloud.) This letter, then, by Father Miguel forged,
Ran thus in substance. Making first excuse
That sudden illness made him keep his bed,
But though unable to oblige his friend,
Did, ne'ertheless, not to disappoint him,
(Hearing the case was urgent, and not knowing
How long it might be e'er he should recover)
He thought to do not wrong in sending one,
A trusty friend and boon companion,
One, Don Elviro hight, to act as proxy;
This was the name that Father Miguel bore
To mask his own. Then straightway he set forth
T'wards the inn, from which the letter dated,
The while my lord, who, reading in hot haste
The letter through, and doubting not that he
Were aught else than what the letter stated
(To wit, Elviro, and no priest at all).
So sure was he of this, suspecting nought,
He fondly welcomed him, and many a joke
They cracked together o'er the heartless scheme.
Don Miguel acting well his part throughout
With ribald jest, and oft full merrily
Alluding to his tonsure newly shorn,
Asked of his patron how he liked his garb,
And if he did not look a priest indeed.
At this his lord laughed heartily, and thus
Time passed away till I should don the veil,
And we were married before witnesses.
The ceremony over, all passed o'er
Right merrily, nor knows my lord e'en now,
Not even to this day, that he is married.
D. Pas. Well done, by Heaven! And Father Miguel hail!
So was the base would-be seducer paid
Back in his own base coin. This should e'er be.
Gip. Q. Ay, but thinkest thou I knew aught of this,
Or was partaker in Don Miguel's scheme?
Oh, no; of this my father told me nought,
Nor knew I aught of all this base intrigue,
This would-be marriage false, by false priest blessed,
Till later years; in fact, until the time
That King Djâbel upon his death bed lay.
He then confessed to me the foul design
By him so ably thwarted. But e'en then
The traitor had abandoned me already.
He thought his marriage false, and told me plain
I had no hold on him. I sought my sire,
And then the truth came out. The blow was great,
To find myself abandoned and deceived
By him I loved and trusted, e'en though I
Knew well that I stood right before the law,
He had no right to leave me, that I knew.
'Twas heartless, as I then was big with child;
His father, too, was dead, old Don Fernand,
And I, by rights, his castle should have shared,
As he had promised, but old King Djâbel
Did counsel me, "Be patient yet awhile;
A day will come when thou shalt vengeance take.
Nature hath made me prophet. I can see
Now that my sun is sinking far beyond
This earthly sphere, all that shall come to pass
In future years. Delay thy vengeance, then,
Still a few years, and I will be thy guide;
I, Djâbel, from over this side the grave
Will guide thy steps and shape thy destinies
Until the hour arrive." Thus spake Djâbel,
And falling back upon his rugged couch,
Did breathe his last, clasping my hand in his;
He now sleeps with his fathers. Rest his soul!
And I, now left an orphan, and so young;
Abandoned, too, by the base man I loved,
How fared it with me, being then with child?
The days of mourning for my father o'er,
I could not keep my mind from wandering back
To our first days of courtship, when my lord
First wooed me, and did win my virgin heart.
I dwelt upon the memory of his words—
How he had promised me in days of yore,
His father being dead, old Don Fernand,
That I should mistress of his castle be.
How had he kept his promise? Don Fernand
Was long since dead, yet he no offer made
About his castle, but did keep me e'er
Within a little cottage that he built
During his father's lifetime for me, when
We first were married. Here I lived content,
For he then oft would visit me, and when
He came not, yet I had full trust in him,
And waited patiently, beguiling time
By tending flowers in my garden home,
For this was aye my passion from a child,
And thus the hours passed full happily.
But one day, seeing my lord with murky brow,
And not divining what the cause mote be,
I, with fond heart and young simplicity,
Did offer all that consolation
That loving wife will offer to her lord
In moments of deep sadness. But he spurned
Me coldly from him, and when I did ask
In what way I had my lord offended,
Deigning no direct reply, made answer,
He loved me not. I had no hold on him,
Should ne'er be mistress of his father's hall,
Our marriage being but a mockery,
To last as long as it should please himself.
He left me with a laugh of bitter scorn,
Whilst I, as if by lightning struck, did fall
Flat to the earth, and waking, sought my sire.
Thou knowest how my father, dying, left
A promise he would ever guide my steps
In hour of vengeance; so I patience kept.
Meanwhile our son was born. That son art thou!
D. Pas. Oh, mother! mother!

[They embrace and weep on each others' necks.

(On recovering.) I did half divine
The truth from the beginning of thy tale,
But at the name of Father Miguel
My heart did smite so loud against my ribs
As like to burst them; e'en as were it charged
From Heaven with joyful tidings to my soul.
I ever knew that man in some strange way
Was mixed up in the mystery of my birth.
Gip. Q. 'Twas he that christened thee, abandoned by
Thy all unworthy father. He that holds
Proofs that our marriage valid is by law,
Without which proofs thou'dst been born a bastard,
A stray, an outcast, slave to this world's scorn.
The Lady Angela, that kind, good soul,
Whose counsellor and priest Don Miguel was,
Knew all thy history, and pitied thee.
She was thy godmother while at the font.
Don Miguel marked thee with the Christian's sign,
And being a widow lady without heirs,
And rich withal, she straightway did resolve
T'adopt thee, and 'neath Father Miguel's care
To have thee educated as a priest.
Poor pious soul! But thou know'st best of all
How thine own wilful temper at the school—
Thy wild, impatient, roving gipsy blood,—
Did give small promise for a like career,
Which Father Miguel seeing from the first
(Though not until repeated efforts made
To tame thy stubborn nature proved in vain)
Did finally, now weary of his charge,
Abandon thee unto thine own wild ways,
Doling the money out from time to time,
Till thou should'st come of age. That time has come.
D. Pas. Ha! ha! I well do call to mind the time
When Father Miguel, with church dogmas sought
To warp my stubborn brain, and if I asked
Him to explain some of that lore he taught,
And fain would burden my poor skull withal,
Then straight it was a mystery. I must
Have faith, he said; nor ask the reason why.
Against this answer my young soul rebelled.
And long and fierce the battles that we fought.
He called me insubordinate and rude.
Said I lacked discipline, humility,
That I must subjugate my intellect
Unto the church's dictates, threatening me
With purgatory and everlasting fire
Unless I thought as he did, branding me
As atheist, Jew, or heretic, whilst I
Called him a fool. Then losing all control
Over his passions, this good, holy man
Did raise his hand to strike me, seeing which
I seized a knife and threw it at his head,
Leaving a scar upon his cheek; then laughed.
As I grew older matters mended not,
So he sent me to a seminary,
Thinking to curb my will by discipline;
But they soon found the worse they treated me
The worse was I, and so all gave me up.
'Tis years since we have met. We were not formed
To live together. Greater opposites
In character Nature ne'er formed from clay.
I owe the holy man no grudge; not I.
He did his best, I mine to understand him.
We were formed differently from our birth.
Gip. Q. A wild boy thou wert ever. That is true.
I've watched thee oft when thou thought'st me afar.
Thou knew'st me not for mother, nor would I
Unveil the myst'ry of thy parentage,
Nor bring disgrace on Lady Angela,
Who had so kindly offered to adopt
Thee, the poor outcast gipsy's mongrel son,
And rear him like the proudest of the land.
Why should I, with my narrow, selfish love,
Oppose a barrier to my son's advance,
Refuse the lady's bounty, and drag down
My son unto the level of myself.
A wand'ring gipsy! Yet I loved thee. Ay,
I loved thee e'en with more than mother's love.
I would that all should love thee. As for those
Who loved thee not, these I vowed should fear thee.
I'ld see thee feared and envied, proud and great
High up above thy fellows; and for this
I smothered in my heart all outward show
Of my affection, and so hid myself.
Still, I was near and watched thee day by day
Expand as the young plant before the sun.
And I was happy in my heart of hearts
To know that thou wert happy, and to know
I was thy mother, though thou knew'st it not.
And so for years I've watched thee, till thine own
Wild wand'ring nature bid thee roam abroad.
'Twas then for years that I lost sight of thee;
This also was predicted by the stars,
And so I gave to thee this gipsy ring
That I might know thee when we met again.
D. Pas. Ay, I do mind me well, when yet a child,
How once a gipsy gave it me, and bid
Me wear it ever, and 'twould bring me luck;
And how I, childlike, straight returned home,
Pleased with the gift, to show my mother, or
The lady whom I thought my mother then.
But tell me, queen or mother, which thou wilt,
Why, if as I think, all thy tale be true
And thou wert really married to Don Diego,
Knowing the law to be upon thy side,
Why didst thou not at once set up thy claim
Of lawful wife, instead of waiting now,
A score of years and more! Thou could'st have claimed——
Gip. Q. Thou askest me why I did not avail
Myself of that protection that the law
In my case would enforce. I'll tell thee, then.
I was, indeed, then counselled so to do
By Father Miguel and some other friends,
Who knew that legal marriage was performed;
But being mindful of the promise made
Unto my father on his bed of death,
And having strict confidence in his words,
Those deep prophetic words which never erred,
Then finding, too, when I did scan the stars
Good reason his for bidding me postpone
My vengeance for a season less ill-starred.
D. Pas. What saw'st thou, mother, in the stars to make
Thee to abandon all thy rightful claims
And crave the charity of an alien?
Gip. Q. I craved no charity. The lady who
Did stand to thee in lieu of mother, came
Herself and craved of me permission
To take thee home and rear thee as her child;
Which offer I, though with much reluctance,
At length accepted, ever mindful of
The brilliant future that the stars foretold.
D. Pas. What sign was that that caused thee then such fear?
Gip. Q. A star malefic in thy house of life;
Threatening thee with speedy violent death
From some traitor's hand. That hand, thy father's.
Had I ta'en counsel of well-meaning friends
And urged my rights, ay, had I moved a step,
Thy life and mine had dearly paid for it.
D. Pas. How this may be, I know not. If the stars
Do really rule our destinies, or if
Thy woman's fears but made thee dread contact
With men in power. Have we not the law?
Gip. Q. Justice may be bought. The oppressor's star
Was then in the ascendant. 'Tis no more.
Now mark, and I will show thee how the stars
Have worked and ripened for my just revenge.
Thou knowest well, 'tis now full many years
I have lost sight of thee, though I have learned
From Father Miguel thou wast still alive;
The stars foretold our meeting. Until now
I've waited for thee, and the stars likewise
Predicted that almost at the same time
Another I should meet, whose destiny
Did figure so in thy young house of life.
D. Pas. What! The Lady Inez?
Gip. Q. Ay, even she.
D. Pas. Then Heav'n be praised for happier destiny
Ne'er fell to lot of man.
Gip. Q. Nay, not so fast;
There're dangers still to pass, and thou must bear
Thyself right bravely if thou would'st succeed.
D. Pas. Dost doubt my courage, mother? My good blade
Shall carve me fortune wheresoe'er it turns.
Gip. Q. Hot headed youth! Guard well thy strength until
'Tis needed. Thou art weak from loss of blood,
And need'st repose e'er thou set forth to work.
The sun is high in heaven. Ere nightfall
Thou wilt have need of all thy youthful strength.
Ere midnight I will lead thee to a wood,
Accompanied by all my followers,
From thence we must ascend a rugged path
That leads to the tyrant's stronghold.
D. Pas. What tyrant?
Gip. Q. The nameless. Thy rival and thy father.
D. Pas. Don Diego! 'Twas he, then, that yester-eve
Did snatch the Lady Inez from my breast
As I lay faint and bleeding?
Gip. Q. Ay, e'en he;
And now he fain would marry her perforce,
With or without her answer; he has sworn
To wed her straight, scarce struck the midnight hour,
And hurries on with most indecent haste
This mockery of a marriage 'gainst the will
And inclinations of the girl herself,
And also 'gainst the wishes of her sire,
Whom, poor man, the tyrant holds in 's power,
As hawk doth hold a dove, obliging him
To give consent to this most monstrous match
With his fair daughter, only late arrived
Home from the convent of St. Ursula
(Albeit he knows not, I've the proofs in hand
Of our real marriage. Read them an you list)

[Handing papers to Don Pascual.

He needs must hasten on his base design,
For fear of interruption. Be it ours
To baulk this rabid eagle of his prey,
Snatch from his reeking claws the innocent lamb,
And rescue chastity from guilt's device.
Let this be Pepa's mission upon earth,
To succour virtue and avenge the wrong,
And thou, Pascual, stand thou me true in this,
Let no wrong pass, but quickly search it out,
And boldly in the light of day proclaim
The tyrant's wrong, in spite of odds or force.
D. Pas. Mother, I swear. Fear not thou'lt find me apt;
My sword is at thy service, e'en had I
No more incentive to avenge thee than
The sense of wrong that ever stirs my blood.
But now I have my own more selfish ends
To serve. The maid 'fore all most near my heart
To rescue from the talons of a foe;
The mother, too, who gave me birth to shield
From foul dishonour, and the tyrant who
Begat me, yet fain would dub me bastard,
Still to chastise. With these wrongs to redress,
Or e'en the half, what coward would not turn brave?
What mouse would not turn lion? Rest in peace,
This night thou art avenged. Pascual doth swear it.
Gip. Q. Spoke like my own true son. And now to rest;
Thou needest sleep, to calm thy jaded nerves,
And brace thee for the work thou hast to-night.

[They embrace. Pascual throws himself upon his couch. Gipsy Queen sits watching him. Scene changes.

Scene III.—Inez' bedchamber in Don Silvio's castle; an old four posted bed, with faded hangings—old faded tapestry. A prie-dieu in front of a picture of our Lady of Pain. Crucifixes and pious relics adorn the chambers. Don Silvio is discovered pleading earnestly. Inez weeping.

Inez. (Tearing herself away.) Cease, father, cease; I cannot, dare not yield.
How can you ask me, after all you've said?
What! Wed a man I never saw before,
A man whose age, too, full quadruples mine!
And at a moment's notice! Fie! for shame!
Was it for this then that you call'dst me home,
To barter soul and body for mere gold?
Is it not thus the lowest of our sex,
Led on by glitter to fill Satan's ranks,
Fall, ne'er to rise again? Ah! woe is me.
Think, father, think. What could such union be
Before the eyes of Heaven? Would it not
Be foul adultery, base, incestuous lust?
And this you'ld have from me, your only child?
Oh, father! 'twas not thus that you once spake.
Where are your noble maxims, father, now?
Alas! alas! all scattered to the winds
Before the first blast of the tempting fiend.
D. Sil. (Aside.) Now this is most just, by Heav'n! that I be
Thus by my own child humbled and reproved,
For falling back from truth in hour of trial.
Dear inn'cent soul! How could she yield to terms
Alike repugnant to her virgin heart
As mine own conscience? But, then, what to do?
Ah! cursed be the hour I gave consent
Unto that monstrous pact! What would I give
Now to undo the same, were't in my power?
But my inexorable foe has sworn
To have his bond, and Diego never jests.
Most dire necessity doth bid me save
Myself and household from disgrace and death.
Ay, from starvation. Nothing short of that
Should make me recreant to my conscience law.
She, young and hopeful, realises not
The want and misery that must ensue
To us on her refusal. Be it so.
Occasion presses. Time must not be lost.
I will try again, though conscience brand me.
(Aloud.) Inez!
Inez. Father!
D. Sil. Bethink thee, yet, my child.
Inez. Parent, no more!
D. Sil. What am I, then, to do?
I, thy poor agèd father, sent abroad
To beg my bread. No shelter from the wind
And rain. No food; no hospitable roof.
Our servants, too, must all our ills endure;
And all through thee, through thine own obdurate heart.
But 'twill not serve thee. Not one whit, for though
Thou still resist, Don Diego will use force;
His myrmidons——
Inez. I fear them not, when God is on our side.
This is a trial, and we must have faith.
D. Sil. (Desperate.) My child! Will nothing move thee? On thy head
Will be thy father's blood. My life's at stake.
Inez. Think of thy soul, old man, and trust in God.
Thou, who didst teach mine infant lips to pray,
Canst thou not pray, or wilt thou learn of me
Now thou art old? Hast thou no faith, father?
D. Sil. Alas! alas! 'Tis many years these knees
Have bowed no more in prayer. When I was young,
And yet had faith, 'twas then I used to pray.
Inez. But now; Oh, father! Heaven! What can have caused
This falling off of piety in age?
For years not bent the knee unto thy God!
I wonder not He hath abandoned thee.
Come, learn of me. Look here. Gaze on this form,

[Snatches a crucifix from the wall, and thrusts it into Don Silvio's unwilling hands.

This bleeding image. See this crown of thorns,
These nails, that side thrust; and then learn how He
Suffered and died for us. Canst thou not bear
One little pang an 't be the will of Heaven?
What is thy grief to His, who suffered more
Than mortal man e'er suffered? Father, pray
God will not desert those who trust in Him.
D. Sil. Nay, thou art young and hopeful. I am old.
Inez. Kneel, father, kneel; and look not so downcast.
Behold the blessed Virgin Mary, pierced
And sorrowing for our sins. Come, father, kneel.
Do as I do, and throw thyself before
This blessed image, and repeat these words.

[Throws herself on the prie-dieu, and clasps her hands together in front of the picture of our Lady of Pain. Don Silvio still standing.

Oh! Holy Virgin, Mother of our Lord;
Chosen of God, immaculate, Divine;
Thou, who hast promised aye to intercede
With thy dear Son, the living God of Heaven
For us poor mortals when oppressed with woe,
From that high heaven where thou sittest enthroned
'Midst glorious angels, mercifully look down
Upon thy humble votaries, who groan
'Neath the oppression of a tyrant world.
Oh! thou who never turnest a deaf ear
Unto a suppliant's prayer, send down thy grace,
And succour her from evil men's designs
Who puts her trust in thee. Thwart thou their schemes,
And, for the glory of thy holy name,
Avenge thy handmaid's wrongs, and punish those
Who, strong in the abuse of worldly power,
Would fain defile the virgin chastity
Of her who seeks thy aid; rain down thy grace.
Oh! Holy Mother, who canst never see
The wrong to triumph and the right to fall,
Soften my father's heart, and let him kneel
To thee, and join with me in heartfelt prayer
And supplication, that the evils which
Do threaten us alike may be withdrawn.

[Don Silvio drops crucifix, and exit slowly and moodily.

Oh, Holy Saints! Oh, Holy Virgin Mother!
Look down in pity on this suppliant pair,
Who all unworthy are to raise our eyes
To that high Heaven, whence thou art, and seek
Thy aid and guidance, strengthen us, O Lord!
Strengthen our faith, and let our trust in Thee
Never abate, e'en in temptation's hour.

[Draws forth a rosary, and remains for some time counting her beads. Then rises.

I thank thee, Holy Virgin. Thou hast heard
The prayer of faith, and——(looking round her) What! my father gone!
Too proud to pray, alas! Oh, Heaven grant
My doting father more humility,
More faith, more hope; and aye within this breast
Keep thou my faith alive, lest Satan send
Some emissary forth to thwart thy will.

Enter Rodriguez, smiling towards Inez, who starts, looks suspiciously at her, and shudders.

Rod. What! my young mistress taken by surprise,
And scared at poor Rodriguez! I've no doubt
Some transient fever, brought on by the shock
You late have suffered, made you shiver so.
Come to old Rodriguez, my pretty bird,
Pour forth into old nurse's willing ear
All its past troubles. Did the gipsy gang
Run off with pretty darling, and insult
Her and old Pedro! Sweetest, grieve no more
Now all is over, but take courage from
Old nurse Rodriguez, who was ever wont
To smooth its pillow, and to share its griefs.
Inez. Good nurse, Rodriguez, 'tis not, as you think,
The gipsy tribe that causes me this dread.
I have another and a secret grief
I daren't divulge to thee. Nay, leave me, pray.
Rod. What! my young mistress has a secret grief;
And I, poor old Rodriguez, am debarred
From sharing it. Leave you alone, forsooth!
Leave my young mistress Inez all alone,
To brood and mope over her secret grief!
Never! You ill know nurse Rodriguez, child.
Inez. (Aside.) This is intolerable.
Rod. As you say,
It cannot be about the gipsy tribe
My darling frets. The danger's gone and past,
Thanks to the noble conduct of my lord,
The brave and gallant Don Diego, who
At risk of his own life, with sword in hand,
Did rescue you from the dark gipsy gang.
'Twas bravely done. And how he wears his years!
Just like a stripling—and how fine a man;
How courteous, too, and what a merry eye
He has for all his favourites. I'm sure
That you yourself are one, judging from how [Inez draws back scornfully.
He looks at you askance, then turns away
And sighs so deeply, little thinking that
Rodriguez guesses what he bears within.
Inez. Rodriguez, silence! Of this trash no more.
Rod. Nay, Mistress Inez; pray not angered be
With poor old nurse. She loves a jest at times.
Inez. I'm in no jesting mood, I promise you.
I pray you, leave me.
Rod. There you are again,
Wishing me to leave you alone to mope;
But, dear, Rodriguez better knows than leave
Her little mistress all uncomforted.
Away with nasty grief, and courage take
From kind old nurse, and, like her, merry be.
Inez. Your consolation, nurse, is, perhaps, well meant.
Albeit, at present, 'tis superfluous.
Rod. What! Hoity, toity! child; would'st have me see
My little Inez pining and downcast,
E'en though it be for nought at all; and ne'er
Say word to cheer her? Nay, 'tis my duty
To my mistress. So here I mean to stick
Until I've made you laugh. Come now, madam.
Inez. (Aside.) She's insupportable.
Rod. Were I a maid once more, I'd show you how
I'd laugh and enjoy the world. Not as you,
Pent up these years within a convent cell,
Till you've grown musty. A pest on convents all!
Keep them for cripples and incurables.
For those who from birth so ill-favoured are,
They find not husbands. These may chant and sing,
And moan and fast, an't please them; but, for you,
A maid of Lady Inez's beauty, jammed
Within these walls—'tis sacrilege, I ween.
Inez. Rodriguez, now you must not lightly talk
Against those holy women, who have fled
All worldly joys to win the peace of Heaven.
Rod. Each to their taste. For me, I love the world.
Inez. I know it, nurse; but at your age 'twere fit
You'd higher thoughts.
Rod. At my age! Pooh! tut, tut!
Those with a merry heart are never old.
Look at Don Diego, how he bears himself,
And all because he has a merry heart.
Had he been priest or monk, he had been old
At thirty. But just look how proud his step,
How clear his eye, how red his manly cheek.
Were I a maid once more, just of your age,
I straight should lose my heart, and that's a fact.
Heigh ho!
Inez. A truce to this unseemly banter.
Nor dare to name that man to me again.
Rod. That man! What, poor Don Diego? In what way
Hath he offended, that you treat him thus?
I'm sure he is not conscious of his fault,
Or he would die with grief; the dear, good man,
Fond of you as he is, as all can see.
Inez. Rodriguez, cease! I'll hear no more, I've said.
And let me tell you, nurse, now once for all,
It ill becomes thy years and sex, t'enact
A part, of all parts most contemptible.
Rod. What part, my pretty child? Don't so misjudge
Poor nurse Rodriguez as to think that she
Could counsel you for aught but for your good
Remember, you are young, my mistress dear,
And have yet to unlearn your convent life,
That so ill fits you for our merry world.
Your father, poor mistaken man——
Inez. Hold there,
And reverence my father as thy lord.
Rod. Ne'er doubt me, mistress mine, but e'en my lord
Would counsel you as I would counsel you.
Inez. Thou speak'st of counsel. How would'st counsel me?
Rod. Nay, then, nought 'gainst your interests; that's clear.
Had I your youth and beauty, and your chance,
I'd have a care, nor throw such chance away.
Lend not the ear to ev'ry stripling, child,
Because he's smooth of mien, but look behind
The outer gloss, and seek for solid gold.
Inez. Your counsel, nurse, is mercenary.
Rod. Tut, tut.
We've got to live; to live we've got to eat;
Then comes our dress, our servants, and what else
May appertain unto a lady born,
As was your mother, Lady Dorothea,—
Of blessed mem'ry,—when this ancient hall
Looked livelier than at the present day.
Now hark! my dear young mistress, and attend
To these my words, as were they from the lips
Of your own sainted mother, who looks down
From her high post, and sees all that we do.
What, think you, would your fondest mother say,
To see this castle go to rack and ruin,
Her darling child descend in social scale,
Because she would espouse some popinjay.
Whose wealth was all he carried on his back?
When she could get a chance to marry one
(A goodly man, if more mature in years)
A great hidalgo, and of wealth untold,
By means of which she could redeem this hall,
And make it worthy of its better days;
Pay off her father's debts, and thus content
Him and his household, and all else beside.
Why, marry, 'twere rank madness to let slip
Such glorious chance, and such a chance have you.
Inez. Enough.
Rod. Nay, I will speak in duty bound,
And tell you, willy-nilly, that the man
Who thus would lay his riches at the feet
Of my poor master's daughter is none else
Than noble Lord Don Diego.
Inez. I have said
I will not have thee mention that man's name;
I did divine thy mission from the first,
And doubt me not that thou wert amply paid
To play the go-between; but learn for once,
Base woman, that my heart must not be bought;
The purest gift of Heaven was not made
To be an article of merchandise.
My heart's in mine own keeping, and must ne'er
Be given up save to the man I love.
Though this pile fall to ruins o'er our heads;
Though hunger threaten; though my father's life
And other lives at stake be; nay, e'en though
This robe be turned to rags and I be sent
Abroad to beg my bread, and from the cold
Night storm or tempest ne'er a shelter find;
Nay, come what will, nought 'gainst the will of Heaven
Must e'er be done to suit the present hour.
Rod. Nay, speak not thus, young mistress, but be calm;
Rodriguez, too, was once a girl and thought,
E'en as you do now.
Inez. More's the pity then
That years, instead of bringing purer thoughts,
Should cancel all the purity of youth.
Rod. Nay, mistress mine, what I would say is this:
That being in youth, even as yourself,
More swayed by my heart than my interests,
I gave my heart unto the man I loved,
Disdaining higher offer, but soon found
Cause to repent for having thrown away
A better chance; for Carlos, when he saw
That I had nought, and he had nought, he 'gan
To lose the love he had for me, and then
He beat me, and we quarrelled. Soon he died.
And being left destitute, was fain t'accept
The place of servant in your father's house.
Inez. And by this tale of sorrows thou would'st prove
That we in this life are in duty bound
To sell our souls unto the highest bidder.
Away with such foul subtleties, with which
The arch-fiend baits his hook to tempt God's own.
Give me the quiet of a convent cell,
Rather than rank and splendour with disgrace.
Rod. Disgrace! Nay, honour. When the knot is tied
You will be held in honour by the world.
It is not mere protection that is offered,
But legal marriage. There's the difference.
Inez. The marriage that 'fore Heaven legal is,
Is that in which two souls are joined in one,
And not the forced and bitter mockery
Born of man's interest, by him approved.
Such match as thou would'st counsel were no match,
But lust and policy combined in one;
Most foul adultery in Heaven's eyes,
Ay, e'en despite the blessing of the church.
But, to cut short this most distasteful theme,
Perhaps thou'lt tell me, as an after-clause
Included in the pact, should I accept
This offer that Don Diego deigns to make,
'Twere necessary that this match take place
This night at midnight, without more delay.
Rod. Why, some such clause there is, I must confess,
A mere caprice. What matters it? But then
The offer is so splendid. Only think!
Inez. In case of my refusing him. What then?
Rod. You surely would not think of such a thing,
If you knew how he loved you.
Inez. Still I ask,
What's the alternative should I refuse?
Rod. I would not counsel you to brave his ire.
He loves you most devotedly, I know,
And 'tis for that he'd hasten on the match,
'Tis over-eagerness and fear to lose
His prize. A groundless fear, I do admit.
But he was ever an eccentric man:
A good man though.
Inez. So all I have to fear
Is but his ire?
Rod. I know not though what form
His ire might take. He's powerful and great,
Accustomed to obedience, to command,
Like all great military leaders who
Hold up their heads above their fellow-men.
He might use force. I would not you advise
To thwart his will, but quietly to yield.
Inez. And art thou woman, who would'st counsel me,
Through fear of violence of mortal man,
To so offend against all chastity
As yield obedience to this man's lust?
A veteran full four times mine own age,
And that, in all hot haste this very night,
When I have scarce had time to see his face!
Is't this that thou call'st love? Now fie! Now fie!
I did think better of thee, nurse Rodriguez,
Than that thy tongue could have been bought for gold
In such base cause. But since 'tis come to this—
Away from me! and tell the fiend who sent thee,
Inez would rather die a thousand deaths
Than barter her virtue for all his gold.
Rod. I dare not tell him so, my pretty bird.
Inez. Then send him here, I'll tell him so myself.
I fear no man when God is on my side.
Rod. Nay, mistress, dear, forbear. You know him not.
Inez. Yet thou would'st have me marry him. For shame!
Rod. I know not what to say. 'Twas urgency,
Most dire necessity, that made me speak;
Fear for your father's life, mine own, and Pedro's,
And last, not least, yourself, my darling child.
I am bewildered and half gone mad.
What shall we do? Oh, Heaven grant us help.
Inez. I trust as ever in the help of Heaven.
Sustain us, Lord, in our adversity,
And let us lack not faith. [A knock at the door.
Oh, holy saints!
Pedro. (Without.) Rodriguez! What ho! Donna Rodriguez!
My lord Don Diego awaiteth thee below.
Rod. I come, I come. (Aside.) Ah me! what shall I say? [Exit.
Inez. Now, saints protect us! Holy Virgin, thou
Be still my guide, nor let me pray in vain.

[Inez throws herself half fainting on the prie-dieu, and the scene closes.

Scene IV.—A Wood of chestnuts. Moonlight. Gipsies in ambush. Don Diego's castle seen towering above the trees.

Enter Gipsy Queen and Pascual.

Gip. Q. Behold the spot I told thee of, from whence
We must begin th' ascent. (To Gipsies.) Is all prepared?
Gipsies Together. Ay, Queen.
Gip. Q. And Father Miguel?
A Gipsy. He comes anon.
D. Pas. What, even Father Miguel! Will he join?
Gip. Q. He is, as ever, our most staunch ally,
And doth possess a keen and ready wit
In time of need. A soft and oily tongue
And gentle manner, that may well disarm
All base suspicion. Such sound policy
As may enable him to win the day,
When all such brainless braggadocio
As thine might fail.
D. Pas. Bravo, Father Miguel!
An he be practised in the use of 's tongue,
As I am in the use of my good blade
We shall do well together.
Gip. Q. See, he comes.

Enter Father Miguel. He walks straight up to Gipsy Queen.

F'th. M. Pepa, well met. Is this young man your son?
D. Pas. (Stepping forward.) Ay, holy father. Dost remember me?
F'th. M. But little, son. It is so many years
We have not met, and thou art altered much.
Thou wert then but a lad—a naughty lad,
A very naughty lad.
D. Pas. Ha, ha! Ha, ha!
The accusation, I admit, is just,
But hope, after to-night, that we may learn
To know each other better.
F'th. M. So say I.
And now, for what doth most concern us all.
To Gipsy Queen. I doubt not this youth's courage. Nay, his fault,
An I remember right in days gone by.
Was being too precipitous and rash.
Now listen, both of ye, to what I say;
We must not mar our plot with useless show
Of ill-timed valour, but hoard well our strength
Till needed, and if possible dispense
With blood and slaughter, which God grant we may.
D. Pas. How, holy father? I don't understand.
Are we not here assembled to attack
The tyrant's stronghold. Are the men-at-arms
That guard the castle made of such poor stuff,
As let a powerful and armed band
Approach without resistance. Think you, he
The man that I blush to call my father,
Is so utterly without resources
As let us tamely rob him of his prize,
Under his very nose, and not resent?
Too old a fox, I ween, our veteran foe,
For to be caught asleep.
F'th. M. Nay, hear me, son.
Gip. Q. Ay, true my, son. Have patience and attend
To the good father's counsel.
D. Pas. Father, speak.
F'th. M. I have bethought me of a scheme, which, if
Well carried out, will bring us through the guard
Without the loss of blood. Once entered in,
And passed the threshold, let me lead the way.
Your mother will present herself anon,
Assert her rights in presence of them all;
You then will follow, ready to protect
Yourself and us, should an assault be made
Upon our persons. (To Gipsies.) You bold gipsies all,
Keep close at hand a little in the rear
Ready for action, but beware to lift
A finger until called upon to fight
Through grim necessity. D'ye hear me all?
Gipsies (Together.) Ay, ay, Sir Priest.
D. Pas. You have not told us yet
The means you will adopt to pass the guards
Without resistance.
F'th. M. Listen, then, awhile.
I have to aid me in this daring plot
A tried and trusty friend, a mountaineer;
This peasant hath across his shoulders slung
A keg of choicest wine, by me well drugged
With such a potent powder, that one drop
But taken on the tongue were full enough
In a few minutes to induce a sleep
So dull, lethargic, heavy, and profound,
That earth might quake, winds blow, and thunder growl,
And yet the victims of this potent drug
Would still sleep on, their long and death-like sleep,
And much I doubt me if the archangel's trump
Would fully wake them.
D. Pas. 'Tis not poison, father?
F'th. M. Nay, 'tis harmless. How could you think that I,
As priest, could do aught to take human life?
I come to hinder carnage, not to slay.
D. Pas. This may be difficult, though, nevertheless,
The men are many. There are always dogs
That bark and bellow at the foe's approach.
F'th. M. Leave all to me, my son. As for the dogs,
I've poison brought, most instantaneous,
With which I've baited meat, that I have now
About my person, whilst this peasant here.
What ho! Felipe!

Enter a PEASANT with a keg of wine slung round him.

This same honest man
Will go ahead with me, but as we near
The castle we will separate, and choose
Two divers paths, so that in case we meet
With any man we seem not to belong
One to the other. He will chant an air
Such as our mountaineers are wont to sing,
And go his way, as one who's light of heart;
Myself, will pass on by another route,
To meet the peasant at a given point
Close to the castle and within the hearing
Of all the soldiers; and if accosted,
I have my answer ready. Do not fear.
When within hearing of the men-at-arms,
I shall call out to this same mountaineer,
As to a stranger: "Hold, friend. Where bound?"
"To the next village, father," shall he say?
"Trav'lling with wine. A buyer wants to try
A sample, and I bring him of the best."
"Ha!" shall I say, "then, prithee, let me taste.
I, too, would buy a barrel, but for me
It must be good indeed, else, keep your wine."
Then shall I feign to drink and smack my lips,
Swearing 'tis nectar worthy of a king,
And straight make offer to buy all he has,
While trudging on together by the way.
Presently we will come upon the guards,
Some of whom know me well. Suspecting nought,
These men will easily be lured to try
The vaunted liquor. Having gone the round
Of seneschal and warder and the rest,
I shall find access to the castle hall
Without much trouble, offr'ing as excuse,
I come to let Don Diego taste the wine.
Once entered fairly in the castle hall,
Ere long all hands will sound as dead men sleep,
Then shall I blow this whistle. At the sound,
March on, and fear not, for the game is ours.
D. Pas. Hail! Father Miguel! once again I say.
F'th. M. Now to our task. 'Tis just about the hour,
And better be too early than too late.
D. Pas. True, holy father.
F'th. M. Well, go softly on
Ahead, whilst you all keep well in the rear,
Advance ye not until ye hear this call.

[Exeunt Father Miguel and Felipe.

D. Pas. Why, what an acquisition to our cause
Is this same priest! I vow I know not how
We should have done without him.
Gip. Q. You say well.
Besides our cause, that he has much at heart,
He revels in all plotting and intrigue.
D. Pas. It suits his peculiar genius. Why,
He might have been prime minister of Spain,
This same poor unknown priest.

[A distant mountaineer's chant is heard.

Gip. Q. Hark! Do you hear?
D. Pas. Ay. The mountaineer's chant. The game's begun.
Gip. Q. List patiently, and we shall hear anon
Don Miguel's whistle. Silence, all of ye.

[A long pause. All place themselves in listening attitude. Gipsy Queen advances slowly. Pascual in the background, still listening.

Gip. Q. The hour fast draws near when my intent,
That purpose that the heav'ns have writ in blood,
Must be accomplished. Be still, my heart.
Shade of my father Djâbel, stand thou near;
Nerve thou this arm so that it shall not fail,
For work is to be done, and that right soon.
That man is doomed, and by this hand he dies;
Heav'n hear my oath! Respond, ye elements.

[Sky grows dark. Thunder and lightning. Owls and bats flit about. Commotion in the camp.

The oath is writ in Heav'n. Recording sprites
Have taken down the gipsy's oath of blood;
And now shall all men see, all nations tell,
How, from the ashes of this trampled heart
Did all triumphant rise the gipsy queen.

[A distant whistle heard.

D. Pas. The signal, mother! Didst hear the signal?
Gip. Q. Ay, son. Onward, then;
I'll lead the way myself. Be firm and true.

[The ascent begins, led by the Gipsy Queen, and the scene closes.

Scene V.—A hall in Don Diego's castle communicating with the chapel. The chapel is in the centre of the background. Through curtains is disclosed the altar lighted up, and a priest ready to officiate. In the hall, which is illuminated, a long table is spread with fruit and other delicacies. Music. Enter guests, discoursing animatedly and laughing.

First Guest. (To his Partner.) Have you yet seen the bride? They say she's fair.
Partner. They say so, but I have not seen her yet.
Howbeit, a friend of mine who knew her well
When at the Convent of Saint Ursula,
Says she is over young. Just turned sixteen;
And how a man of Lord Don Diego's years
Could fall in love with such a chit, beats me.

[They pass on. Two other guests advance.

Lady of Second Guest. (To her Partner.) Ay, true, I think it would more seemly be
Were he to marry one of years more ripe.
Second Guest. (To his Lady.) The older that men grow the more they're pleased
With youth. I'm sure I should be so myself.

[They pass on. Third couple advance.

Third Guest. (To his Lady.) Nay, who'd have thought that poor Don Silvio
Could thus so easily pay off his debts?
He's in luck's way. As for the blushing bride,
Not every day doth heaven rain such fortune.
Lady. (To Third Guest.) Yet they say that she is most unwilling.
Third Guest. Then, she's a fool.

[They pass on. Fourth couple advance.

Lady. (To Fourth Guest.) Nay; I have heard it said
She weeps and frets, and hath so desp'rate grown,
That nought save violence could aught avail
To lead her to the altar.
Fourth Guest. What a girl!
To throw away so glorious a chance!

[They pass on. Two gentlemen meeting.

First Gent. What, comrade, you invited! Ha, ha, ha!
The old boy's got some life in him as yet.
Second Gent. And good taste, too. I just now caught a glimpse
Of the fair bride; and, zounds! I do begrudge
Her to the veteran. I myself would choose
Just such an one, and were it not her face
Were marred by excess of weeping.
First Gent. Indeed!
Ha! ha! I never could make out why girls
Cry at their wedding. Just the very thing
They've looked for, prayed for, schemed for all their lives;
Yet, when it comes to don the bridal veil
And figure at the altar, then comes straight
A bucketful of tears. Hypocrisy!

Enter Don Diego, followed by Don Silvio pleading.

Second Gent. Here comes the bridegroom; and, as it would seem,
Not in the best of humours. Let's withdraw.

[They pass on.

D. Die. (To Don Silvio.) Silvio, no more! I'll not be flouted thus
Before my guests, in mine own castle, too.
I've said that it shall be, and it shall be.
I ne'er take back my word. So bid her haste,
And put a better face upon the matter.
The time is up, and all my guests attend.
Go, bring her, then. (To Guests.) Friends! welcome to this hall.
Guests All. Long live Lord Don Diego, with much happiness!
D. Die. Thank ye, my friends. I do regret to say,
'Fore this august and gracious company,
That we are likely to experience,
This night, some difficulty on the part
Of our fair bride. Some singular caprice;
Transient, no doubt, but not the less unfit
For gay festivity. The fact is that
My youthful bride is of a temperament
Too highly wrought and o'er hysterical.
She only late hath left her convent cell;
Her education, therefore, until now
Hath rendered her unfit to face the world.
Impressionable natures, as we know,
Recoil before aught that can cause a strong
And powerful emotion. 'Tis the shock
They dread. 'Tis nothing. Nay, I do condole
With her; ay, from the bottom of my heart.
But yet I think it not well to indulge
Young folk in such caprice. Therefore, should I,
My honoured guests, be forced to assume
An air of stern severity unmeet
This gay assembly, deem it but as naught;
'Tis firmness that is needed in this case.
We men must not be conquered by caprice.
As for the girl herself, she loves me well;
Nay, passionately.
Inez. (Within, distractedly.) No! 'tis false, 'tis false.

[Titter and commotion among the guests.

D. Die. (To Don Silvio.) Silvio! Why stand you there, with folded hands?
Did I not tell you to lead forth the bride?
D. Sil. She says she will not come.
D. Die. Will not? Ha! ha!
This to my face! Will not, indeed. We'll see.
My worthy guests, bear with me if I lose
My wonted patience, and in haste let slip
Some casual word that may seem unfit
The presence of guests so illustrious.
My temper's somewhat choleric, and if
My will is thwarted I may lose restraint.
Silvio, bring forth the maiden straight, I say,
Or I will have her dragged to me by force.
Inez. (Within.) Oh, mercy! Mercy! Heaven hear my prayer.
A Gentleman. Poor little jade! How I do pity her.
A Lady. And so do I. It makes my heart quite bleed.
D. Die. A truce to this. Ho! pages, drag her forth.

[Exeunt two pages, who re-enter, dragging Inez in, who utters a piercing scream. She is dressed in a white dressing gown, her hair dishevelled, and grasping a crucifix. Father Miguel and Gipsy Queen appear at the open door cautiously. Behind lurk Don Pascual and Gipsies.

Inez. "Oh, Holy Virgin! Save me; save me yet.
Thou wilt not thus abandon me."
D. Die. (Seizing her by the hair, and dragging her towards the Chapel.) So jade,
Since thou hast deemed fit to flout me thus
Before my guests, and spurn'st my tenderness,
Learn how obedience can be enforced.
Come priest. Be ready.
A Guest. Nay, but this is rape!
I cannot stay and see injustice done.
I repent me that I was invited.
Another Guest. True, and so do I. This is no marriage,
But filthy lust and mere abuse of power.
D. Die. (To Guards.) Help! Hell and Furies! or I'll have her drugged.
Guests All. Shame! Shame! Down with Don Diego.
Seize the tyrant.
D. Die. What! Flouted by my very guests. What next?
Guests All. Virtue to the rescue! Save the maiden!

Enter Gipsy Queen hurriedly, and stands fixing Don Diego with her eye, who recoils.

Gip. Q. Hold! I forbid the banns.
Inez. Thanks, Holy Virgin,
That hast heard my prayer, and sent an angel
Down from your high Heaven in hour of need.
What glorious halo do I see around
That sainted vision!

[Inez falls fainting into the arms of Don Silvio.

D. Die. Nay, this is madness.
Gip. Q. Hear me, swarthy hag. This castle is mine,
And not for such as thee. Begone, I say,
Or I will have thee hanged, ere breaks the dawn,
From the loftiest turret of this pile.
Gip. Q. Villain, I fear no threats.
Look on this bond.
D. Die. What folly's this? Say, who let these men in?
F'th. M. (Advancing.) I, Don Miguel, whom you basely thought
To use as instrument in your foul plot,
Twenty-two years ago, when you did plan
The mockery of a marriage to induce
This trusting gipsy to accede to what
Your own dark soul did lust for; thinking that
'Twere easy work to dupe the innocent.
So, writing to a worthless boon companion,
Already in your debt, you promised him
To cancel all his debt, and further add
Another sum in recompense, were he
To condescend to sink himself so low
As to enact the part of priest in this
False marriage. But that letter never reached
Its destination. Djâbel, gipsy king,
This woman's father, once suspecting guile,
As well he might, did send his spies abroad,
And so this letter, fell into my hands.
I quick conceived the plan to pen reply,
As coming from the tool you sought to use,
In which 'twas stated that he lay in bed,
Ill of a fever, and so could not come,
And therefore he would send a substitute
To act for him. That substitute was I.
I, Father Miguel, with dissembling mien,
By you too fully trusted, had access
Unto your presence, as you fondly thought,
To help you in your plot of the feigned match.
But know, base villain, you alone were duped,
Your marriage was a real one, and holds good.
D. Die. This is some false concocted tale, got up
For some hellish purpose.
Priest. (At the altar, advances.) Lord Don Diego,
I tell you this is no invented tale,
This Father Miguel is well known to me,
A worthy priest of our most holy Church.
The bond is valid.
D. Die. Flouted on all sides!
How now! Do I dream? Am I master here,
Or am I not?
F'th. M. Another Master there's
Above us all, more powerful than thou,
Dispensing justice and avenging wrong.
D. Die. What cant is this? Ho! guards, cut down the rabble.

[Some halberdiers advance. D. Pascual and gipsies put themselves on the defensive.

F'th. M. Raise but a finger, or cause to be raised
An arm in thy defence, and dread the worst.
D. Die. This from a shaven crown! A pretty plight
For feudal lord to be in! What ho! guards.

[A skirmish ensues, and guards are beaten back by gipsies.

On, cowards, on! Where are my men-at-arms?
F'th. M. All drugged, and powerless by my device.
They sleep like dead men. Seek no help from them.
D. Die. Damnation! Am I worsted by a priest
And gang of squalid gipsies? Ho! my men,
Go, rouse the sluggards! Bring my armour, quick.
F'th. M. (To Guards.) Budge but an inch, and not a man of ye shall see to-morrow's sun.
D. Die. How now! Who's he
That threatens and gives orders in my hall?
Have I no friends among these honoured guests
To save me from these insults? Who am I?
F'th. M. A sinner, made amenable to law.
D. Die. (Laughs diabolically.) Ha, ha! This craven's insolence is such
It well nigh moves my laughter. How now! guests,
Not one sword drawn! No single arm upraised.
A Guest. My Lord Don Diego, in a cause that's just
My sword is at your service. So say all
The others. But we will not fight for wrong.
Let us be first persuaded if this priest
Have right upon his side. Show us the bond.
D. Die. The bond is but a forgery.
D. Pas. 'Tis false,
Thou lying knave. I'll make thee eat thy words.
D. Die. Who is this mongrel gipsy, bold of tongue,
Who beards us with drawn sword.
F'th. M. Your lawful son,
Of this poor gipsy born in holy marriage.
D. Die. The tale is too preposterous.
Officiating Priest. Nay, look
Well on the bond, Don Diego.
Guests All. Ay, the bond.
D. Die (To Officiating Priest.) And thou, Sir Shaveling, didst thou not come here
To-night to draw up deed of legal marriage?
And dost thou now come forward and take part
With this base priest, who for some plan of his——
Off. Priest. My compliance was but in appearance.
I came, well knowing of your former marriage,
Twenty-two years ago, as saith the bond,
With her they call the Gipsy Queen. All this
I had from Father Miguel; and besides,
Have well perused the bond, which, being valid,
I could not undertake to tie the knot
In conscience, and have no intent to do 't.
D. Die. I was but mocked, then?
Guests All. Come, the bond! the bond!
D. Die. Give me the bond. I'll soon cut short this work.

[Snatches the bond from the hands of Gipsy Queen. Glances hastily over it, and proceeds to tear it.

'Tis false. This is no signature of mine.
Gip. Q. Darest to deny thy bond? Die, villain, then,
In this thy perjury! [Stabs Don Diego.
D. Die. Help! help! I bleed. [Falls.
Guards. Don Diego to the rescue! Seize the hag.

[Guards and a few guests lay hands on Gipsy Queen.

D. Pas. (Furiously.) Leave go, my mother. He that lays a hand
Upon her person, I'll send straight to hell.
A Guest. (Advancing with drawn sword.) Secure this furious and audacious youth.
D. Pas. Have at thee, then. [Kills guest.
Guest I die. [Dies.
Two Guests. (Advancing.) Hold him! hold him!

[Both guests attack Pascual at once, but are driven back. Guards come up and attempt to seize him. Gipsies attack guards, and a general skirmish ensues. Two guards are killed by gipsies. One gipsy falls. Don Silvio bears off Inez in the confusion.

F'th. M. Peace, brethren, for a while, and no more blood.
A Guest. Look to Don Diego, friends, and seize the hag.

[All surround Gipsy Queen, who stabs herself and falls. All draw back.

Gip. Q. This life is forfeit. I for vengeance lived;
My mission is accomplished upon earth.
I vowed to heaven. Heaven has heard my prayer.
And I depart.
D. Pas. (Rushes up, and throws himself beside the Gipsy Queen.) Oh, mother! dear mother.
D. Die. Help! help! Who has put out the lights and left
Me all in darkness?
A Guest. No one, noble lord.
F'th. M. 'Tis but the darkness of thine own dark soul,
Now upon the brink of eternity;
I counsel thee, confess, and then receive
The consolation that the Church affords.
D. Die. Water! I thirst. Alas! how grim is death!
I am afraid to die. I burn! I burn!
How hideous all the forms that flit around;
Officiating Priest. My lord Don Diego, prithee die not thus;
But ask forgiveness first, of all you've wronged.
D. Die. Good father, willingly; but who would grant
Forgiveness unto such a wretch as I?
Gip. Q. I, Pepa, thy true wife, forgiveness grants,
And craves the like from thee.
D. Die. What! Pepa, thou;
Thou canst forgive me? Thou, my poor wronged wife.
Let us exchange forgiveness then, for I
Have well deserved this blow. Come round me, friends,
Whilst breath yet lasts, and witness bear to this.
I leave my castle, all my lands and goods,
Unto my lawful son. How is he called?
F'th. M. Pascual.
D. Die. Son Pascual, thy hand. Forgive the wrongs
I've done thee, e'en as thou thyself wouldst hope
In thy last hour to be forgiven. Hold,
There's still another I have deeply wronged,
From whom I'd crave forgiveness. Bring her here.
F'th. M. (To Attendant.) Don Diego means the Lady Inez. Haste
And bring her hither, with Don Silvio. [Exit Attendants.

Enter Don Silvio, supporting Inez.

D. Die. Behold me, Inez, penitent, subdued.
Art thou content that heaven hath heard thy prayer?
I've wronged thee much. I frankly do confess.
Forgive me, Inez child, ere I depart
An thou canst.
Inez. I do.

[Giving her hand and sobbing.

D. Die. And friend Silvio,
The like I'd have from thee, and all I've wronged.
D. Sil. Friend Diego, take his hand. I would not add
One pang to that which thine own heart must feel,
By holding back my pardon at the last.
Therefore, with all my heart I pardon thee.
D. Die. Thanks, old friend, Silvio; I already feel
Better prepared to die. Farewell, my friends.

[Inez for the first time perceiving Pascual.

Inez. Pascual!
D. Pas. Inez!
D. Die. Come now, my children both,
I know your minds. Come let me join your hands.

[Pascual and Inez kneel beside Don Diego, who joins their hands.

Receive my blessing, children, and forgive
A poor old sinner when he is no more.
Pray for my soul, and ere this clay be cold,
Let this hand clasp thy mother's, son Pascual.
Pepa, thy hand.
Gip. Q. Diego, with all my heart.

[Pascual joins their hands.

Let us die thus, and hand in hand to heaven
Let our souls soar. Kiss me, my children, both.
Look how my father Djâbel smiles on us,
And beckons us away from earth. Adios.

[Don Diego and Gipsy Queen expire.

[Guests kneel and pray. Curtain.

End of the Gipsy Queen.

At the conclusion of the play our tragedian rolled up his MS. and returned it to his pocket, while various were the expressions of approval from the members of the club.

All now seemed to look towards Mr. Oldstone for his criticism of the play before pronouncing any decided opinion of their own. This was a deference they paid him as chairman, and because he was the oldest member present. It was evident that this worthy was accustomed to be appealed to in matters of importance, and expected it in the present instance in particular, for he had already stretched out his legs, thrown himself back in his arm-chair, closed his eyes, and clasped his hands together over his comely paunch, while his thumbs performed a rotary motion, one round the other, a sure sign with him that whatever his lips might utter would be the result of deep thought and mature deliberation. Our members awaited in silence the words of wisdom about to issue from the lips of the oracle.

To fill up the time in the interim, Professor Cyanite filled up a pipe of tobacco, and was about to light it. Mr. Crucible drew out his snuff box, and was preparing to take a copious pinch. Dr. Bleedem looked at his watch, when suddenly a knock at the door caused the members to raise their heads.

"Come in!" cried several voices at once. The door opened, and Helen stood in the doorway.

"If you please, gentlemen," said the girl, blushing, and with charming modesty, "Mr. McGuilp says that he has finished my portrait, and would the gentlemen of the club like to look at it before it gets too dark."

"Of course we will, my dear, of course we will," answered Mr. Oldstone, his fingers immediately unclasping themselves and grasping the arms of the chair, preparatory to rising to his feet.

"Come along, gentlemen." No further invitation was needed. Professor Cyanite laid down his pipe unlighted. Mr. Crucible replaced the grains of snuff, he had intended conveying to his nose, back into his snuff box, which he closed with a snap and returned to his pocket. There was a general stir among the members, who rose and followed Helen to the room upstairs, that our artist had pro tem. transformed into a studio.

Jack Hearty and his spouse were already in the room when the members of the club appeared at the door.

"Yes, that's our Helen, to a T, and no mistake," he was saying. "Well, its just wonderful, and as like her mother, when she was her age, as one egg is to another. Eh? Molly," said he, addressing his spouse.

"Beg pardon, sir. I hope no offence," continued the landlord, turning deferentially towards our artist.

"But what might such a picture be worth, if I might ask?"

"The wealth of the universe wouldn't purchase it, my good host," replied McGuilp. "It is the best thing I ever did, and that perhaps I ever shall do. No, this one is not for sale. I do not say but that at some future time I might do another from it, and then——"

At this juncture, the members of the club, headed by Mr. Oldstone, entered the studio. Our host and hostess respectfully withdrew, in order to give the gentlemen a better chance of examining the picture, but even then the room was as crowded as an exhibition on a private view day. Mr. Oldstone had placed himself in front of the easel, and was soon loud in his expressions of enthusiasm.

"Excellent! most excellent! Beautiful! beautiful! beautiful! What flesh tints! What colouring! What refinement of drawing and expression! As a likeness it is perfect, there is no gainsaying. Then, the pose—simple, graceful, and natural. My dear young friend," he said, shaking our artist by the hand, and seeming overcome by emotion, "Do you know what you have realised? Why, it is the hand of a master!" etc., etc.

Then each of the members in turn made their own remarks upon the portrait.

"What a picture of life and health!" cried Dr. Bleedem.

"What a face for the stage!" remarked the tragedian.

"Ah! why was not I born a painter?" sighed Mr. Parnassus.

The analytical chemist made a few scientific remarks upon the properties of pigments, in which Professor Cyanite joined, whilst our artist silently removed the colours from his palette.

"And what do you propose doing with the portrait, Mr.—er—Mr. McGuilp?" inquired Mr. Hardcase. "Keep it," replied our artist, laconically.

"What! keep it all to yourself!" exclaimed Mr. Oldstone. "For your own selfish gratification, thereby depriving others of the pleasure to be derived therefrom! Mr. McGuilp, I am surprised at you. Gentlemen," proceeded the antiquary, addressing his fellow members, "I protest against this decision of our young friend. That picture does not leave this inn if I can help it. Mr. McGuilp, your price. What is it? We will all club together and buy it, won't we gentlemen?"

"Ay, ay! so say we all," cried several voices at once.

"Impossible, my dear sir—impossible," remonstrated our artist.

"Impossible! Why?"

"I feel I shall never surpass this," answered McGuilp. "It is a sample work. I can make use of it in many ways as a study. But this I will do. I will protract my stay yet a few days, though I have already remained longer than I intended, and I will make a copy of the picture, which it shall be my pleasure to present to the honoured members of this club." Murmurs of applause and thanks followed this speech, after which the company dispersed until dinner-time.

CHAPTER VIII.

The next morning broke dark and gloomy. Our artist rose from his couch languid and unrefreshed. His face was pale and haggard, with dark circles round his eyes. What had transpired? Had he received a second visit from the headless lady? Not so. What then? He had slept indifferently, having been kept awake by his own distracting thoughts. If he chanced to close his eyes for a moment his peace was disturbed by the most chaotic and depressing dreams. Was he unwell? Did the fare at the inn disagree with him? He made no complaints. Then why this strange squeamishness—these wild chaotic dreams, through all of which one face in particular seemed always to the fore? Sometimes happy and smiling, full of life and health, then sad and downcast—again looking at him with pleading eyes, yet always the same face. Whose face this was we will leave our readers to conjecture.

"Bah!" soliloquised our artist, as he placed one foot upon the floor, "a chit of a girl like that, and at my age too."

He wasn't much past eight and twenty, true, but then the girl running in his thoughts was barely sixteen. In love? Not he. She was a dear, sweet child, it was true, and pure as an angel; but her education, her extreme youth, her position, her surroundings—no, no.

Now he was quite out of bed. His shaving water stood ready for him outside. He opened the door ajar, and took it in. Then placing the jug on the table, he proceeded to strop his razors. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror, and started.

"I'll tell you what it is, Vandyke, my boy," he said, accosting his own reflection in the glass, "you are looking worse than I thought. Come, cheer up, and make the best of things. It would never do for the members of the club to notice anything, and by putting two and two together, guess at the reason why. No, I must dissemble."

Now, men of the world are shrewd observers, and a very slight clue is often enough. Here, for instance, was a case of two young persons, both good looking, being thrown together under circumstances peculiarly favourable for a flirtation, being alone and unobserved. Well, what then? Need they necessarily fall in love with each other? Not necessarily perhaps, says the world, but in all probability they will. Time and opportunity alone being necessary to bring the matter about. So the world may perhaps not be so very far wrong in its deductions.

Having now mixed up an abundant lather, McGuilp rubbed it well over his chin and lower part of his face. Then inserting his razor in the hot water, he, with as steady a hand as possible under the circumstances, proceeded to reap the hirsute stubble from its native habitat until the operation was completed to his satisfaction. Having at length finished his toilet with even more than usual precision, he called up a cheerful look to his countenance, and joined the rest of the members at the breakfast-table, with an hilarity and jocoseness of manner which took them all in.

The breakfast was sumptuous as usual. The table groaned under every delicacy of the season, and our members, having seated themselves, did ample honour to the repast. A yule log blazed on the hearth, and a general air of comfort pervaded the inn, as if to make up for the murky weather without. Yet, despite these creature comforts, and the hearty appreciation of them by our members, there was one present whose appetite failed him. In spite of his forced hilarity, which he now found it difficult to sustain, for sad thoughts would obtrude themselves, our artist but pecked at his food.

The fumes of the eggs and bacon sickened him. The kippered herrings were an offence unto his nostrils. He loathed such gross cheer. His toast and roll were but nibbled at, his cup of coffee barely sipped, yet keep up appearances he must. So he talked a good deal of vapid nonsense, made trivial remarks about the weather, etc., which served to put the rest of the members off the scent, engrossed as each was with his own favourite dish. The professional eye of Dr. Bleedem, however, was more on the alert, and not so easily deceived.

"You are not looking so well this morning, Mr. McGuilp," he said, eyeing his patient critically.

Our artist hastened to assure him that he never felt better in his life. This remark, however, fell flat upon the doctor's ears, and he proceeded as if he had not heard him.

"You have eaten nothing. I notice that you only play with your food. Now, when a patient plays with his food, it is a sure sign that there is something wrong. You should take——"

"Oh! I don't want any medicine, thank you," interrupted McGuilp. "I assure you I am all right. A little loss of appetite, as you say; perhaps from the sudden change in the weather, which always affects me more or less. The fact is, I didn't sleep very well last night, and——"

"Yes, I can see that," continued Dr. Bleedem.

By this time the other members were getting interested, and our artist found himself suddenly the cynosure for all the scrutiny of the club. How he cursed the doctor's officiousness! Why couldn't he mind his own business?

"Yes, now you mention it, doctor, I can see that our young friend does not seem quite up to the mark to-day," remarked Mr. Oldstone.

"By his appearance I should say the young gentleman had something on his mind," suggested Mr. Hardcase. "His countenance seems sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," quoted Mr. Blackdeed from his favourite author.

Then each member had something to say in turn, till our artist felt himself blushing up to the roots of his hair. In vain did he give himself a twisted pinch in the fleshy part of his leg under the table. The blush would rise, and there was no checking it. He fancied he could see the members give side glances one to the other, or trying to conceal a smile; but this may have been imagination.

Breakfast being now over, each member rose from the table, some gathering round the fire, one or two of them peering out into the murky gloom. Then Helen entered to clear away the breakfast things. She, too, seemed less lively than her wont, her face paler, and she went about her domestic duties mechanically, with downcast eyes.

"Why, Helen, my girl," exclaimed Dr. Bleedem, "you don't look as bright as usual. Have you been having a sleepless night? Have you been losing your appetite?"

The girl looked up confusedly, and a deep blush suffused her face and neck. The fame of Dr. Bleedem was great in the neighbourhood. She believed herself to be in the presence of a man who could read the secrets of her inmost soul, and that all attempts to mask them from his scrutinising gaze would be worse than useless.

"What has come to you young people of late, I don't know," continued Dr. Bleedem. "Now, here is Mr. McGuilp, he, too, has been losing his appetite, and suffering from insomnia."

Oh! how our artist wished that the ground would open at his feet and swallow him up. In vain he trod on his toes and turned his face towards the window, as if peering into the snow that was now falling fast. His ears continued to burn like fire, and all he could do, by mopping his forehead with his pocket-handkerchief, was inadequate to keep back the traitor blush.

"Oh! oh!" muttered Dr. Bleedem to himself, whilst gazing from one to the other. "Is that the way the wind lies?"

The members now began to look sideways, one at the other. One of them raised his eyebrows; another winked; a third suppressed a titter; but as this all took place behind our artist's back, who was still looking out intently at the snow, there was nothing to wound his sensibilities.

At length Mr. Oldstone broke the silence. "When are you thinking of beginning the copy of our Helen's picture, Mr. McGuilp?"

"I? Oh yes, just so," replied our artist, waking up out of a reverie. "Well, the fact is, we are most unfortunate in the weather. It is impossible to begin if it continues like this. Should it clear up later, I will at once set to work."

"Good. And now gentlemen, what do you all propose doing to while away the time? A rubber of whist, a game of chess, backgammon, or what?" inquired the antiquary.

After a little discussion, it was decided that Dr. Bleedem, Professor Cyanite, Mr. Crucible, and Mr. Oldstone, should form a party at whist. Mr. Blackdeed and Mr. Hardcase played a game of chess, while the poet and the painter, not being disposed to join in any game, retired into a corner together, and were soon deep in a discussion upon the arts of painting and poetry. A couple of hours passed away, and still the members were absorbed, each in his favourite pursuit, when the weather began to clear up, and the sun shone brightly.

This decided our artist to set about his allotted task; so breaking off the conversation with his poet friend, he repaired to the studio, and placing a clean canvas, the same size as that of the portrait, upon the easel, he commenced his copy; and here we will leave him to continue his task for the present.

Over a fortnight had passed since we left our artist at his work. The task was now completed. He had found it necessary to have one or two extra sittings from Helen herself on the copy, just to give more truth to it, as he said. However, as everything on this earth comes to an end, there was an end also to these sittings.

"Helen," said our artist to his model at the last, "I must go. My affairs call me back to Italy. I have been keeping my studio on all this time, and I have certain business to settle which will brook no delay."

Helen's countenance fell, and her lip quivered. Her eyes grew moist and downcast. In a voice that she endeavoured to render firm, she ventured to inquire: "And will it be for long, sir?"

"For very long, Helen? Perhaps for ever."

Helen had no answer to this. Her sobs were choking her. The tears stole silently down her cheeks, but she whisked them away with her handkerchief, and did her best to appear outwardly calm.

Our artist, too, felt a lump in his throat, and his eyes suffused with tears.

"Perhaps, sir," meekly suggested the girl, "when you have settled all your affairs abroad, you may think of taking a holiday, and be paying us a flying visit, just to see Mr. Oldstone and the other gentlemen, you know. I'm sure both father and mother will be glad to see you again."

"I am afraid not, Helen. I am afraid not," and our artist slowly and sadly shook his head.

"What! never—never again!" almost shrieked the child.

Here she broke down completely. All restraint and propriety flew to the winds. Nature, till now trampled upon and held in abeyance, at this point rebelled and relieved herself in a torrent of the bitterest sobs and tears.

"Helen! dear Helen! What is this?" cried McGuilp, running to her assistance, his own tears falling fast the while!

"Oh! what a brute I have been! Quick, rouse yourself. There are footsteps in the passage. Somebody is coming." Thus warned, there was a sudden mopping of eyes and blowing of noses, when the door opened, and Dame Hearty presented herself to ask if Helen could be spared to assist her in the kitchen.

"Oh! certainly," replied our artist, averting his face and busying himself with putting away his palette and brushes, whilst assuming a firm voice. "Yes," continued he, still turning his back, "I think I may say that I have finished with her now. This is the last sitting in fact. There is the copy I intend to present to the club. This one here is the first one, which I am going to keep for myself. Which of the two do you prefer, Dame Hearty?"

In this way he rattled on to hide his confusion. Helen had slipped noiselessly away, bathed her face in cold water, and returned to the kitchen.

"Well, sir," replied Dame Hearty, in answer to our artist's question, "I really don't know what to say. They are both so lovely, there's not a pin to choose between them."

Then, scanning our artist's countenance, she observed:

"You appear to have a bad cold, sir."

"I am afraid I have, Dame Hearty," said McGuilp; "the weather has been very uncertain, and I think I must have committed some imprudence."

"Let me make you a basin of gruel, sir. No? It's a capital thing, and you should keep out of all draughts, and——"

"And keep my bed, perhaps you'll tell me, my good woman," interrupted McGuilp. "No, no; I've no time to coddle. Do you know, Dame Hearty, I must be off to-morrow to London by the stage, as I have to return to Rome without further delay. Already I am long after my time."

"So soon! Why, you have paid us a short visit," exclaimed the hostess. "Well, sir, you knows best. All I can say is that my husband and I will be most glad to see you again, when next you be passing this way."

A knock at the door, and our host entered to ask if he might be allowed to see the copy.

"Certainly, my good host, here it is," said McGuilp.

Jack Hearty went into ecstacies over it, saying he didn't know which he liked best.

"Mr. McGuilp says he is off again to-morrow, Jack," began our hostess.