_Isid._ Oh Heavens!

_Inez._ They would not listen to my frantic words!

They would not credit our a.s.serted union!

They dragg'd me to a convent in their wrath, And left me to my widowhood and tears, Tore my sweet infant from my longing arms, And while I madly scream'd, and begg'd for pity, The abbess spoke of penitence and prayer.

Reason, for weeks, forsook me: when again I was awaken'd to a cruel world, They would have forced me to a.s.sume the veil.

_Isid._ To me, that force had been most needlessly Exerted. What haven could the world offer So meet for such a wreck of happiness?

What could induce you to repel that force?

_Inez._ The hope, that one day I might find my boy-- A hope which still I cherish. Years have fled; My brothers fell by those who sought revenge, And I remain'd, sole scion of our n.o.ble house, In line direct. Then did I seek my child.

Those who attended at the birth inform'd me It had a sanguine bracelet on the wrist.

By threats and bribes at last I ascertained My child had been removed unto the hospital Built in this city for receiving foundlings.

Full of a mother's joy, a mother's fear, I hasten'd there, alas! to disappointment!

All clue of him was lost, and should my boy survive, The heir of Guzman's n.o.ble house may be Some poor mechanic's slave!

(_In anguish throws herself into a chair._)

_Isidora_ (_kneels beside Inez_).

Indeed 'tis dreadful. I marvel not you grieve To think that he survives in hapless penury, Unconscious of his right, perchance unfitted, And if recover'd, prove no source of joy, But one of deep regret, that a young stock Which culture and the graft of education Would now have loaded on each bough with fruit, Neglect hath left degenerate and worthless.

How should I joy, yet dread to meet my cousin, Should your maternal hopes be realised!

_Inez._ He is my child. You cannot feel the pangs Which rack a mother sever'd from her own.

_Isid._ I've often thought how sweet that love must be Where all is sanction'd, nought is to conceal-- When hand may lock in hand, heart beat with heart, And the whole world may smile but not upbraid.

Such love a sister towards a brother bears, And such a mother feels towards her son.

I have no brother--none of kin but you.

Now, dearest mother, for mother you have been Unto my childhood and now budding youth, Would that my feebleness could e'er repay Your years of love. O that I could console you, And prove me grateful! Heaven ne'er be mine If these, my sobbing words, be not sincere.

_Inez._ 'Tis well, my child, thou canst console me much: Let my sad tale but prove to thee a beacon And I am satisfied. Tell me, my love, Hast thou no secrets hidden in thy breast?

[_Isidora, still kneeling, covers her face with her hands._]

Hast thou fulfill'd thy oft-repeated promise?

_Isid._ Forgive me, dearest aunt; forgive and pity me!

_Inez._ Last night, my child, I heard the sound of music: Methought thy name was wafted by the air With most harmonious utterance.

_Isid._ Forgive me, aunt, but say that you forgive me!

You shall know all.

_Inez._ I do, my Isidora, I forgive thee (_raises her_).

But I must have thy confidence, my child.

Who is this cavalier?

_Isid._ Alas! I know not.

_Inez._ Not know, my Isidora? Hast thou then Been so unwise as to receive a stranger?

_Isid._ Alas! I have, but too much for my peace.

_Inez._ Thou lov'st him then? [_Isidora throws herself into the arms of Inez and bursts into tears._]

(_Aside_) The barb has entered deeply. (_Aloud_) Isidora, Come, come, cheer up, my love, I mean not to reproach. All may yet be well.

(_Inez kisses Isidora, and they separate._)

Thou say'st he is a stranger?

_Isid._ I only know he calls himself Don Gaspar.

I have indeed been foolish.

_Inez._ Has he ne'er mention'd his condition, His family or descent?

_Isid._ Never; and when that I would question him, He answers vaguely. There is some mystery.

_Inez._ With honest love concealment never dwells.

When does he come again?

_Isid._ To-morrow even--and he'll keep his word.

_Inez._ Then will I see him. Fear not, my love, No trifling cause shall bar thy happiness.

Be he but gentle, e'en of Moorish blood, And honest, he is thine. Go to thy chamber, Thither will I follow, that we some project May devise, which shall remove all obstacle. [_Exit Isidora._ I like not this Don Gaspar, and my heart Forebodes some evil nigh. I may be wrong, But in my sear'd imagination, He is some snake whose fascinating eyes, Fix'd on my trembling bird, have drawn her down Into his pois'nous fangs. How frail our s.e.x!

Prudence may guard us from th' a.s.saults of pa.s.sion, But storm'd the citadel, in woman's heart, Victorious love admits no armistice Or sway conjoint. He garrisons alone. [_Exit Inez._

_Act III. Scene I._

_The monastery.--Procession of monks, choristers, &c., returning from performing service in the chapel.--The organ still playing in the chapel within, Anselmo at the head of the choristers.--They pa.s.s on bowing to the Superior, who, with Manuel, remain.--The organ ceases._

_Sup._ (_looking round_). Anselmo hath pa.s.s'd on. I do observe, Of late he shuns communion. 'Tis most strange.

Say, Manuel, hast thou discover'd aught?

Doth he continue steadfast and devout?

Or, borne away by youthful phantasies, Neglect the duties of our sacred order?

_Man._ He bears himself correctly, and e'er since His last offence, when self-inflicted pain Proved his contrition, he hath ever seem'd To be absorb'd in holy meditation.

_Sup._ May this continue, he's of great import To the well doing of our monastery---- Yet he hath not of late confess'd his sins.

_Man._ Perchance he hath not err'd. Forgive me, Heav'n, Rash words like these when all are born to sin!

I deem'd that he had nothing to confess Except the warring of his youthful pa.s.sions, O'er which he strives to hold dominion.

_Sup._ I would it were so; but, too frequently, I do perceive a furtive glance of fire From 'neath his fringed eyelash wildly start, As does the lightning from a heavy cloud: It doth denote strong pa.s.sion--much too strong For youthful resolution to control.

_Man._ Why then permit him to behold the world And all its vanities? 'Tis true, our coffers Are somewhat help'd by that he brings to them, Instructing music, a gift from nature In him most perfect. Were it not better That he within our cloister'd gates should stay?

_Sup._ Then would he pine; for our monastic vows Are much too harsh, too rigid save for those Who, having proved the world, at length retire When they have lost the appet.i.te to sin.

There's much depending on the boy Anselmo; He is a prize whose worth I little knew When first into our brotherhood he came.

_Man._ I comprehend you not.