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a child — it almost broke his heart.

       And once as he was working in the cellar,

       He heard a voice distinctly; ‘twas the youth’s,

       Who sung a doleful song about green fields,

       How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah 215

       To hunt for food, and be a naked man,

       And wander up and down at liberty.

       He always doted on the youth, and now

       His love grew desperate; and defying death,

       He made that cunning entrance I described: 220

       And the young man escaped.

      Maria. ‘Tis a sweet tale:

       Such as would lull a list’ning child to sleep,

       His rosy face besoil’d with unwiped tears.

       And what became of him?

      Foster-Mother. He went on shipboard

       With those bold voyagers, who made discovery 225

       Of golden lands; Leoni’s younger brother

       Went likewise, and when he return’d to Spain,

       He told Leoni that the poor mad youth,

       Soon after they arrived in that new world,

       In spite of his dissuasion seized a boat, 230

       And all alone set sail by silent moonlight,

       Up a great river, great as any sea,

       And ne’er was heard of more; but ‘tis supposed

       He liv’d and died among the savage men.

      Enter VELEZ.

      Velez. Still sad, Maria? This same wizard haunts you. 235

      Maria. O Christ! the tortures that hang o’er his head,

       If ye betray him to these holy brethren!

      Velez (with a kind of sneer). A portly man, and eloquent, and

       tender!

       In truth, I shall not wonder if you mourn

       That their rude grasp should seize on such a victim. 240

      Maria. The horror of their ghastly punishments

       Doth so o’ertop the height of sympathy,

       That I should feel too little for mine enemy —

       Ah! far too little — if ‘twere possible,

       I could feel more, even tho’ my child or husband 245

       Were doom’d to suffer them! That such things are ——

      Velez. Hush! thoughtless woman!

      Maria. Nay — it wakes within me

       More than a woman’s spirit.

      Velez (angrily). No more of this —

       I can endure no more.

      Foster-Mother. My honour’d master!

       Lord Albert used to talk so.

      Maria. Yes! my mother! 250

       These are my Albert’s lessons, and I con them

       With more delight than, in my fondest hour,

       I bend me o’er his portrait.

      Velez (to the Foster-Mother). My good woman,

       You may retire. [Exit the FOSTER-MOTHER.

      Velez. We have mourn’d for Albert.

       Have I no living son?

      Maria. Speak not of him! 255

       That low imposture — my heart sickens at it,

       If it be madness, must I wed a madman?

       And if not madness, there is mystery,

       And guilt doth lurk behind it!

      Valdez. Is this well?

      Maria. Yes! it is truth. Saw you his countenance? 260

       How rage, remorse, and scorn, and stupid fear,

       Displac’d each other with swift interchanges?

       If this were all assumed, as you believe,

       He must needs be a most consummate actor;

       And hath so vast a power to deceive me, 265

       I never could be safe. And why assume

       The semblance of such execrable feelings?

      Velez. Ungrateful woman! I have tried to stifle

       An old man’s passion! Was it not enough

       That thou hast made my son a restless man, 270

       Banish’d his health and half-unhinged his reason,

       But that thou wilt insult him with suspicion,

       And toil to blast his honour? I am old —

       A comfortless old man! Thou shalt not stay

       Beneath my roof!

      [FRANCESCO enters and stands listening.

      Velez. Repent and marry him — 275

       Or to the convent.

      Francesco (muttering). Good! good! very good!

      Maria. Nay, grant me some small pittance of my fortune,

       And I will live a solitary woman,

       Or my poor foster-mother and her grandsons

       May be my household.

      Francesco (advancing). I abhor a listener; 280

       But you spoke so, I could not choose but hear you.

       I pray, my lord! will you embolden me

       To ask you why this lady doth prefer

       To live in lonely sort, without a friend

       Or fit companion?

      Velez. Bid her answer you. 285

      Maria. Nature will be my friend and fit companion.

      [Turns off from them.

      O Albert! Albert! that they could return,

       Those blessed days, that imitated heaven!

       When we two wont to walk at evening-tide;

       When we saw nought but beauty; when we heard 290

       The voice of that Almighty One, who lov’d us,

       In every gale that breath’d, and wave that murmur’d!

       O we have listen’d, even till high-wrought pleasure

       Hath half-assumed the countenance of grief,

       And the deep sigh seem’d to heave up a weight 295

       Of bliss, that press’d too heavy on the heart.

      Francesco. But in the convent, lady, you would have

       Such aids as might preserve you from perdition.

       There you might dwell.

      Maria. With tame and credulous faith,

       Mad melancholy, antic merriment, 300

       Leanness, disquietude, and secret pangs!

       O God! it is a horrid thing to know

       That each pale wretch, who sits and drops her beads

       Had once a mind, which might have given her wings

       Such as the angels wear!

      Francesco (stifling his rage). Where is your son, my lord? 305

      Velez. I have not seen him, father, since he left you.

      Francesco.

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