which haply told me, that the all-cheering Sun Was rising on our garden. When I dozed, My infant's moanings mingled with my slumbers And waked me.—If you were a mother, lady, I should scarce dare to tell you, that its noises And peevish cries so fretted on my brain That I have struck the innocent babe in anger. Teft Esa. O Heaven it is too horrible to hear. ALH A de A. what was it then to suffer? T is most right That such as you should hear it.—Know you not, what Nature makes you mourn, she bids you heal? Great Evils ask great Passions to redress them, And Whirlwinds fitliest scatter Pestilence. trfa es A. | You were at length released ALHA of A. Yes, at length I saw the blessed arch of the whole heaven' | T was the first time my infant smiled. No more— For if I dwell upon that moment, Lady, A trance comes on which makes me o'er again All I then was—my knees hang loose and drag, And my lip falls with such an idiot laugh, That you would start and shudder!

tekesa. But your husband— A La Ann A. A month's imprisonment would kill him, Lady. tearsA. Alas, poor man! alth A of A.

| He hath a lion's courage,

Fearless in act, but feeble in endurance;

| Unfit for boisterous times, with gentle heart He worships nature in the hill and valley, Not knowing what he loves, but loves it all–

Enter Alvan disguised as a Moaesco, and in Moorish garments.

| teaks A. Know you that stately Moor? | A Lhad sta. I know him not : But doubt not he is some Moresco chieftain, who hides himself among the Alpuxarras. tea es A. The Alpuxarras? Does he know his danger, So near this seat? A LHAda A. He wears the Moorish robes too, As in defiance of the royal edict. Alsanna advances to Alvar, who has walked to the back of the stage, near the rocks. Teness drops her veil. - al-HADRA. Gallant Moresco An inquisitor, Monviedro, of known hatred to our race-

Alvan (interrupting her). You have mistaken me. I am a Christian. Al-HA ph. A. H- deems that we are plotting to ensnare him : speak to him, Lady—none can hear you speak, And not believe you innocent of guile.

TeRESA. If aught enforce you to concealment, Sir– ALHA DRA. He trembles strangely. [Alvah sinks down and hides his face in his robe. Ten Es A. See, we have disturb’d him. [Approaches nearer to him. I pray you think us friends—uncowl your face, For you seem faint, and the night breeze blows healing. I pray you think us friends! Alvah (raising his head). Calm, very calm 'T is all too tranquil for reality And she spoke to me with her innocent voice, That voice, that innocent voice! She is no traitress! TEResa. Let us retire. (Haughtily to Alhapna). [They advance to the front of the Stage. AthAdRA (with scorn). He is indeed a Christian. Alvar (aside). She deems me dead, yet wears no mourning garment! Why should my brother's—wife—wear mourning garments 2 [To Teresa. Your pardon, noble dame! that I disturb’d you : I had just started from a frightful dream. refuses A. Dreams tell but of the past, and yet, "t is said, They prophesy— ALWAR. The Past lives o'er again In its effects, and to the guilty spirit The ever-frowning Present is its image. triars A. Traitress' (Then aside). What sudden spell o'ermasters me? why seeks he me, shunning the Moorish woman? [Teresa looks round uneasily, but gradually becomes attentive as Alv AR proceeds in the next speech. ALW AR. I dreamt I had a friend, on whom 1 leant With blindest trust, and a betrothed maid, Whom I was wont to call not mine, but me : For mine own self seem'd nothing, lacking her. his maid so idolized that trusted friend Dishonour'd in my absence, soul and body! Fear, following guilt, tempted to blacker guilt, And murderers were suborn’d against my life. But by my looks, and most impassion'd words, I roused the virtues that are dead in no man, Even in the assassins' hearts! they made their terms, And thank'd me for redeeming them from murder. A La A. D. R.A. You are lost in thought: hear him no more, sweet Lady' retres A. From morn to night I am myself a dreamer, And slight things bring on me the idle mood' Well, sir, what happen'd then ALV AROn a rude rock, A rock, methought, fast by a grove of firs, Whose thready leaves to the low-breathing gale Made a soft sound most like the distant ocean,

And bending o'er her self-inflicted wounds,
I might have met the evil glance of frenzy,
And leapt myself into an unblest grave!
I pray'd for the punishment that cleanses hearts:
For still I loved her!
ALHAdr A.
And you dreamt all this?
TeRF.S.A.
My soul is full of visions all as wild !
A LHA of A.
There is no room in this heart for puling love tales.
Teresa (lifts up her veil, and advances to Alvah).
Stranger, farewell! I guess not who you are,
Nor why you so address'd your tale to me.
Your mien is noble, and, I own, perplex'd me
With obscure memory of something past,
Which still escaped my efforts, or presented
Tricks of a fancy pamper'd with long wishing.
If, as it sometimes happens, our rude startling
Whilst your full heart was shaping out its dream,
Drove you to this, your not ungentle, wildness—
You have my sympathy, and so farewell!
But if some undiscover'd wrongs oppress you,
And you need strength to drag them into light,
The generous Valdez, and my Lord Ordonio,
Have arm and will to aid a noble sufferer;
Nor shall you want my favourable pleading.
[Exeunt TEREs, and Alhabha.
Alvah (alone).
'T is strange! It cannot be my Lord Ordonio'
Her Lord Ordonio: Nay, I will not do it!
I cursed him once—and one curse is enough!
How had she look'd, and pale but not like guilt—
And her calm tones—sweet as a song of mercy!
If the bad spirit retain'd his angel's voice,
Hell scarce were Hell. And why not innocent?
Who meant to murder me, might well cheat her?
But ere she married him, he had stain'd her honour;
Ah! there I am hamper'd. What if this were a lie
Framed by the assassin' Who should tell it him,
If it were truth? Ordonio would not tell him.

No start, no jealousy of stirring conscience!
And she referr'd to me—fondly, methought !
Could she walk here if she had been a traitress?
Here, where we play'd together in our childhood?
Here, where we plighted vows? where her cold cheek
Received my last kiss, when with suppress'd feelings
She had fainted in my arms? It cannot be!
'T is not in nature! I will die, believing
That I shall meet her where no evil is,
No treachery, no cup dash'd from the lips.
I'll haunt this scene no more! live she in peace!
Her husband—ay, her husband 1 May this angel
New-mould his canker'd heart! Assist me, Heaven,
That I may pray for my poor guilty brother! [Exit.

4 wild and mountainous Country. Ordoxio and Istdone are discovered, supposed at a little distance from Isidor. E.'s house. on to onto. Here we may stop: your house distinct in view, Yet we secured from listeners. isi do Re. Now indeed My house! and it looks cheerful as the clusters Basking in sunshine on yon vine-clad rock, That over-brows it! Patron Friend . Preserver! Thrice have you saved my life. Once in the battle You gave it me: next rescued me from suicide, When for my follies I was made to wander, With mouths to feed, and not a morsel for them: Now, but for you, a dungeon's slimy stones Had been my bed and pillow. oad onio. Good Isidore! why this to me? It is enough, you know it. 1st do R.E. A common trick of Gratitude, my lord, Seeking to ease her own full heart—— on do Nio. Enough, A debt repaid ceases to be a debt. You have it in your power to serve me greatly. isit of e. And how, my lord? I pray you to name the thing. I would climb up an ice-glazed precipice To pluck a weed you fancied ondonio (with embarrassment and hesitation). Why—that—Lady– Isidore. T is now three years, my lord, since last I saw you: Have you a son, my lord? of noxio. O miserable— [Aside. Isidore' you are a man, and know mankind. I told you what I wish’d—now for the truth— She loved the man you kill'd. isidone (looking as suddenly alarmed). You jest, my lord? of troxio.

And till his death is proved she will not wed me.

Isidofile. You sport with me, my lord? on do Nid. Come, come! this foolery Lives only in thy looks, thy heart disowns it! isi done. I can bear this, and any thing more grievous From you, my lord—but how can I serve you here! ob Donio. why, you can utter with a solemn gesture Oracular sentences of deep no-meaning, Wear a quaint garment, make mysterious antics— isi do R.E. I am dull, my lord! I do not comprehend you. of no Nio. In blunt terms, you can play the sorcerer. She hath no faith in Holy Church, "t is true: Her lover school'd her in some newer nonsense! Yet still a tale of spirits works upon her. She is a lone enthusiast, sensitive, Shivers, and can not keep the tears in her eye: And such do love the marvellous too well Not to believe it. We will wind up her fancy With a strange music, that she knows not of With fumes of frankincense, and mummery, Then leave, as one sure token of his death, That portrait, which from off the dead man's neck I bade thee take, the trophy of thy conquest. isi done. Will that be a sure sign? on toonio. Beyond suspicion. Fondly caressing him, her favour'd lover By some base spell he had bewitch'd her senses), She whisper'd such dark fears of me, forsooth, As made this heart pour gall into my veins. And as she coyly bound it round his neck, She made him promise silence; and now holds The secret of the existence of this portrait, Known only to her lover and herself. But I had traced her, stolen unnoticed on them, And unsuspected saw and heard the whole. isi don E. But now I should have cursed the man who told me You could ask aught, my lord, and I refuse— | But this I can not do. ofad onto. Where lies your scruple? Isidore (with stammering). Why—why, my lord! You know you told me that the lady loved you, | Had loved you with incautious tenderness; That if the young man, her betrothed husband, Returned, yourself, and she, and the honour of both Must perish. Now, though with no tenderer scruples | Than those which being native to the heart, Than those, my lord, which merely being a man— onbonio (aloud, though to express his contempt he speaks in the third person). This fellow is a Man—he kill'd for hire One whom he knew not, yet has tender scruples!

[Then turning to Isidore.

These doubts, these fears, thy whine, thy stammering— Pish, fool! thou hlunder'st through the book of guilt,

| -

Spelling thy villany.

Isidor E. My lord—my lord, I can bear much—yes, very much from you! But there's a point where sufferance is meanness: I am no villain—never kill'd for hire— My gratitude—— OR to onio. Oay—your gratitude! 'Twas a well-sounding word—what have you done with it? isii) of E. Who proffers his past favours for my virtue— ondonio (with bitter scorn). Virtue!—— isiddha e. Tries to o'erreach me—is a very sharper, And should not speak of gratitude, my lord. I knew not 't was your brother! oado Nio (alarmed). And who told you? Isidotte. He himself told me. or nonio. Ha! you talk'd with him And those, the two Morescoes who were with you? isi none. Both fell in a night brawl at Malaga. ordonio (in a low voice). My brother— isi Don E. Yes, my lord, I could not tell you! I thrust away the thought—it drove me wild. But listen to me now—I pray you listen—— on donio. Villain! no more. I'll hear no more of it. isi do it e. My lord, it much imports your future safety That you should hear it. ordonio (turning off from Isidore). Am not I a Man! 'T is as it should be tut—the deed itself Was idle, and these after-pangs still idler! isi do to e. We met him in the very place you mention'd. Hard by a grove of firs— on doxio. Enough—enough— isi Don E. He fought us valiantly, and wounded all; In fine, compell'd a parley. oaponio (sighing, as if lost in thought). Alvar! brother! Isidore. He offer'd me his purse— onnonio (with eager suspicion). Yes? Isidone (indignantly). Yes—I spurn'd it.— He promised us I know not what—in vain! Then with a look and voice that overawed me, He said, What mean you, friends? My life is dear: I have a brother and a promised wife, Who make life dear to me—and if I fall, That brother will roam earth and hell for vengeance. There was a likeness in his face to yours; I ask'd his brother's name: he said—Ordonio,

Son of Lord Waldez! I had well nigh fainted.
At length. I said (if that indeed I said it,
And that no Spirit made my tongue its organ),
That woman is dishonour'd by that brother,
And he the man who sent us to destroy you.
He drove a thrust at me in rage. I told him,
he wore her portrait round his neck. He look'd
As he had been made of the rock that propt his back-
Ay, just as you look now—only less ghastly!
At length, recovering from his trance, he threw
His sword away, and bade us take his life,
It was not worth his keeping.
or do Nio.
And you kill'd him?
Oh blood-hounds! may eternal wrath flame round you!
He was his Maker's Image undefaced? [A pause.
It seizes me—by Hell I will go on!
What—wouldst thou stop, man? thy pale looks won't
save thee! [A pause.
Oh cold—cold—cold! shot through with icy cold!
Isidone (aside).
Were he alive he had return'd ere now—
The consequence the same-dead through his plotting!
oft do Nio.
O this unutterable dying away—here-
This sickness of the heart! [A pause.
What if I went
And lived in a hollow tomb, and fed on weeds?
Ay! that's the road to heaven! 0 fool! fool! fool!
[A pause.
What have I done but that which nature destined,
Or the blind elements stirr'd up within me?
If good were meant, why were we made these Beings?
And if not meant—
is idor E.
You are disturb'd, my lord!
onbonio (starts, looks at him wildly; then, after a
pause, during which his features are forced into
a smile).
A gust of the soul! i' faith, it overset me.
O't was all folly—all! idle as laughter!
Now, Isidore! I swear that thou shalt aid me.
Isidone (in a low voice).
I'll perish first!
on nonio.
What dost thou mutter of
isi dohr.
Some of your servants know me, I am certain.
on donio.
There's some sense in that scruple; but we'll mask you.
is ido R.E.
They'll know my gait; but stay! last night I watch'd
A stranger near the ruin in the wood,
Who as it seem'd was gathering herbs and wild slowers.
I had follow'd him at distance, seen him scale
Its western wall, and by an easier entrance
Stole after him unnoticed. There I mark'd,
That, 'mid the chequer-work of light and shade,
With curious choice he pluck'd no other flowers
But those on which the moonlight fell: and once
I heard him muttering o'er the plant. A wizard—
Some gaunt slave prowling here for dark employment.
on do Nio.
Doubtless you question'd him?
Isidone.
"T was my intention,

Having first traced him homeward to his haunt.
But lo! the stern Dominican, whose spies
Lurk every where, already (as it seem'd)
Had given commission to his apt familiar
To seek and sound the Moor; who now returning,
Was by this trusty agent stopped midway.
I, dreading fresh suspicion if found near him
In that lone place, again conceal’d myself,
Yet within hearing. So the Moor was question'd,
And in your name, as lord of this domain,
Proudly he answer'd, “Say to the Lord Ordonio,
He that can bring the dead to life again!»

- ondonio. A strange reply! Isidorae. - Ay, all of him is strange.

He call'd himself a Christian, yet he wears
The Moorish robes, as if he courted death.
on Donio.
Where does this wizard live?
Isidohr (pointing to the distance).
You see that brooklet?
Trace its course backward: through a narrow opening
It leads you to the place.
on Donio.
How shall I know it?
Isidone.
You cannot err. It is a small green dell
Built all around with high off-sloping hills,
And from its shape our peasants aptly call it
The Giant's Cradle. There's a lake in the midst,
And round its banks tall wood that branches over,
And makes a kind of faery forest grow
Down in the water. At the further end
A puny cataract falls on the lake;
And there, a curious sight! you see its shadow
For ever curling like a wreath of smoke,
Up through the foliage of those faery trees.
His cot stands opposite. You cannot miss it.
onbonio (in retiring stops suddenly at the edge of the
scene, and then turning round to Isidorf).
Ila'—Who lurks there? Have we been overheard?
There, where the smooth high wall of slate-rock glit.
ters-
isidone.
'Neath those tall stones, which, propping each the other,
Form a mock portal with their pointed arch :
Pardon my smiles! T is a poor Idiot Boy,
Who sits in the sun, and twirls a bough about,
His weak eyes seeth'd in most unmeaning tears.
And so he sits, swaying his cone-like head :
And, staring at his bough from morn to sun-set
See-saws his voice in inarticulate noises!