A voice within her will repeat my name,
And she will say, "He was indeed my friend!"
O, would I were a soldier, not a scholar,

That the loud march, the deafening beat of drums,
The shattering blast of the brass-throated trumpet,
The din of arms, the onslaught and the storm,
And a swift death, might make me deaf for ever
To the upbraidings of this foolish heart!

Hyp. Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more!
To conquer love, one need but will to conquer.
Vict. Yet, good Hypolito, it is in vain

I throw into Oblivion's sea the sword
That pierces me; for, like Excalibar,

With gemmed and flashing hilt, it will not sink.
There rises from below a hand that grasps it,
And waves it in the air; and wailing voices
Are heard along the shore.

Hyp.

And yet at last

Down sank Excalibar to rise no more.
This is not well. In truth, it vexes me.
Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time,
To make them jog on merrily with life's burden,
Like a dead weight thou hangest on the wheels,
Thou art too young, too full of lusty health
To talk of dying.

Vict.

Yet I fain would die!

To go through life, unloving and unloved;

To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul

We cannot still; that longing, that wild impulse,
And struggle after something we have not

And cannot have; the effort to be strong;

And, like the Spartan boy, to smile, and smile,
While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks,
All this the dead feel not,-the dead alone!
Would I were with them!

Hyp.

We shall all be soon.

Vict. It cannot be too soon; for I am weary

Of the bewildering masquerade of Life,

Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as strangers;
Where whispers overheard betray false hearts;

And through the mazes of the crowd we chase
Some form of loveliness, that smiles, and beckons,
And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us
A mockery and a jest; maddened,—confused,—
Not knowing friend from foe.

Hyp.
Why seek to know?
Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth!
Take each fair mask for what it gives itself,
Nor strive to look beneath it.

I confess

Vict.
That were the wiser part. But hope no longer
Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man,

C

Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner,
Who, struggling to climb up into the boat,
Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off,
And sinks again into the weltering sea,
Helpless and hopeless!

Hyp. Yet thou shalt not perish.

The strength of thine own arm is thy salvation.
Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there shines
A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star!
(Sound of a village bell in the distance.)

Vict. Ave Maria! I hear the sacristan
Ringing the chimes from yonder village belfry!
A solemn sound, that echoes far and wide
Over the red roofs of the cottages,

And bids the labouring hind a-field, the shepherd,
Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer,

And all the crowd in village streets, stand still,

And breathe a prayer unto the blessed Virgin!

Hyp. Amen! amen! Not half a league from hence
The village lies.

Vict.

This path will lead us to it,

Over the wheat-fields, where the shadows sail
Across the running sea, now green, now blue,
And, like an idle mariner on the main,
Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten on.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.-Public square in the village of Guadarrama. The Ave Maria still tolling. A crowd of villagers, with their hats in their hands, as if in prayer. In front, a group of Gipsies. The bell rings a merrier peal. A Gipsy dance. Enter PANCHO, followed by PEDRO CRESPO.

Pancho. Make room, ye vagabonds and Gipsy thieves!
Make room for the Alcalde and for me!

Pedro C. Keep silence all! I have an edict here

From our most gracious lord, the King of Spain,

Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands,

Which I shall publish in the market place.

Open your ears and listen!

(Enter the PADRE CURA at the door of his cottage.)

Padre Cura,

Good day, and pray you, hear this edict read.

Padre C. Good day, and God be with you. Pray what is it?
Pedro C. An act of banishment against the Gipsies.

(Agitation and murmurs in the crowd.)

Pancho. Silence!

Pedro C. (reads). "I hereby order and command,
That the Egyptian and Chaldean strangers,
Known by the name of Gipsies, shall henceforth
Be banished from the realm, as vagabonds
And beggars; and if, after seventy days,
Any be found within our kingdom's bounds,
They shall receive a hundred lashes each;

The second time, shall have their ears cut off;

The third, be slaves for life to him who takes them,
Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I, the King."
Vile miscreants and creatures unbaptized!

You hear the law! Obey and disappear!

Pancho. And if in seventy days you are not gone, Dead or alive I make you all my slaves.

(The Gipsies go out in confusion, showing signs of fear and discontent. PANCHO follows.)

Padre C. A righteous law! A very righteous law! Pray you sit down.

Pedro C.

I thank you heartily.

(They seat themselves on a bench at the PADRE CURA's door. Sounds of guitars heard at a distance, approaching during the dialogue which follows.)

A very righteous judgment, as you say.

Now tell me, Padre Cura,-you know all things,—
How came these Gipsies into Spain?

Padre C.

Why, look you;
They came with Hercules from Palestine,
And hence are thieves and vagrants, Sir Alcalde,
As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus.
And look you, as Fray Jayme Bleda says,
There are a hundred marks to prove a Moor
Is not a Christian, so 'tis with the Gipsies.

They never marry, never go to mass,

Never baptize their children, nor keep Lent,
Nor see the inside of a church,-nor-nor-

Pedro C. Good reasons, good, substantial reasons all!
No matter for the other ninety-five.

They should be burnt, I see it plain enough,

They should be burnt.

(Enter VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO playing.)
Padre C.

And pray whom have we here?
Pedro C. More vagrants! By Saint Lazarus, more vagrants!
Hyp. Good evening, gentlemen! Is this Guadarrama?
Padre C. Yes, Guadarrama, and good evening to you.
Hyp. We seek the Padre Cura of the village;

And, judging from your dress and reverend mien,
You must be he.

Padre C.
I am. Pray what's your pleasure?
Hyp. We are poor students, travelling in vacation.
You know this mark?

(Touching the wooden spoon in his hat-band.)

Padre C. (joyfully).

Ay, know it, and have worn it. Pedro C. (aside). Soup-eaters! by the mass! The worst of

vagrants;

And there's no law against them. Sir, your servant. [Exit.
Padre C. Your servant, Pedro Crespo.
Hyp.

From the first moment I beheld your face,
I said within myself, "This is the man!

Padre Cura,

There is a certain something in your looks,

A certain scholar-like and studious something,—
You understand,-which cannot be mistaken;
Which marks you as a very learned man,

In fine, as one of us.

Vict. (aside).

What impudence!

Hyp. As we approached, I said to my companion,
"That is the Padre Cura; mark my words!"
Meaning your Grace. "The other man,” said I,
"Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench,

Must be the sacristan."

66

Ah! said you so?

His air

Padre C.
Why, that was Pedro Crespo, the alcalde!
Hyp. Indeed! you much astonish me!
Was not so full of dignity and grace
As an alcalde's should be.

Padre C.

That is true.

He is out of humour with some vagrant Gipsies,
Who have their camp here in the neighbourhood.
There is nothing so undignified as anger.

Hyp. The Padre Cura will excuse our boldness,
If, from his well-known hospitality,

We crave a lodging for the night.

Padre C.

I pray you!
You do me honour! I am but too happy

To have such guests beneath my humble roof.
It is not often that I have occasion

To speak with scholars; and Emollit mores
Nec sinit esse feros, Cicero says.

Hyp. 'Tis Ovid, is it not?

Padre C.

No, Cicero.

Hyp. Your Grace is right. You are the better scholar.

Now, what a dunce was I to think it Ovid!

But hang me if it is not! Aside.)

Padre C.

He was a very great man, was Cicero !
Pray you go in, go in! no ceremony.

Pass this way.

[Exeunt.

Enter the

SCENE III.A room in the PADRE CURA's house.

PADRE and HYPOLITO.

Padre C. So then, Señor, you come from Alcalá.

I am glad to hear it. It was there I studied.
Hyp. And left behind an honoured name, no doubt.
How may I call your Grace?

Padre C.

Gerónimo

De Santillana, at your Honour's service.

Hyp. Descended from the Marquis Santillana?

From the distinguished poet?

Padre C.

Not from the poet.

Нур.

From the Marquis,

Why, they were the same.

Let me embrace you! O some lucky star

Has brought me hither! Yet once more!-once more!
Your name is ever green in Alcalá,
And our professor, when we are unruly,
Will shake his hoary head and say,

It was not so in Santillana's time!"

"Alas!

Padre C. I did not think my name remembered there.
Hyp. More than remembered; it is idolized.
Padre C. Of what professor speak you?

Hyp.

Timoneda.

Padre C. I don't remember any Timoneda.

Hyp. A grave and sombre man, whose beetling brow O'erhangs the rushing current of his speech

As rocks o'er rivers hang. Have you forgotten?

Padre C. Indeed, I have. Oh, those were pleasant days,

Those college days! I ne'er shall see the like!

I had not buried then so many hopes!

I had not buried then so many friends!

I've turned my back on what was then before me;
And the bright faces of my young companions

Are wrinkled like my own, or are no more.

Do you remember Cueva?

Hyp.

Cueva? Cueva?

Padre C. Fool that I am! He was before your time; You're a mere boy, and I am an old man.

Hyp. I should not like to try my strength with you.

Padre C. Well, well. But I forget; you must be hungry. Martina ho! Martina! 'Tis my niece.

(Enter MARTINA.)

Hyp. You may be proud of such a niece as that.

I wish I had a niece. Emollit mores.

He was a very great man, was Cicero !

Your servant, fair Martina.

Mart.

(Aside.)

Servant, sir.

Padre C. This gentleman is hungry. See thou to it.

Let us have supper.

Mart.

'Twill be ready soon.

Padre C. And bring a bottle of my Val-de-Peñas

Out of the cellar. Stay; I'll go myself.

Pray you, Señor, excuse me.

Hyp.

Hist Martina !

One word with you. Bless me! what handsome eyes!
To-day there have been Gipsies in the village.

Is it not so?

Mart. There have been Gipsies here.
Hyp. Yes, and they told your fortune.

Mart. (embarrassed).

[Exit.

Told my fortune?

Hyp. Yes, yes; I know they did. Give me your hand.

I'll tell you what they said. They said, they said,

The shepherd boy that loved you was a clown,

And him you should not marry. Was it not?
Mart. (surprised). How know you that?
Hyp.

O, I know more than that.