SCENE I.—_A Mountain Pass near Saragossa.
_Shot within. Then enter DON MENDO and VIOLANTE pursued by Robbers, among whom is VICENTE._
_Men._ Villains, let steel or bullet do their worst, I’ll die ere yield.
_Viol._ Heaven help us!
_Robber I._ Fool, to strive Against such odds—upon their own ground too, Red with the blood of hundreds like yourselves.
_Vic._ Come, sir, no more ado; But quietly give my young madam up, Nice picking for our captain.
_Men._ Not while a drop of blood is in my body.
_Robbers._ Here’s at you then!
_Viol._ My father!
(_As the Robbers attack MENDO, enter DON LOPE._)
_Lope._ How now? whom have you here?
_Vic._ Oh, noble captain, We found this lady resting from the sun Under the trees, with a small retinue, Who of course fled. All but this ancient gentleman, who still Holds out against us.
_Lope_ (_to MENDO_). What can you expect Against such numbers?
_Men._ Not my life, but death. You come in time— Upon my knees I do beseech of you (_kneels_) No other mercy save of instant death To _both_ of us.
_Lope._ Arise! you are the first Has moved me to the mercy you decline. This lady is—your wife?
_Men._ My only daughter!
_Viol._ In spirit as in blood. If by his death You think to make you masters of my life, Default of other weapon, with these hands I’ll cease the breath of life, or down these rocks Dash myself headlong.
_Lope._ Lady, calm yourself; Your beauty has subdued an angry devil One like yourself first raised within my soul. Your road lies whither, sir?
_Men._ To Saragossa. Where if I could requite—
_Lope._ Your name?
_Men._ Don Mendo Torellas, after a long embassage To Paris, Rome, and Naples, summon’d back By Pedro, King of Arragon—with whom If ’t be (as oft) some youthful petulance, Calling for justice or revenge at home, Drives you abroad to these unlawful courses, I pledge my word—
_Lope._ Alas, sir, I might hail Your offer could I hope that your deserts, However great, might cancel my account Of ill-deserving. But indeed my crimes Have gather’d so in number, and in weight, And condemnation—committed, some of them, To stave away the very punishment They must increase at last; others, again, In the sheer desperation of forgiveness That all had heap’d upon me—
_Men._ Nay, nay, nay; Despair not; trust to my good offices; In pledge of which here, now, before we part, I swear to make your pardon the first boon I’ll ask for or accept at the King’s hand. Your name?
_Lope._ However desperate, and ashamed To tell it, you shall hear it—and my story. Retire!
(_To the Robbers, who exeunt._)
Don Mendo, I am Lope, son Of Lope de Urrea, of some desert, At least in virtue of my blood.
_Men._ Indeed! Urrea and myself were, I assure you, Intimate friends of old,—another tie, If wanting one, to bind me to your service.
_Lope._ I scarce can hope it, sir; if I, his son, Have so disgraced him with my evil ways, And so impoverisht him with my expenses, Were you his friend, you scarcely can be mine. And yet, were I to tell you all, perhaps I were not all to blame.
_Men._ Come, tell me all; ’Tis fit that I should hear it.
_Viol._ I begin To breathe again.
_Lope._ Then listen, sir. My father in his youth, As you perhaps may know, but _why_ I know not, Held off from marriage; till, bethinking him, Or warn’d by others, what a shame it were So proud a name should die for want of wearer, In his late years he took to wife a lady Of blameless reputation, and descent As noble as his own, but so unequal In years, that she had scarcely told fifteen When age his head had whiten’d with such snows As froze his better judgment.
_Men._ Ay, I know Too well—too well! (_Aside._)
_Lope._ Long she repell’d his suit, Feeling how ill ill-sorted years agree; But, at the last, before her father’s will She sacrificed her own. Oh sacrifice That little lacks of slaughter! So, my father Averse from wedlock’s self, and she from him, Think what a wedlock this must be, and what The issue that was like to come of it! While other sons cement their parents’ love, My birth made but a wider breach in mine, Just in proportion as my mother loved Her boy, my father hated him—yes, hated, Even when I was lisping at his knees That little language charms all fathers’ hearts. Neglecting me himself, as I grew up He neither taught, nor got me taught, to curb A violent nature, which by love or lash May even be corrected in a wolf: Till, as I grew, and found myself at large, Spoilt both by mother’s love and father’s hate I took to evil company, gave rein To every passion as it rose within, Wine, dice, and women—what a precipice To build the fabric of a life upon! Which, when my father Saw tottering to its fall, he strove to train The tree that he had suffer’d to take root In vice, and grow up crooked—all too late! Though not revolting to be ruled by him, I could not rule myself. And so we lived Both in one house, but wholly apart in soul, Only alike in being equally My mother’s misery. Alas, my mother! My heart is with her still! Why, think, Don Mendo, That, would she see me, I must creep at night Muffled, a tip-toe, like a thief, to her, Lest he should know of it! Why, what a thing That such a holy face as filial love Must wear the mask of theft! But to sum up The story of my sorrows and my sins That have made me a criminal, and him Almost a beggar;— In the full hey-day of my wilfulness There lived a lady near, in whom methought Those ancient enemies, wit, modesty, And beauty, all were reconciled; to her, Casting my coarser pleasures in the rear, I did devote myself—first with mute signs, Which by and by began to breathe in sighs, And by and by in passionate words that love Toss’d up all shapeless, but all glowing hot, Up from my burning bosom, and which first Upon her willing ears fell unreproved, Then on her heart, which by degrees they wore More than I used to say her senseless threshold Wore by the nightly pressure of my feet. She heard my story, pitied me With her sweet eyes; and my unruly passion, Flusht with the promise of first victory, Push’d headlong to the last; not knowing, fool! How in love’s world the shadow of disappointment Exactly dogs the substance of success. In fine, one night I stole into her house, Into her chamber; and with every vow Of marriage on my tongue; as easy then To utter, as thereafter to forswear, When in the very jewel I coveted Very compliance seem’d to make a flaw That made me careless of it when possess’d. From day to day I put our marriage off With false pretence, which she at last suspecting Falsely continued seeming to believe, Till she had got a brother to her side, (A desperate man then out-law’d, like myself, For homicide,) who, to avenge her shame, With other two waylaid me on a night When as before I unsuspectingly Crept to her house; and set upon me so, All three at once, I just had time to parry Their thrusts, and draw a pistol, which till then They had not seen, when—
_Voices_ (_within_). Fly! Away! Away!
_Enter VICENTE._
_Lope._ What is the matter now?
_Vic._ Captain!
_Lope._ Well, speak.
_Vic._ We must be off; the lady’s retinue Who fled have roused the soldiery, and with them Are close upon our heels. We’ve not a moment.
_Lope._ Then up the mountain!
_Men._ Whither I will see They shall not follow you; and take my word I’ll not forget my promise.
_Lope._ I accept it.
_Men._ Only, before we part, give me some token, The messenger I send may travel with Safe through your people’s hands.
_Lope_ (_giving a dagger_). This then.
_Men._ A dagger? An evil-omen’d pass-word.
_Lope._ Ah, Don Mendo, What has a wretched robber got to give Unless some implement of death! And see, The wicked weapon cannot reach your hand, But it must bite its master’s. (_His hand bleeding._) Ill-omen’d as you say!
_Voices_ (_within_). Away! Away!
_Vic._ They’re close upon us!
_Viol._ O quick! begone! My life hangs on a thread While yours is in this peril.
_Lope._ That alone Should make me fly to save it. Farewell, lady. Farewell, Don Mendo.
_Men. and Viol._ Farewell!
_Lope._ What strange things One sun between his rise and setting brings!
[_Exit._
_Men._ Let us anticipate, and so detain The soldiers. That one turn of Fortune’s wheel Years of half-buried memory should reveal!
_Viol._ Could I believe that crime should ever be So amiable! How fancy with us plays, And with one touch colours our future days!
[_Exeunt severally._