SCENE I.—_A Room in URREA’S House.

_Enter URREA and BLANCA on one side, and LOPE and VICENTE on the other._

_Lope._ Thrice blessed be the day, that brings me back In all humility and love, my father, To kiss your feet once more.

_Urr._ Rise up, my son, As welcome to your parents as long lookt for. Rise and embrace me.

_Lope._ Till I have your hand I scarcely dare.

_Urr._ Then take it, Lope—there— And may God make thee virtuous as thy father Can pray for thee. Thy mother too—

_Lope._ O madam, I scarcely dare with anguish and repentance Lift up my eyes to those I have made weep So many bitter tears—

_Blan._ You see, my son, You keep them weeping still—not bitter tears, But tears of joy—Oh, welcome home again!

_Vic._ Where is there any room for a poor devil Who has done penance upon rock and water This many a day, and much repents him of His former sins?

_Urr._ What you alive too?

_Vic._ Yes, sir, This saddle’s pad, (_showing LOPE_,) or, if you like, the beast That bears the saddle—or, by another rule,— That where the cat jumps also goes her tail.

_Lope_ (_to his father_). You see, sir, in such godly company I must repent.

_Vic._ Why, devil take ’t—

_Urr._ What, swearing?

_Vic._ But some poor relic of our former life That yet will stick. Madam, permit me, If not to kiss your hand, nor ev’n your feet, At least the happy ground on which they walk.

_Blan._ Rise, rise. How can I less than welcome one Who has so loyally stood by my son, Through evil and through good.

_Vic._ A monument As one might say, madam, _ad perpetuam_ _Fidelis Amicitiæ Memoriam_.

_Enter BEATRICE._

_Beat._ What! is my master home? Then, by the saints, Saving your presence, and before your faces, I must embrace him.

_Lope._ Thanks, good Beatrice.

_Urr._ You see how all rejoice to see you, Lope, But none so more than I; believe ’t. But now ’Tis time you wait on Mendo, and acknowledge The kindness he has done us. See, Beatrice, If he be in his room, or busy there.

[_Exit BEATRICE._

Meanwhile, my son, I crave one patient hearing To what I have to say.

_Vic._ Now for a lecture.

_Lope._ Silence, sir! Coming here, we must expect And bear such things. Pray speak, sir.

_Urr._ You see, Lope, (And doubtless must have heard of it before,) In what a plight we are: my property, What yet remains of it, embroil’d and hamper’d, And all so little, that this last expense, Of getting (as I have) your Estifania, Who has already cost us all so much, Into a convent; to do this, I say, I have been forced to let my house for hire To my old friend; yea, almost, I assure you, To beg from door to door. Enough of that: ’Tis done; and you are now at last restor’d To home, and station—wealth I cannot say— But all is well that ends well. All I ask, (And ’tis with tears and with a broken voice I ask it: I would ask it on my knees If these white hairs forbade not such descent,) That from this day, in pity to us all— Perhaps in gratitude—you would repent Your past excess; yea, surfeited with that, Would henceforth tame your headlong passions down Into a quiet current. Help me, son, Restore the shaken credit of our house, And show—let us _both_ show—that misery Has taught us not in vain. Let us be friends Henceforth; no rivalry of love or hate Between us; each doing what in him lies To make what may remain of life to each Happy and honourable. On my part I stake a father’s love and tenderness; And will not you as freely on your side Wager your filial obedience? Your father asks, implores you. Oh, consider You may not always have a friend in need To rescue you as now: nay, disappoint His mercy and again provoke the laws He now remits, that friend may turn to foe And sacrifice the life he vainly spared.

_Vic._ There only wants, ‘in sæcula sæculorum,’ To finish off with.

_Lope._ Sir, I promise you Amendment, that shall make the past a foil To set the future off.

_Enter MENDO._

_Men._ I come in time To vouch fulfilment of so fair a vow.

_Lope._ Oh, sir—

_Men._ I knew you on your road to me; Your errand too; and thus much have forestall’d Of needless courtesy.

_Lope._ Pray God, reward you With such advancement in your prince’s love As envy, the court Hydra, shall not hiss, But general love and acclamation Write in gold letters in our history, For ages and for ages. Sir, your hand!

_Men._ My heart, my heart, you shame me by your thanks, For service that the veriest churl had paid For what you did me, Lope. Why, I’m your debtor still. But now, enough! I cannot steal more time from business; The King expects me.

_Urr._ I too must abroad.

_Lope._ Would I could wait on both—but, as it is, I think my father’s self would waive his right, In favour of our common benefactor.

_Urr._ Indeed, indeed, I do rejoice you should.

[_Exit with BLANCA._

_Men._ And I, not knowing if your choice be right, Know that I would not lose you for a moment, So glad your presence makes me.

[_Exit with LOPE._

_Vic._[5] Beatrice! Beatrice!

_Beat._ Well?

_Vic._ Think you not, now that our principals are fairly out of the way, you owe me a kiss on my arrival?

_Beat._ Ay, hot from the oven.

_Vic._ Ah Beatrice! if you only knew what heartaches you’ve cost me.

_Beat._ You indeed, robbing and murdering, and I don’t know what beside, up in the mountains! and then my new madam that’s come with you, Donna Violante; with her fine Elvira—I know, sir, when your master was courting his mistress, you—

_Vic._ Now, my own Beatrice, if you could only know what you are talking of as well as I, how little jealousy could such a creature as that give you!

_Beat._ Well—but why?

_Vic._ Not a woman at all, neither maid nor mermaid—Why, didn’t I catch her with all those fine locks of hers clean off her head?

_Beat._ Clean off her head?

_Vic._ The woman’s bald.

_Beat._ Bald?

_Vic._ As my hand! besides, all the fine white _chevaux-de-frise_ that ornaments her gums.

_Beat._ Well?

_Vic._ All sham.

_Beat._ What, my fine madam there false teeth?

_Vic._ Oh, and half a dozen villainous things I could tell you, did it become a gentleman to tell tales of ladies. But see, here is master coming back.

_Beat._ Good-bye then, for the present, Vicente. False teeth and a wig!

[_Exit._

_Enter DON LOPE._

_Lope._ Vicente, have you by any chance seen Violante?

_Vic._ Not that I know of, sir; she may however have passed without my knowing her.

_Lope._ Vicente still! As if it were possible one who had once seen such beauty could ever forget it.

_Vic._ Why, sir, if her maid Elvira happened to be by her side—

_Lope._ Fool!

_Vic._ Pray is it impossible in the system of things that the maid should be handsomer than the mistress?

_Lope._ Oh could I but see her!

_Vic._ Take care, take care, sir. Beware of raising the old devil—and now we are but just out of the frying-pan—

_Lope._ Beware _you_, sir! I tell you I ill liked my father’s lecture; do not you read me another. It were best that no one crossed me, or by heaven!—But who comes here?

_Vic._ Don Guillen de Azagra.

_Enter DON GUILLEN._

_Lope._ What? Ask what reward you will of me, Vicente. Don Guillen de Azagra back again!

_Guil._ And could not wait a moment, hearing you Were also back, Don Lope, till I found you, As well to give you welcome as receive it.

_Lope._ Our old affection asks for nothing less On both sides. Oh, you are welcome!

_Guil._ Well can he come, who comes half dead between Dead hope and quickening passion!

_Lope._ How is that?

_Guil._ Why, you remember how three years ago I went to Naples—to the wars there?

_Lope._ Yes, We parted, I remember, sadly enough On both sides, in the Plaza del Aseo; Unconsciously divining the sad days That were about to dawn on one of us.

_Guil._ Nay, upon both. I am no stranger, Lope, To your misfortunes; and Heaven knows I felt them! But they are over, Heaven be thankt! mine yet Are sadly acting. You can help me now, If not to conquer, to relieve them.

_Lope._ Ay, And will strain every nerve for you. But first Must hear your story.

_Guil._ Well—I went to Naples, Where, as you know, our King by force of arms Was eager to revenge the shameful death Of Norandino, whom the King of Naples Had on the scaffold treacherously murder’d. Of which, and Naples too, I say no more Than this; that, entering the city, I saw a lady in whom the universe Of beauty seem’d to centre; as it might be The sun’s whole light into a single beam, The heavenly dawn into one drop of dew, Or the whole breathing spring into one rose. You will believe I loved not without cause, When you have heard the lady that I speak of Is—

_Vic._ Donna Violante

_Lope._ Knave and fool!

_Vic._ Why so, sir! only for telling you I saw the lady coming this way; but, I suppose, seeing people here, she has turned back.

_Lope._ Will you retire awhile, Don Guillen? this lady is my father’s guest.

_Guil._ (_aside_). Beside, she might be angry finding me here.

[_Exit._

_Lope._ ’Fore Heaven, my mind misgave me it was she he spoke of!

_Vic._ Well, you have got the weather-gage. Tackle her now.

_Enter VIOLANTE and ELVIRA._

_Lope._ Nay, lady, turn not back. What you, the sun I see by, to abridge my little day By enviously returning to the west As soon as risen, and prematurely drawing The veil of night over the blush of dawn! Oh, let me not believe I fright you now, As yesterday I did, fair Violante, Arm’d among savage rocks with savage men, From whose rude company your eyes alone Have charm’d me, and subdued for the first time A fierce, unbridled will.

_Viol._ It were not strange, Don Lope, if my bosom trembled still With that first apparition. But in truth I had not hesitated, Had I not seen, or fancied, at your side Another stranger.

_Lope._ Oh, a friend; and one Who spoke with me of _you_; nay, who retired Only for fear of drawing new disdain Upon old love: and left me here indeed, To speak in his behalf.

_Viol._ Alas, Elvira, Was ’t not Don Guillen?

_Elv._ Yes.

_Viol._ Don Lope plead Another’s, and Don Guillen’s love!

(_She is going._)

_Lope._ At least Let me attend you to my mother’s door.

_Viol._ Nay, stay, sir.

_Lope._ Stay! and lose my life in losing This happy opportunity!

_Viol._ Are life And opportunity the same?

_Lope._ So far, That neither lost ever returns again.

_Viol._ If you have aught to tell me, tell it here Before I go.

_Lope._ Only to ask if you Confess yourself no debtor to a heart That long has sigh’d for you?

_Viol._ You, sir, are then Pleading another’s cause?

_Lope._ I might be shy To plead in my own person—a reserve That love oft feels—and pardons.

_Viol._ ’Tis in vain. I will not own to an account of sighs Drawn up against me without my consent; So tell your friend; and tell him he mistakes The way to payment making you, of all, His agent in the cause.

_Lope._ Nay, nay, but wait.

_Viol._ No more—Adieu!

[_Exit._

_Lope._ She thought I only used Another’s suit as cover to my own, And cunningly my seeming cunning turns Against myself. But I will after her; If Don Guillen come back, tell him, Vicente, I’ll wait upon him straight.

[_Exit._

_Vic._ Madam Elvira!

_Elv._ Well, Monsieur Cut-throat?

_Vic._ Well, you are not scared at my face now?

_Elv._ I don’t know that—your face remains as it was.

_Vic._ Come, come, my queen, do me a little favour.

_Elv._ Well, what is that?

_Vic._ Just only die for love of me; I always make a point of never asking impossibilities of any woman.

_Elv._ Love is out of the question! I perhaps might _like_ you, did I not know the lengths you go with that monkey Beatrice.

_Vic._ With whom?

_Elv._ I say with Beatrice. Bystanders see as much, sir, as players.

_Vic._ I with Beatrice! Lord! lord! if you only knew half what I know, Elvira, you’d not be jealous of her.

_Elv._ Why, what do you know of her?

_Vic._ A woman who, could she breed at all, would breed foxes and stoats—a tolerable outside, but only, only go near her—Foh! such a breath! beside other peculiarities I don’t mention out of respect to the sex. But this I tell you, one of those sparkling eyes of hers is glass, and her right leg a wooden one.

_Elv._ Nonsense!

_Vic._ Only you look, and, see if she don’t limp on one side, and squint on the other.

_Don Guillen_ (_entering at one side_). I can wait no longer.

_Don Lope_ (_entering at the other_). It is no use; she is shut up with my mother. Now for Don Guillen.

_Elv._ They are back.

_Vic._ We’ll settle our little matter by and by.

_Elv._ Glass eyes and wooden legs!

[_Exit._

_Lope_ (_To DON GUILLEN_). Forgive my leaving you so long; I have been Waiting on one who is my father’s guest, The lady Violante.

_Guil._ So sweet duty Needs no excuse.

_Lope._ Now to pursue your story—

_Guil._ Ah—where did I leave off?

_Lope._ About the truce Making at Naples, when you saw a lady—

_Guil._ Ay, but I must remember one thing, Lope, Most memorable of all. The ambassador Empower’d to treat on our good King’s behalf Was Mendo de Torellas, whose great wisdom And justice, both grown grey in state affairs, Well fitted him for such authority; Which telling you, and telling you beside, That when the treaty made, and he left Naples, I left it too, still following in his wake The track of a fair star who went with him To Saragossa, to this very house— Telling you this, I tell you all—tell who My lady is—his daughter—Violante, Before whose shrine my life and soul together Are but poor offerings to consecrate.

_Vic._ (_aside_). A pretty market we have brought our pigs to! Who’ll bet upon the winner?

_Lope._ (_aside_). Oh confusion! But let us drain the cup at once.—Don Guillen, Your admiration and devotedness Needed the addition of no name to point Their object out. But tell me, Ere I advise with you, how far your prayer Is answer’d by your deity.

_Guil._ Alas! Two words will tell—

_Lope._ And those?

_Guil._ Love unreturn’d! Or worse, return’d with hate.

_Vic._ (_aside_). Come, that looks better.

_Guil._ My love for her has now no hope, Don Lope, But in your love for me. She is your guest, And I as such, beside my joy in you, May catch a ray of her—may win you even To plead for me in such another strain As has not yet wearied her ears in vain; Or might you not ev’n now, as she returns, Give her a letter from me; lest if first She see, or hear from others of my coming, She may condemn my zeal for persecution, And make it matter of renew’d disdain. I’ll write the letter now, and bring it you Ere she be back.

[_Exit._

_Vic._ (_to LOPE_). Good-bye, sir.

_Lope._ Whither now, Vicente?

_Vic._ To the mountains—I am sure You’ll soon be after me.

_Lope._ I understand— But stay awhile. True, I love Violante, and resent Don Guillen’s rivalry: but he’s my friend— Confides to me a passion myself own, And cannot blame. Wait we awhile, Vicente, and perhaps A way will open through the labyrinth Without our breaking through.

_Vic._ How glad I am To see you take ’t so patiently? Now, sir, Would you be ruled—

_Lope._ What then?

_Vic._ Why simply, sir, Forget the lady—but a few days’ flame, And then—

_Lope._ Impossible!

_Vic._ What’s to be done then?

_Lope._ I know not—But she comes.

_Enter VIOLANTE._

_Viol._ Still here, Don Lope!

_Lope._ Ah, what in nature will its centre leave, Or, forced away, recoils not faster still? So rivers yearn along their murmuring beds Until they reach the sea; the pebble thrown Ever so high, still faster falls to earth; Wind follows wind, and not a flame struck out Of heavy wood or flint, but it aspires Upward at once and to its proper sphere.

_Viol._ All good philosophy, could I but see How to apply it here.

_Lope._ And yet, how easy! Your beauty being that to which my soul Ever flies fastest, and most slowly leaves.

_Viol._ Surely this sudden rapture scarce agrees With what I heard before.

_Lope._ How, Violante?

_Viol._ Have you not haply changed parts in the farce, And risen from second character to first?

_Lope._ My second did not please you—come what will, Casting feign’d speech and character aside, I’ll e’en speak for myself in my own person. Listen to me—Don Guillen—

_Guil._ (_listening at the side_). Just a moment To hear him plead my cause.

_Lope._ Following your beauty, as a flower the sun, Has come from Italy to Arragon, And, as my friend, by me entreats of you To let him plead his suit.

_Guil._ Would I could stay To hear the noble Lope plead my cause, But summon’d hence—

[_Exit._

_Viol._ Ill does your second part Excuse your ill performance of the first; One failure might be pardon’d, but two such Are scarce to be excused.

_Lope._ Oh, tell me then Which chiefly needs apology!

_Viol._ I will. First for your friend Don Guillen; bid him cease All compliment and courtship, knowing well How all has been rejected hitherto, And will hereafter, to the ruthless winds.

_Lope._ And on the second count—my own?

_Viol._ How easily Out of his answer you may draw your own!

_Lope._ Alas!

_Viol._ For when the judge has to pronounce Sentence on two defendants, like yourselves, Whose charge is both alike, and bids the one Report his condemnation to the other; ’Tis plain—

_Lope._ That both must suffer?

_Viol._ Nay, if so The judge had made one sentence serve for both.

_Lope._ Great heavens!

_Guil._ (_listening at the side_). The man dismiss’d, I’ll hear the rest.

_Viol._ Oh, let it be enough to tell you now The heart that once indeed was adamant, Resisting all impression—but at last Ev’n adamant you know—

_Guil._ Oh, she relents!

_Lope._ Oh, let me kiss those white hands for those words!

_Guil._ Excellent friend! he could not plead more warmly Were ’t for himself.

_Lope._ Oh for some little token To vouch, when you have vanisht from my eyes, That all was not a dream!

_Viol._ (_giving him a rose_). This rose, whose hue Is of the same that should my check imbue!

[_Exit._

_Enter GUILLEN._

_Guil._ Oh how thrice welcome is my lady’s favour, Sent to me by the hand of such a friend! How but in such an attitude as this Dare I receive it? (_Kneels._)

_Lope._ Rise, Don Guillen, rise: Flowers are but fading favours that a breath Can change and wither.

_Guil._ What mean you by this?

_Lope._ Only that though the flower in my hands Is fresh from Violante’s, I must tell you It must not pass to yours.

_Guil._ Did not I hear you Pleading my cause?

_Lope._ You might—

_Guil._ And afterwards, When I came back again, herself confess That, marble as she had been to my vows, She now relented tow’rd me!

_Lope._ If you did, ’Twould much disprove the listener’s adage.

_Guil._ How?

_Lope._ You set your ears to such a lucky tune, As took in all the words that made for you, But not the rest that did complete the measure.

_Guil._ But did not Violante, when you urged her In my behalf, say she relented?

_Lope._ Yes.

_Guil._ To whom then?

_Lope._ To myself.

_Vic._ The cat’s unbagg’d!

_Guil._ To you!

_Lope._ To me.

_Guil._ Don Lope, you must see That ev’n my friendship for you scarce can stomach Such words—or credit them.

_Lope._ Let him beware Who doubts my words, stomach them as he can.

_Guil._ But ’tis a jest: Bearing my happy fortune in your hands, You only, as old love has leave to do, Tantalize ere you give it me. Enough, Give me the rose.

_Lope._ I cannot, being just Given to me, and for me.

_Guil._ His it is Whose right it is, and that is mine; and I Will have it.

_Lope._ If you can.

_Guil._ Then follow me, Where (not in your own house) I may chastise The friendship that must needs have play’d me false One way or other.

[_Exit._

_Lope._ Lead the way then, sir.

_Enter hurriedly DONNA BLANCA and VIOLANTE from opposite sides._

_Viol._ Don Lope, what is this?

_Lope._ Nothing, Violante.

_Viol._ I heard your angry voices in my room, And could not help—

_Blan._ And I too. O my son, Scarce home with us, and all undone already! Where are you going?

_Lope._ No where; nothing; leave me.

_Viol._ Tell me the quarrel—Oh! I dread to hear.

_Lope._ What quarrel, lady? let me go: your fears Deceive you.

_Blan._ Lope, not an hour of peace When you are here!

_Lope._ Nay, madam, why accuse me, Before you know the cause?

_Enter URREA._

_Urr._ How now?—disputing? Blanca and Violante too? What is it?

_Blan._ Oh, nothing! (I must keep it from his father.) Nothing—he quarrell’d with Vicente here, And would have beat him—and we interposed; Indeed, no more.

_Vic._ The blame is sure to fall Upon my shoulders.

_Urr._ Is ’t not very strange, Your disposition, Lope? never at peace With others or yourself.

_Lope._ ’Tis nothing, sir.

_Vic._ He quarrell’d with me, sir, about some money He thought he ought to have, and couldn’t find In his breeches’ pocket.

_Urr._ Go, go—get you gone, knave.

_Vic._ Always fair words from you at any rate. (_Aside._)

_Urr._ And for such trifles, Lope, you disturb My house, affright your mother and her guest With your mad passion.

_Lope._ I can only, sir, Answer such charge by silence, and retire.— Now for Don Guillen. (_Aside._)

[_Exit._

_Blan._ Oh let him not go!

_Urr._ Why not? ’tis a good riddance. Violante, You must excuse this most unseemly riot Close to your chamber. My unruly son, When his mad passion’s roused, neither respects Person or place.

_Viol._ Nay, sir, I pardon him. And should, for I’m the cause! (_Aside._)

_Blan._ Ah, wretched I, Who by the very means I would prevent His going forth, have oped the door to him.

(_Noise within of swords, and the voices of LOPE and GUILLEN fighting._)

_Urr._ What noise is that again?

_Enter ELVIRA._

_Elv._ ’Tis in the street.

_Enter BEATRICE._

_Beat._ Oh, my young master fighting—run, sir, run!

_Urr._ And ’tis for this I’ve sacrificed myself!

_Enter fighting LOPE and GUILLEN; Gentlemen and others trying to part them._

_Urr._ (_going between them_). Hold, Lope! Hold, Don Guillen!

_Voices._ Part them! part them!

_Guil._ Traitor!

_Lope._ Traitor!—I say that he’s the traitor Whoever—

_Urr._ Madman, can you not forbear When your grey-headed father holds your sword!

_Lope._ And in so doing robs me of the honour I never got from him.

_Urr._ Oh! ruffian! But if this graceless son will not respect His father, my white hairs appeal to you, Don Guillen.

_Guil._ And shall not appeal in vain— Out of respect, sir, for your age and name, And for these gentlemen who interpose, I shall refer the issue of this quarrel To other time and place.

_Lope._ A good excuse For fear to hide in.

_Guil._ Fear!

_Urr._ Madman! again! That the respect his rival shows to me Should make my son despise him. By these heavens This staff shall teach you better.

_Lope._ Strike me not! Beware—beware!

_Urr._ Why, art thou not ashamed—

_Lope._ Yes, of respect for you that’s fear of me.

_Guil._ Whoever says or thinks what I have done Is out of fear of you, I say—

_Urr._ He lies! I’ll top your sentence for you.

_Lope._ Then take thou The answer!

(_Strikes URREA, who falls: confusion._)

_A voice._ What have you done?

_Another._ Help, help!

_Voices._ After him, after him!—the parricide!

(_LOPE rushes out and the people after him._)

_Guil._ I know not how to leave the poor old man— Come, let me help you, sir.

_Urr._ Parricide! May outraged Heaven that has seen thy crime, Witness my curse, and blast thee! Every sword That every pious hand against thee draws, Caught up into the glittering elements, Turn thunderbolt, (as every weapon shall Drawn in God’s cause,) and smite thee to the centre! That sacrilegious hand which thou hast raised Against this snow-white head—how shall it show Before Heaven’s judgment bar; yea, how can Heaven Ev’n now behold this deed, nor quench its sun, Veil its pure infinite blue with awful cloud, And with a terrified eclipse of things Confound the air you breathe, the light you see, The ground you walk on!

_Guil._ Pray sir, compose yourself— Your cloak—your staff—

_Urr._ My staff! what use is that, When it is steel that must avenge my wrong? Yet give it me—fit instrument Wherewith to chastise a rebellious child— Ay, and he did not use his sword on me, Mark that, nor I on him—give me my staff. Alas, alas! and I with no strength left To wield it, only as I halt along, Feeling about with it to find a grave, And knocking at deaf earth to let me in.[6]

_Guil._ Nay, calm yourself, The population of the place is up After the criminal.

_Urr._ And to what purpose? They cannot wipe away my shame by that. Let the whole city turn its myriad eyes Upon me, and behold a man disgraced— Disgraced by him to whom he gave a being. I say, behold me all—the wretched man By his own flesh and blood insulted, and On his own flesh and blood crying Revenge! Revenge! revenge! revenge! Not to the heavens only, nor to Him Who sits in judgment there, do I appeal, But to the powers of earth. Give me my hat, I’ll to the King forthwith.

_Vic._ Consider, sir; You would not enter in the palace gates So suddenly, and in this plight?

_Urr._ Why not, Whose voice should over-leap the firmament, And without any preparation enter The palace-doors of God— King Pedro! King of Arragon! Christian king! Whom fools the Cruel call, and Just the wise, I call on you, King Pedro[7]—

_King_ (_entering with MENDO and Train_). Who calls the King?

_Urr._ A wretch who, falling at your feet, implores Your royal justice.

_King._ I remember you; Don Lope de Urrea, whose son I pardon’d. What would you of me?

_Urr._ That you would, my King, Unpardon him you pardon’d; draw on him The disappointed sword of justice down. That son—_my_ son—if he indeed be mine— (Oh, Blanca, pure as the first blush of day, Pardon me such a word!) has, after all My pain and sacrifice in his behalf; Has, in defiance of the laws of man And God, and of that great commandment, which, Though fourth on the two tables, yet comes first After God’s jealous honour is secured, Has struck me—struck his father—in a fray Wherein that father tried to save his life. I have no vindication; _will_ have none, But at your hands and by your laws; unless, If you deny me that, I do appeal Unto the King of kings to do me justice; Which I will have, that heaven and earth may know How a bad son begets a ruthless sire!

_King._ Mendo!

_Men._ My liege.

_King._ I must again refer This cause to you. (_To URREA._) Where is your son?

_Urr._ Fled! fled!

_King_ (_to MENDO_). After him then, use all the powers I own To bring the wretch to justice. See me not Till that be done.

_Men._ I’ll do my best, my liege.

_King._ I have it most at heart. In all the rolls Of history, I know of no like quarrel: And the first judgment on it shall be done By the Fourth Pedro, King of Arragon.

[_Exeunt severally._