SCENE I.—_A Wild Place.

_Enter MENDO and Officers of Justice armed._

_1st Officer._ Here, my lord, where the Ebro, swollen with her mountain streams, runs swiftest, he will try to escape.

_Men._ Hunt for him then, leaving neither rock nor thicket unexplored. (_They disperse._)

Oh, what a fate is mine, Having to seek what most I dread to find, Once thought the curse of jealousy alone! The iron King will see my face no more Unless I bring Don Lope to his feet: Whom, on the other hand, the gratitude And love I bear him fain would save from justice. Oh, how—

_Enter some, fighting with DON LOPE._

_Lope._ I know I cannot save my life, But I will sell it dear.

_Men._ Hold off! the King Will have him taken, but not slain. And I, If I can save him now, shall find a mean To do it afterwards— Don Lope!

_Lope._ I should know that voice, the face I cannot, blind with fury, dust, and blood. Or was ’t the echo of some inner voice, Some far off thunder of the memory, That moves me more than all these fellows’ swords? Is it Don Mendo?

_Men._ Who demands of you Your sword, and that you yield in the King’s name.

_Lope._ I yield?

_Men._ Ay, sir, what can you do beside?

_Lope._ Slaying be slain. And yet my heart relents Before your voice; and now I see your face My eyes dissolve in tears. Why, how is this? What charm is on my sword?

_Men._ ’Tis but the effect And countenance of justice that inspires Involuntary awe in the offender.

_Lope._ Not that. Delinquent as I am, I could, With no more awe of justice than a mad dog, Bite right and left among her officers; But ’tis yourself alone: to you alone Do I submit myself; yield up my sword Already running with your people’s blood, And at your feet—

_Men._ Rise, Lope. Heaven knows How gladly would your judge change place with you The criminal; far happier to endure Your peril than my own anxiety. But do not you despair, however stern Tow’rds you I carry me before the world. The King is so enraged—

_Lope._ What, he has heard!

_Men._ Your father cried for vengeance at his feet.

_Lope._ Where is my sword?

_Men._ In vain. ’Tis in my hand.

_Lope._ Where somehow it affrights me—as before When giving you my dagger, it turn’d on me With my own blood.

_Mendo._ Ho there! Cover Don Lope’s face, and carry him To prison after me. (_Aside._) Hark, in your ear, Conduct him swiftly, and with all secrecy, To my own house—in by the private door, Without his knowing whither, And bid my people watch and wait on him. I’ll to the King—Alas, what agony, I know not what, grows on me more and more!

[_Exeunt._