CHAPTER VII.

The supper was laid, the don seated. He had forgotten his guest. He sat lightly at table, leaning back in a great crimson chair, and chattering gaily to his servant and friend.

“Leporello, I shall eat a supper as large as thy eyes when thou art frightened.”

“Rare, master, rare.”

“This is a good dish, Leporello.”

“My faith, but I would e’en eat of it too. I would he would ask me.”

“Another plate, good Leporello. Pour out some wine, Leporello.”

“Verily, if I do not eat, I shall fail in my strength. Faith, I will steal, ’tis not much more on my conscience.”

“Leporello, my friend, whistle.”

“He fain would stay my eating.”

“Marry, how doth a man whistle, master?”

“Not with his mouth full.”

“Master, lay it down that ’tis no fault of mine. The cook is too good; he is a tempter.”

Here there sounded a terrible tramp which shook the mansion.

“Preserve us, saints; what is that my master?”

Again the awful sound broke over the house.

“‘Tis a wondrous uncouth noise, Leporello!”

Again the sound came, like the footsteps of an iron-shod giant.

“Go thou to the door.”

Yet once more the footsteps sounded. Nearer now.

The servant ran from the room and then came staggering back, shutting the folding doors after him, as though for safety.

“Help, master! help! methinks I am dying!”

Yet once more the sound was heard. Then a summons at the door of the room called the don’s attention.

“Leporello, some one knocketh--open.”

Still this man’s courage held good. Surely he was as courageous as wicked.

“Open the door, I say.”

“Nay, master, I cannot move.”

“Then must I.”

And he went to the door, and opened it. There stood the white statue of the murdered Don Pedro. Implacable, destructive.

“DON JUAN, THOU DIDST INVITE ME TO THY SUPPER; BEHOLD THY GUEST!”

Still mighty in his courage at least.

“I did not expect thee. Leporello, fresh dishes.”

“Master, master, we are lost!”

“MY PRESENCE HERE IS THAT I MAY SPEAK WITH THEE!”

“Thou art polite.”

“THOU HAST INVITED ME TO THY TABLE--WILT THOU BE MY GUEST?”

Here the first evidence of fear showed itself, in nervously tearing a candle from its socket and quickly walking round the visitor. As he ended that tour, he trembled, and the wax-light fell from his hand.

But he suddenly seemed to find fresh courage, and he flung himself easily into a chair.

“WILT THOU BE MY GUEST?”

“By the rood, master, say thou we are engaged.”

“I will come with thee; I will be thy guest. I never yet feared; I never will.”

“THEN THOU ACCEPTEST?”

“Good master, if you love me, say no. This master of mine will surely destroy me.”

“I say I will be thy guest.”

“THY HAND UPON IT.”

“Behold it!”

Then he trembled again, for as he touched the hand the chill of death crept through him.

“REPENT, AMEND THY LIFE, OR DIE!”

This was a threat, so it renewed all his fatal courage.

“I will not repent; I will not amend my life! Let me die, then!”

“REPENT, I SAY, AMEND THY LIFE, OR THOU SHALT SURELY DIE!”

“No, no, no!”

“THY TIME HAS PAST--’TIS TOO LATE TO HOPE--DIE!”

“What is this sudden fear which weighs me down? Lost, lost! I see the flames rising to me. Lost, lost!”

SO, IF WE REPENT NOT WE SHALL SURELY DIE.

LA TRAVIATA. (VERDI.)

(THE LOST ONE.)

(“LA DAME AUX CAMELIAS.”)