SCENE II.--_Interior of the Convent of St. Ursula. Inez discovered

pacing up and down dejectedly._

INEZ. 'Tis passing strange that all these five long years That I have lived within these convent walls, A stranger to the world without, unless To the narrow limits of our garden. I ne'er remember to have passed a night Like last night was. Most strange and fearful dreams Disturbed my slumber, robbing me of rest; Confused they were, and I can scarce recall Aught of their substance, but methought that I Was caught and roughly handled by rude men With dark ferocious faces. By their dress I should have deemed them gipsies; then methought I saw a female--tall, majestic, old, Or middle-aged, in strange and wild attire, Who spoke to me, and questioned me in proud, Yet calm and kindly accents, and that she Rebuked the ruffians, so that they fell back And did no harm to me; yet still I sat Surrounded by the band, which kept close guard. My fear was very great, so that I think I must have fainted, for I knew no more. It was a dream most unaccountable. My aunt, the Lady Abbess, says that dreams Are sent us oftimes by the saints to warn, Guide, and admonish us. That holy men, Ay, and women, too, have had many things Revealed to them in dreams and visions. Old nurse Rodriguez, too, I can recall, Oft would relate me hers, and would declare They all came true, or bore some hidden sense That none save gifted sybils could explain. And now, although my memory's much confused, Methinks Rodriguez formed part of my dream.

_Enter_ LADY ABBESS.

LADY AB. What! Inez, musing--art not well, my child?

INEZ. I've slept badly, aunt, and have a headache.

LADY AB. Here's that will cure it.

INEZ. What! A letter?

LADY AB. Ay, from thy father; it was hither brought By an old servitor.

INEZ. The good Pedro?

LADY AB. I think the same; I've seen his face before. Thou know'st, Inez, that it is my custom To break the seal of all the letters that Come here directed to my novices, To prevent clandestine correspondence; But knowing well my brother's handwriting, And being well informed of the contents By this same Pedro, I deemed it useless. Read it then, dear, thyself.

INEZ. (_Reads._) "My dearest child, The time has now come round when thou should'st end Thy course of studies at St. Ursula's. It is my wish that thou at once take leave For ever of thy aunt, the Lady Abbess, And without more delay prepare to start In the company of my servant Pedro. See that thou be not tardy, but straightway, Quick after the perusal of these lines, Set off upon thy journey, for I have Much to say to thee. Greet my good sister. Your loving father, Silvio." Dearest aunt, I know not if I should laugh for joy or weep, For, returning home to see my father, I needs must bid farewell to you, who e'er Have been a mother to me.

LADY AB. Dearest child! I am full loath to part with thee, but still, In obedience to thy father's orders, Thou must not tarry. Take my blessing then, And may the blessed Virgin and the saints Protect thee from all harm upon the road. Kiss me, my Inez, and now straight commence To get thy baggage ready.

INEZ. And Pedro?

LADY AB. He is without. I'll call him. What! Pedro.

_Enter_ PEDRO.

PED. Gracious Donna Inez, I kiss your hands.

INEZ. Ah, good Pedro, sure thou scarce knowest me; These many years have wrought a change in us. How leftest thou my father? Well, I hope; And nurse Rodriguez, she, I hope, is well.

PED. Excellent well, most gracious lady, both.

INEZ. I'm glad of 't. And thou thyself, good Pedro?

PED. I thank the Lord, good lady, I'm not worse-- I'm getting old.

LADY AB. That is the fate of all; We cannot aye be young.

PED. True, good lady.

INEZ. And now, Pedro, do thou wait here until I shall return. I'll try not to be long; I've my baggage yet to pack, and to say Some words in private to our Lady Abbess [_Exeunt Inez and Lady Abbess._

PED. Why, how the little wench has grown, i' faith! But I'd have known her anywhere, I would, So strong is the resemblance to her mother-- Her voice, her very manner too's the same As Lady Dorothy's when first I knew her. Ah, those were merry days. Would I could live Them o'er again. Let me see. What was it The gipsy beldam told me by the road? Ha! I remember. When about half-way Between the castle and St. Ursula, While jogging through a bleak and bare ravine Upon my mule, and leading on the other, A crone stood in my path--a gipsy crone. I know not how old; but past middle age. Still, from her mien, which was majestic, proud, I think she had been handsome in her youth. "Good morrow, Pedro," said the crone. "Speed well" "Good morrow, Dame," said I. "You know me, then?" "And have done long. Gipsies know everything. Wilt have a proof of it? Wilt know thy fortune? Show me thy palm," she said. "My palm!" said I, "Know thou, good gipsy, I have nought withal To pay thee." "Never mind for that," she said; "I love to gossip with an old retainer. Thy gossip shall repay me. Quick, thy palm." Then tracing with her gaunt and taloned finger A mystic sign across the line of life, "Not always thus, good Pedro, hast thou been. Thou hast a master who but ill repays Thy manifold and useful services. Thou hadst a mistress once, but she is gone; With her decease good luck hath fled the house, But times will change, and luck will reappear, And thou shalt live content to good old age." I recollect no more of what she said, But mighty promises she made of luck. Then straightway she did ask me of my lord-- How he fared, and also of Don Diego. "Excellent well," said I, and here I laughed. "Too well, too well, for one with head so white." "How mean'st thou?" she said, with searching gaze. "Why, marry thus!" said I; "they say Don Diego---- Hush, but this is a secret (here I winked) That old Don Diego, spite his years, doth think To take to him a young and pretty wife." Here the crone started somewhat, as I thought, And o'er her bronzed features came a flush Like burnished copper, and her eagle eye Flashed as with fire; but in an instant Her cheeks grew ashen pale and her lips trembled. Why I know not; but deeming her unwell, I offered her a sip of wine from out The gourd I carried at my saddle's flank; But she declined. "No wine," saith she, "hath ever Passed my lips since I was born. Shall I Break through my abstinence in hoary age?" Then seeming quite recovered, "Well," she said, "What was it of Don Diego, thou wert saying? Thou saidst, he thought to take to him a wife. Can this be true? Who may the lady be?" Then, mocking her, I said, "Thou knowest all things, Know'st thou not, the lady is our Inez, The daughter of my old lord Don Silvio. Still in her teens, and staying with her aunt, Lady Superior at St Ursula's, From here some fifteen miles, whither I go By order of her father, at full speed To carry back his daughter to his hall? And know'st thou not the wedding day is fixed, And all in readiness, but that our Inez As yet knows nought o't; but that to-morrow, When at eve I bring her to her father, She will soon learn it all, and willy, nilly, Will have to wed the old man for his gold?"' All this I told her. Then she said, "True, true, The stars already have revealed so much; But mark me, Pedro, mark me well, I say, For I know all things. It shall never be It will not happen. The stars forbid it." "What! Don Diego's wedding," said I. "We'll see." And off I trotted till I reached the convent.

_Re-enter_ LADY ABBESS _and_ INEZ.

LADY AB. And now, dear Inez, now that all's prepared For thy long homeward journey, one more kiss. Salute thy father, and bear well in mind All I have taught thee. When thou hast arrived Write to me straight to say that thou art safe. Thou, Pedro, do thy duty towards thy charge. And, Inez, love, thou'lt think of me sometimes, And should chance ever bring thee by this way, Thou'lt come and see me, eh? And now farewell. I dare not keep thee longer. Bless thee, Inez. Adieu; the saints protect thee. Go in peace. [_Embracing her._

INEZ. Farewell, kind aunt, farewell. [_Exeunt Lady Abbess and Inez weeping, Pedro following._