SCENE VIII

_Don Lorenzo, Inés, and Edward. Don Lorenzo enters C., and stands listening to Inés._

DON LORENZO. [_Aside._] Dead, she said?

EDWARD. You dead! No, Inés, don't say such a thing.

INÉS. Why not? If I do not die of sorrow—should fortune ever again smile upon me, then must I die of remorse.

DON LORENZO. [_Aside._] Of remorse! She! Should fortune ever again smile upon her! What worse fate floats in the air and hangs threateningly above my head? Remorse!—I have again caught another passing word. I traverse rooms and galleries, and wander from one place to another, pricked by insufferable anguish. I hear talk that I do not understand, and meet glances still further from my comprehension. I see tears here, smiles there, and nobody opposes me,—all either fly from me or watch me. [_Aloud._] What is this? What is this?

INÉS. [_Rushing to his arms._] Oh, father!

DON LORENZO. Inés, how white you are? Whence this dolorous constriction of your lips? Why do you essay a smile only to end in sobbing? How lovely she is in her sorrow! And it is all my fault.

INÉS. No, father.

DON LORENZO. I am cruel. Oh, if you do not say it, you think it.

EDWARD. Inés is too sweet-natured to harbour rebellious thoughts. But we who see her suffer cannot help thinking and saying it for her.

DON LORENZO. It is but natural you should do so.

EDWARD. [_Passionately._] Then if I am right, you are wrong.

DON LORENZO. I am not in the wrong for that. There is something more pallid than the white brow of a lovesick maid; there are tears sadder far than the crystal drops of her beautiful eyes, something still crueller than the curving smiles of her lips, and something yet more tragic than the death of our beloved.

EDWARD. [_With violence and contempt._] What is this worse pallor, these sadder tears, and still mournfuller tragedies?

DON LORENZO. [_Seizing his arm._] Madman! The pallor of crime, the tears of remorse, the consciousness of one's own infamy.

EDWARD. And this infamy, this remorse, this crime would lie in furthering your daughter's happiness?

DON LORENZO. [_Despairingly._] It should not be—but so it is nevertheless. [_Pause._] And this makes my torment. This is the idea that will drive me mad.

INÉS. No, no, father. You must not say that. Do what you think best without thought of me. What does it matter whether I live or die?

DON LORENZO. Inés!

INÉS. Only, do not be uncertain in it—above all, do not let others see your uncertainty. Let your speech be clear and persuasive, as it is now, and do not let worry blind you. Be calm, father. I implore you by all that is sacred.

DON LORENZO. What do you mean? I do not understand.

INÉS. Do I myself know rightly what I mean? Adieu, adieu. I cannot bear to grieve you.

EDWARD. [_To Don Lorenzo._] Alas, if 'twere possible for you to take counsel with your heart, and silence the prompting of thought.

INÉS. [_To Edward._] Do not vex him. Come with me—if you thwart him maybe 'twill force his hate.

DON LORENZO. Poor child!—she also is struggling—but she will conquer. She is not my daughter for nothing.

[_Utters this proudly. Inés and Edward go up the stage; passing the door of the closet, Inés sees the keepers, and makes a movement of horror._]

INÉS. What sinister vision is it that frights my gaze? Those men? Oh, father, do not enter there.

EDWARD. Come, Inés, come.

INÉS. [_To her father._] No, no. I beseech you, father.

DON LORENZO. [_Going towards her._] Inés!

INÉS. Those men—there—look! [_Points to closet. Don Lorenzo stands and follows her eyes. At that moment the keepers, hearing her cry, lift the curtain and show themselves._]

EDWARD. [_Leading Inés away._] At last!