SCENE III.—_Enter the HIGH-PRIEST.

_Rolla._ Ha!—here he is!—Oh tell me instantly, whether this be true or false?

_High-Priest._ Your words are scarcely intelligible, yet the wildness of your looks explains them but too clearly.—Alas! it is true!

_Rolla._ (_Pointing to the grave_) And here?

_High-Priest._ (_With a deep sigh, and turning away his face_) Yes!

_Rolla._ Tremble then, oh earth, and let thy whole surface become desolate!—Groan! groan! ye hills!—Thou fire burst forth in the valleys and consume the fruits of the soil, that the fertile spots may no longer be crowned with verdure, but the whole earth appear as one vast scene of conflagration!—Rise ye terrors of nature, ye storms and whirlwinds, that I may breathe more freely amid your mighty conflicts,—that the voice of my agony may contend with your roarings!—that my arm may slay more rapidly than the lightning itself!

_High-Priest._ Rolla, for the sake of all the gods!—

_Rolla._ No, she shall not die!—sooner shall the sacred lamp be extinguished, and the temple itself become a desert!—Believe me, Uncle, she shall not die!—you may tell me that the grave is already prepared—that her fate is inevitable!—Yes, it is prepared, but Rolla still lives!

_High-Priest._ Your words are of dreadful import!

_Rolla._ Sooner shall it be Rolla’s grave!—sooner shall he be stretched upon the earth, senseless, motionless, a breathless corpse!—Yet let him not even then be trusted hastily!—examine carefully that every spark of life be really extinguished, since if only one be left smothering, it will assuredly burst forth into a flame, and consume the persecutors of Cora. Oh, while this hand can wield a sword, let no one venture to touch Cora!—the blood of him who should harbour so sacrilegious a thought, shall answer for his rashness!—the priests—the king—even thou thyself.

_High-Priest._ Madman rage on!—dare in thy phrenzy to raise thy arm against the gods!—

_Rolla._ Against the gods!—No, the gods are on my side, their lightning is in my hand, their shield before my breast!—Short-sighted mortals!—What are the brightest, warmest rays of our god but pure effusions of that benign love which alike unfolds the rose-bud, and expands the human heart. Woe then to the miserable wretch who remains insensible to its genial influence, and pining in a cold damp corner of the earth lives a life scarcely superior to the senseless oyster. Cora even excels her former self, since she has yielded to this impulse;—and how could she fail to do so, for the gods would never leave their master-piece unfinished; and what is the heart without love, but a lamp without light, an eye without the power of vision?——These are things, Uncle, which however _you_ cannot understand.

_High-Priest._ You do me injustice, Rolla.

_Rolla._ Injustice!—You cannot have been yourself susceptible of the exquisite, the heavenly, feeling of love, when it is your lips that have condemned Cora.

_High-Priest._ You are right now—it was my _lips_ condemned her.

_Rolla._ But not your heart?

_High-Priest._ Not my heart.

_Rolla._ Come then to my arms;—I rejoice to find that you are a man!—But why stand here so cold and inactive?—fly and save her!

_High-Priest._ That is impossible.

_Rolla._ Courage, dear Uncle, courage!—Your grey hairs, your mild eloquence, my sword, and the arm of God!—all these united—Yes, yes, we will save her!

_High-Priest._ Alas, young man, zeal blinds you to the steep rocks which lie in our way.

_Rolla._ I feel sufficient energy to defy them.

_High-Priest._ Ancient popular opinions—the customs of whole centuries——

_Rolla._ Nature is older than these.

_High-Priest._ But not more powerful.

_Rolla._ Mere evasion.

_High-Priest._ Could I, by sacrificing the few short years remaining of my life, redeem the hapless Cora’s, I would instantly with firm and resolute step descend into this vault.

_Rolla._ Babble.

_High-Priest._ Are these tears also babble?

_Rolla._ Hypocrisy!—do not talk, but act.

_High-Priest._ What can I do?

_Rolla._ (_Raising his hands towards Heaven_) Oh Father above, do thou then interpose to save her!—suffer not the most perfect work upon which thy rays ever shone to be destroyed, but, to the confusion of these unfeeling priests, save her!—Oh, how could I expect to find a heart of sensibility within such a shell!—the heart that beats beneath those garments never can have any feeling, except for vain and senseless customs; it dissembles towards its god, and is blood-thirsty as a tyger’s.

_High-Priest._ Oh Rolla, you know not how much you wrong me!

_Rolla._ Carefully instructed by your fathers and mothers to pluck every flower which might lie in your way,—to wring the neck of every bird which might fall into your hands,—from your infancy each avenue in your hearts has been closed against humanity, while he, who could with the greatest composure perform such ignoble actions, was considered as bearing in his bosom the germs of the future High-Priest.

_High-Priest._ This from you, Rolla?

_Rolla._ Beloved and pampered self is the sole object of your attention,—beauty is to you as a blunted arrow—and love appears an absurd romance. A shake of the head is the utmost tribute you can pay to the sufferings of a brother, nor does the tear of sympathy ever _start_ into your eyes, it only quivers there by compulsion. No emotion of concern would intrude into your breast were the world itself to be laid in ruins, provided _you_ were spared and could continue to live in case and affluence.

_High-Priest._ Rolla, you torture me—you break my heart!—I must speak out and shame you.

_Rolla._ Yes, speak!—that also you can do sometimes—not always.

_High-Priest._ Learn to be silent when an old man would be heard, and if you cannot respect my age, at least respect my misfortunes. Is the station in which I am placed that of my own free choice?—are not the nearest relations of the king priests by birth?—am I to blame because the caprice of chance destined me to the altar, to immolate turtle-doves, to draw omens from the entrails of lambs, and to interpret dreams?—Oh had you known me in my youth, you would have seen me full of ardour and energy,—more eager to brandish the sword, than to wield the knife of sacrifice!—Believe me, there are but few persons in the world placed in the situations for which they are most suited, least of all those who hold an office by descent.

_Rolla._ (_In a cold and constrained manner_) If I have said too much, pardon me. Overpowered as I am with rage and anguish, scarcely do I know myself.

_High-Priest._ Had it been possible to throw aside this dignity with which I am reproached, as one casts off a tight and uneasy garment, I had spurned it a thousand, and a thousand times; for it has occasioned me forty years of the bitterest suffering. Rolla, Rolla, I cannot endure the chilling frown upon thy countenance; the eye of contempt with which I am regarded!—Thou the only being on whom my heart still hangs!—thou only being whose affections I still wish to attract!—listen, Rolla, to my tragic story—a story nearly resembling thine own!—My sorrows, like thine, proceeded from the heart—my sorrows arose from an ill-fated passion—I too loved a Virgin of the Sun!

_Rolla._ How!!!

_High-Priest._ By virtue of my office as High-Priest, I had at all times free ingress and egress, to and from the house of the Stars. Daily did my eyes rove about among the expanding blossoms that were confined within its walls, and I was pleased with contemplating their varied charms, though this long remained a mere amusement to the eye, while the heart took no share in the glances that I cast around me. At length Zulma came, a meteor among meteors; she shone in the midst of her sisters a brilliant image of the god she served. I saw her often, and every time I beheld her, only wished more ardently to see her again—yet I continued insensible to the danger of my situation, till I was one day accidentally led into a strict examination of my heart, when I was terrified at the result. My conduct with regard to Zulma was instantly changed; I was no longer unrestrained in her presence; I scarcely dared to raise my eyes to hers; and my whole frame trembled as I approached her. I was soon convinced that her heart beat responsively to mine, since she immediately began to avoid me, as if too sensible of my meaning. I saw that the effort was painful, that love and duty were at war in her bosom, and, desirous to render the conflict less severe, I determined equally to avoid her. Many months lingered on in this miserable situation, while both endured the keenest torments of hopeless passion: our cheeks grew pale; our eyes became hollow and sunk; despair reigned in every feature; till at length Zulma’s weaker frame could no longer support such complicated sorrow—she was attacked with a violent illness, and lay at the point of death; while I——Rolla, you seem affected!

_Rolla._ (_Holding out his hand to him with averted eyes_) Oh, how unjust have I been!—I am ashamed!—pardon me!—and—proceed, Uncle—tell me she died!

_High-Priest._ I hastened to her assistance—day and night I climbed the most rugged rocks, or ranged the forests, to seek medicinal herbs for her restoration. I summoned together the oldest priests in the kingdom who were celebrated for their skill in the medical science; and at length, by our unwearied exertions, the lovely Zulma was saved. She sunk in my arms overpowered with gratitude—not a word was spoken by either, we explained ourselves only by the expressive language of tears—(_He appears extremely affected_) Oh, Rolla! I am now grown old, yet see how the recollection of this scene still shakes me.

_Rolla._ (_Clasping his hand eagerly_) Beloved, excellent Uncle!

_High-Priest._ Stop till you hear the conclusion of my story!—The long-smothered flame of love now burst out with uncontroulable wildness—the voices of reason and duty were listened to no longer—passion had gained the sole ascendency in our bosoms—and——(_Rolla starts, and fixes his eyes on the High-Priest, who spreads out his arms towards him_) Rolla, you are my son!

_Rolla._ (_With the most eager emotion_) Old man, you mock me!

_High-Priest._ You are indeed my son.

_Rolla._ (_Throws himself into the High-Priest’s arms; after a few moments, he breaks from him again hastily_) And my mother—is she still alive?

_High-Priest._ No—from above she looks down and blesses this scene! (_Rolla stands with his arms folded, his head sunk upon his bosom, and his eyes fixed upon the ground, endeavouring to restrain his tears_) Think then how my paternal heart has been tortured by your bitter revilings!—Understand why I have always clung to you with such ardent fondness!—why I have followed, you every where, and interested myself so eagerly in your fate!—The anxiety I expressed when I saw you depart to head the armies of your sovereign, is now solved!—solved equally are the transports by which I was overpowered when I beheld you return as victor.

_Rolla._ (_Falling on his neck_) Have I then ever communicated the throb of transport to any human breast?—My father!—Oh this name is so new to my tongue!—filial feelings are so new to my heart!—How often, when at the head of the army I have knelt to receive your priestly blessing, have I felt your hand tremble as it was laid upon me!—Oh, why did I not guess the cause of this tremor!—why did I not know that it was a father’s blessing I knelt to receive!—My father!—my father!—why have you concealed yourself so long from your son?—why have you not sooner communicated joy to a bosom to which it has hitherto been a stranger?

_High-Priest._ Was it possible to trust the wildness and ardour of thy youth?

_Rolla._ But all is not yet clear to me. Oh then unveil the sequel of your story!—tell me—could you escape discovery?

_High-Priest._ What would have been impossible to another, was possible to me from my situation as High-Priest. Our hapless adventure was never known; and as soon as you were born, I sent you to the frontiers of the kingdom, among the people of Ibara, of which province my brother was governor. You were educated as his son; but as he died while you were still a child, his death furnished me with a pretence for removing you to Quito, that I, as a near relation, might take you under my protection; and, from that time, I have never ceased to pay as much attention to your education myself, as I thought I might do with safety, and without exciting suspicion. Your mother had gone to the place of rest some months before your arrival, and left me condemned for a long series of years to drag about a miserable existence.

_Rolla._ Miserable!—when you had a son!—I have indeed hitherto considered my existence as miserable, because I thought myself single and solitary in the world; but never shall I think it so again, now I know that I have a father living—a father who loves me, whose heart will sympathize with mine. Yes, I am reconciled to the world!—It is true, my father, that neither of us can be perfectly happy; yet a life that shall be supportable, nay in which you shall experience many hours of real enjoyment, I dare promise you. Hear what golden visions my fancy has formed:—Cora and Alonzo shall fly, we will accompany them, and I will conduct you to one who, for my sake, will be a friend to us all. There we will live,—there pass the remainder of our days quietly, contentedly, and free from cares;—and, my father, if sometimes when I witness Cora’s and Alonzo’s caresses, and the transports they mutually experience—if when—pierced to the heart with the idea that Alonzo’s happiness might have been mine, I cannot bear to be a spectator of the scene any longer, I will make you a signal that we depart together, and leave the lovers alone; then we will retire under the shade of some neighbouring tree, and you shall soothe my cruel feelings by talking to me of my mother.

_High-Priest._ You do not consider, my son, that flight is impossible. Cora and Alonzo are both in chains, and both vigilantly guarded; nor will many hours elapse before sentence is passed upon them by the assembled priests. Do not then deceive yourself with vain hopes!—Cora is irretrievably lost.

_Rolla._ Oh do not tell me so!—I cannot bear to hear it!—she must, she must be saved!—Are you not high-priest?—the first among her judges?

_High-Priest._ But what can the voice of one avail against many?—against the storm of Xaira’s zeal?—We may cry to the roaring winds till we are hoarse, and we cannot hinder them from tearing up the young trees by the roots.

_Rolla._ You will at least have done your part—God and my sword shall achieve the rest. Think, my father, when Cora shall meet your Zulma in the regions of peace, and tell her, I am a Virgin of the Sun, condemned to death because I loved——

_High-Priest._ No more!—All that lies within my power shall be done. I will harangue, entreat, exert every effort which the infirmities of age will permit!—Alas, the hour of judgment approaches.

_Rolla._ Oh fail not in your word!—Do all that you can for Cora, and remember that my life hangs upon hers—But should your endeavours prove vain, you shall find that in the mean time I have not been idle.

_High-Priest._ (_Taking his hand mournfully_) May we meet again, happier than we now part!—Farewell!—(_Exit_)