SCENE IV.—_Enter DON ALONZO and DON JUAN. The latter with a large Cloak

wrapped round him._

_Juan._ Are we safe, Diego?

_Diego._ A fine question, truly.—Yes, as safe as men can be who are wandering about a forest in the dead of night, and under the open canopy of heaven, after, saving your honour’s presence, a piece of knavery. By Saint Barnabas I believe we are about as safe as a drunkard who should attempt to cross the river Amazons upon a wire.

_Juan._ Have you seen any thing?

_Diego._ In the dark I seldom _see_ any thing—but I have _heard_—

_Alonzo._ What!—what have you heard?

_Diego._ The voice of the great High-Priest himself.

_Alonzo._ The High-Priest!—What could he want here?

_Diego._ To put me into the right path, nothing more. It is the same in this, as in all other countries, Priests are the only people who are able to lead us into the right path.

_Alonzo._ But what could bring him into this wilderness?—Oh, speak, Velasquez!—tell me, what dost thou think could be his errand?

_Juan._ To what purpose speak? What end can conjecture serve? To rush with my sword drawn, and eyes averted, into the thickest of the press, is my maxim in any case of danger. Talking dissipates courage, as a shower disperses the thin coat of earth scattered over a rock, so that no foundation remains from which any adventurous action can shoot forth. If I were disposed to talk, I could find enough to say.

_Alonzo._ Of what nature?

_Diego._ Oh speak, Sir, I entreat you!—When it is dark I always like to hear talking.

_Juan._ Well, it shall be so. It may amuse you too, Alonzo, till the hour when your constellation shall rise; for the time always appears horribly tedious when one is waiting for a tender appointment. I will therefore talk till you command my silence; and this shall be the text with which I introduce my discourse.—My friend, this adventure bodes no good!—believe me, it bodes no good!

_Diego._ Right, Sir, right.

_Alonzo._ This is language foreign to thy sentiments. When has the time been known that Don Juan Velasquez turned his back upon an adventure, because it was dangerous?

_Juan._ There is the matter!—Hear me, Alonzo!—If thou wert capable of doubting my courage, I might easily prove it, by engaging the next rattle-snake I should meet. Thou knowest my principle, that I do not value my life more highly, than a moment of happiness, and happy is every moment that I sacrifice to friendship. If, therefore, thou hast any regard for me, no more of this!—My arm, my sword, are devoted to thy service—I have followed thee blindly into the labyrinth in which we are now involved; but I must still be permitted to think, that we do not give any proof of our wisdom in groping our way here when we might be more advantageously employed.

_Alonzo._ More advantageously?—let me hear in what way?

_Juan._ He who is doing ill, may always be more advantageously employed; and by the blood of all the knights that does or does not flow in my veins, I think we are now cursedly in the wrong. I say nothing of the sword suspended by a thread over our heads—affection takes precedence of life—You love Cora—I have the strongest attachment to you, and Diego is attached to both.

_Diego._ Certainly, certainly, Sir!—but—notwithstanding—pray don’t take it amiss, if I think that life has precedence of affection.

_Juan._ Granted therefore that the prosecution of this enterprise should prove the means of shortening the duration of our lives, yet we perhaps only give up some years of unhappiness ourselves, to purchase the happiness of a friend.—And since they have lived long, who have lived happily, and he only can be esteemed to have lived happily who has died so; what better can we wish, or how can we end our lives more satisfactorily, than in offering them up a sacrifice to friendship.

_Diego._ Cursed maxims, these!

_Juan._ But, Alonzo, to be happy, according to my ideas of happiness, you will understand that I consider this salutary state of the soul as inseparable from integrity and virtue. Lay your hand then upon your heart, and tell me what are now your feelings in moments of temperance and reflection?—Don Alonzo Molina quitted the savage followers of Pizarro, because he abhorred their barbarities—that was a noble principle!—I will go, he said, among these mild and benevolent people, and by cultivating their minds, and instructing them in the arts of civilized life, become their friend and benefactor.—Objects worthy of my friend!—But what has been the end of these virtuous resolutions?—You came among them indeed—the king of the country received you with open arms and an expanded heart—the people loved you—the family of the Incas honoured you—the great men of the nation beheld you without envy, enjoying the favour of their sovereign. You shared that sovereign’s cares; but you also shared his joys, his wealth;—you were no longer considered as a foreigner, and even the priests themselves murmured not when they saw you appear at the worship of their gods.—Oh fatal forbearance!—On one of these solemn days, my noble friend beheld in the temple one of the priestesses of the sun, as she presented the bread of sacrifice to the king.—She was young—she was lovely—Alonzo’s heart was instantly lost—and at the same moment all the grand designs he had formed, were sunk in the ocean of forgetfulness.—The champion for the rights of humanity slumbered upon his post, while the charming device upon his shield, the united hands beneath a cross surrounded with sun-beams, gave way to a burning heart, pierced through with arrows.—And now, if I wish to speak with Alonzo, where must I seek him?—Among the counsellors of the king—the judges of the people—or the instructors of youth?—It was among these, or such as these, that I should once have expected to find him:—but now, now he is only to be found stealing nightly about these walls, or behind these walls, with his face deeply buried in his cloak, hiding himself from his own conscience—while all his glorious projects are crushed in the embryo, as the future brood is destroyed by a mischievous boy who breaks the eggs of the setting hen.

_Alonzo._ (_Indignantly_) Velasquez!

_Juan._ Away with that menacing countenance, it ill accords with your situation. A man should not dare to assume the privilege of growing angry, unless his conscience be pure.—You will perhaps wonder at the jocund Velasquez becoming on a sudden a preacher of morality—but Velasquez was only jocund and light-hearted, because he was an honest man—let him therefore preach on, since he has entered upon the subject. You, by whom formerly every article of popular faith, even to the most minute, was held inviolate, because you considered that to every one was attached, in a considerable degree, the peace of mind of some weak, but honest man—you now rashly bid defiance to one of the most sacred tenets of a whole nation that has received you hospitably into their bosom, and seduce a chaste virgin devoted to their gods.—The conflicts of nature herself, are made subservient to your desires; and while a dreadful earthquake shakes these inaccessible walls even to their foundation, the bold intruder takes advantage of the passage thus opened to him to rush into Cora’s arms, and amidst this elemental warfare to murder innocence.

_Alonzo._ Forbear, Velasquez!—have you no compassion for me?—believe me, my conscience does not slumber.

_Juan._ Well then, if it slumber not, it is at least deaf, and the malady must be removed.—Ataliba is thy benefactor,—this amiable people have received thee as a brother,—and thou, assassin-like, art stabbing them in the dark.

_Alonzo._ Oh Velasquez, once more I entreat you to forbear!—I acknowledge, with gratitude, the voice of friendship,—but what wouldst thou require of me?

_Juan._ Heaven be thanked that I have succeeded at last in awakening you to some degree of reflection!—I require of you instantly to renounce this dangerous and criminal intercourse.

_Alonzo._ Well, I will consult with Cora.

_Juan._ Most admirable!—Cora is indeed the proper person to decide upon this matter. I perceive that you are seriously impressed with my lecture.

_Alonzo._ Rely upon me!—I will represent to her all that anxious love can suggest—the anger of the king—the indignation of the people—my danger—

_Juan._ Your danger!—Pardon the interruption, my friend, but you speak here without much reflection!—Your danger put in the balance against hers, is as a handful of down weighed against a bar of gold. You hazard only your life—

_Diego._ What the devil, and is not that enough?

_Juan._ She, on the contrary, hazards her fame, her repose, her father’s blessing, the love of her family, her prospect of salvation—and, to sum up all—she must encounter the most horrible of all deaths, supposing that this intercourse should give existence to a being who would prove the betrayer of your loves.

_Alonzo._ Oh talk not of it!—No, no, Velasquez, thank heaven I am not so deeply involved in guilt!

_Juan._ Heaven be thanked indeed, if you are yet clear from it?—but while you continue in your present course, what security can you have, that you will always remain so. And should a consequence so fatal ensue, think only on the boundless misery that it must bring both on Cora and yourself. That she must die would be little; the horrible idea is, the manner of her death. Shut up alive in a subterraneous vault, the opening of which will be closed upon her for ever, with only a single loaf of bread and a small lamp, she must sit gasping for air, and soon endure the severest torments of hunger.—Oh the very thought makes me shudder!—I have encountered death undauntedly under a variety of forms; but I could not bear to meet him under this.

_Alonzo._ (_Falling on his neck._) I will never see Cora again!

_Juan._ Worthily resolved!—let us then instantly depart!—(_Endeavours to draw him away._)

_Alonzo._ Only permit me to take leave of her!

_Juan._ Write her a letter, which we will throw over the wall—You hesitate!—Oh you are undecided!—Ha! already I see the hapless Cora enclosed in her horrible dungeon, crushed by the two-fold agony of bodily and mental torments, lying on the ground and gnawing her own flesh—uttering the most dreadful execrations against her God, and amid the wildest ravings of phrenzy breathing out that soul, the purity of which was poisoned by thee. Then when she shall stand before him who hereafter will judge alike the Peruvian and the Spaniard, and shall accuse thee as the origin of all her woes, the occasion of her becoming the murderer of her child——

_Alonzo._ (_Eagerly pulling Juan forwards._) Come, come!—let us fly!

_Juan._ With the utmost transport! (_As they are going, a clapping of hands is heard behind the wall._)

_Alonzo._ (_Turning suddenly round_) That is her signal! my Cora! my Cora!—(_He breaks away from Velasquez, and climbs hastily over the breach in the wall._)