As to thyself, Pascual, as it seems
  Thou art but little formed for study, being
  Of a too warm and hasty temperament
  To find much solace in the student's page,
  Preferring lone rambles and sylvan sports
  To the uncertain fame a scholar seeks. To thee, and such as thee, the love of woman
  Thy ardent nature will not fail to find
  Out of the many one whom thou canst love. May she be virtuous as she is fair,
  And worthy of thy love as thou of hers. D. PAS. I thank thee, but as yet my heart is whole. May I dare hope yet that a time may come
  When a woman's love and a happy home
  To thee may not be all contemptible. Heigho! D. ALF. Thou sighest. Sure thou art in love. D. PAS. Not so, my friend, not yet. D. ALF. Then wherefore sigh? D. PAS. Thou hast awoke strange mem'ries in my mind--
  Events long past that I'd but all forgot. 'Tis nothing, thou'lt say--mere childish fancy. Prithee, friend Alfonso, tell me one thing. Dost really think I come of gipsy blood? D. ALF. What! Is it there the shoe still pinches? Ha! Fill up another bumper of this wine
  And wash down the word, else it will choke thee. D. PAS. Nay, I am serious, and would have thy word. Tell me in honour, now, what thou dost think. D. ALF. Bah! What matters it? Thou art somewhat dark;
  But, as thou well sayst, so are all our race. D. PAS. True. But what think'st thou? D. ALF. Faith! I cannot tell. Perhaps over dark for a Castilian. D. PAS. Ha! Say'st thou so? I've long thought so myself. And what confirms me in the thought is this,
  That ever since my earliest youth I've felt
  A strange affection for these gipsy tribes--
  A sympathy for their wild wandering life
  And fierce impatience at the cold restraints
  By which well-bred society doth cramp
  Our fervid passions. Friend, thou knowest me well. Thou sayest well I am not formed for study,
  That is to say, such studies as thine own--
  Th' intricacies of law, philosophy,
  The mysteries of theology, and all
  The lore for which you students sap your youth. My book is nature. In the open fields
  I've loved to lie at night and watch the stars,
  The various aspects of the changing moon,
  Or on the giddy mountain peak at morn
  To view the first beams of the rising sun
  As from the rosy horizon it climbs
  Up towards the purple zenith. At midday
  I love to rest me in the sylvan shade
  And watch the deer grazing on the rich turf,
  Or else in company of some jovial friends,
  Hunt these poor denizens from their peaceful haunts,
  And, heated with the chase, dismount and slake
  My parching thirst from out the neighbouring brook. Full oft in my wild wanderings I have passed
  Through desert places, where no dwelling was,
  And, overcome by hunger and fatigue,
  Have well nigh fainted, but in such cases,
  When human hospitality doth fail
  Nature comes to the rescue and procures
  Its roots and berries, sometimes luscious fruit:
  And thus I've journeyed often from my youth,
  Encountering many dangers in my path. Twice captured by the brigands, nor set free
  Without heavy ransom. More than once
  I've 'scaped unaided from the blades of ruffians,
  But not unscathed, and fighting hand to hand. I've also fallen in with the gipsy tribes,
  And lived among them, too, in early youth,
  Till I became familiar with their tongue,
  Their life and customs, for when yet a child
  They stole me from my friends, whoe'er they were,
  But I was rescued, and the dusky tribe
  Were driven out from that part of the land. Among my early reminiscences
  I can recall the tall and bronzed form
  Of one who should have been the queen of them,
  For so I've heard her styled. I met her oft;
  And when I first remember her she bore
  A countenance as beautiful as day. I have not seen her now for many years. When last I met her I could plainly see
  That time and trouble and a roving life
  Had left their stamp upon her dusky brow. But I had nought to fear from _her_. The crone
  Would call me to her and caress me, too;
  Call me endearing names, and, as a proof
  Of further love, she gave this ring to me;
  Made me swear it ne'er should leave my finger,
  And that some day it would protect my life. For should I fall in with the gipsy band,
  On seeing this token they would let me pass
  Without let or hindrance, so she said. For years I have not seen the gipsy band,
  And therefore have not put it to the proof;
  But still I've kept my vow, and from that time
  I ne'er have doffed it. And now tell me, friend,
  If what I've just told you does not prove
  Me sprung from gipsy blood? D. ALF. We cannot help
  Our birth. What matters it our parentage? D. PAS. Thou seest not, then, what it is that galls me. List. If I be of gipsy origin,
  I must be likewise bastard, for whoe'er
  Did hear of legal marriage in a case
  Of love 'twixt Christian and a gipsy maid? Knowest thou not what the term "bastard" means? Could I once but meet my spurious father,
  He should account for sending me adrift
  And nameless through the world, or I'd know why. For know, whate'er my origin may be,
  I have been brought up as a gentleman,
  And hope to marry one of gentle blood. What proud Castilian family would mate
  A cherished daughter to a lineage soiled? D. ALF. I do acknowledge thy perplexity. But bastard though thou beest, thou'rt still a man. Would'st 'rase the bar sinister from thy shield,
  Or, what is much the same, cast it i' the shade,
  So that it appear not for the lustre
  Of thy many and resplendent virtues? Make thy name famous. Fame, however bought,
  Hath ne'er failed to win the heart of woman. A woman's heart being once securely won,
  The vict'ry's thine. Th' obstacles that follow
  Thou'lt find will not be insurmountable;
  I mean, to gain the parents' full consent. But he must fight who'd win. And now, adieu
  I have no time to tarry longer. See,
  My mule is saddled, and I must away. Detain me not, my friend, for I would fain
  Reach the adjacent township ere nightfall. D. PAS. Bless thee, Alfonso, and fortune speed thee. D. ALF. The like to thee, Pascual, from my heart. [_They embrace. Exit Alfonso. Pascual remains behind and
          waves his handkerchief from the terrace._

  D. PAS. Adios! He is gone. His ambling mule
  Has borne its gallant freight far out of sight. Farewell, Alfonso. Fortune be thy guide,
  Truest of comrades, best of counsellors,
  Ride _thou_, my friend, towards fame, whilst I, Pascual,
  Like Cain, must roam the earth, a vagabond,
  Flying the face of man, by man pursued;
  A price set on my head. Not merely bastard,
  But vagabond! What was't he said of fame? He mocked me. Fame for an outlawed gipsy! An it be not such fame the gallows brings,
  Write me down lucky. Would not an attempt
  To bring my name to light sign my death warrant? My friend thought not of this. For such as I
  The monast'ry's sequestered cell were good,
  Rather than fame. But courage yet!