How now, Rodriguez, did'st not hear me call? ROD. Indeed, my lord, I came as soon as I
  Did hear you, but it may be that of late
  I have grown a little hard of hearing;
  Rodriguez now is getting old. How many
  Years is it I have served your lordship here? D. SIL. Cease thy prating tongue, and now lend thine ear. ROD. I'm all attention, good my lord, proceed. D. SIL. Well then, here is a letter I have written
  To thy young mistress, bidding her return
  With fullest speed to the paternal roof. ROD. What! my young mistress Inez coming home
  After full five years' stay within the walls,
  The gloomy walls, of grim St. Ursula! Poor soul! she'll scarce remember old Rodriguez. How I long to see her! How she'll have grown. Time will have wrought great changes. But a child
  She was when first she left her father's hall,
  And now returns a woman. Pretty dear! Shall I ever forget how she did cry
  At leaving me? For you must know, Señor,
  That ever with a mother's tender care
  I've cherished her as were she child of mine,
  And she, sweet soul, ne'er having known her mother,
  Looked for no other mother than myself. And mother she would call me when a babe,
  Until she grew and first began to learn
  The death of your good lady Dorothea--
  Peace be to her soul, the dear sweet lady--
  Then she learned to call me Nurse Rodriguez. Dear little soul! When I did see her last
  She had her mother's brow, her mother's hair,
  Her eyes, too, and her tiny foot and hand;
  Her smile was all her mother's, yet methinks
  Something about the nose and mouth and chin
  Was from your lordship. How I wonder now
  If she be changed, if she do remember
  How I was wont to dance her on my knee
  To still her cries with sweets, and how she'd ask
  Me to tell her all about her mother--
  How she looked and spoke, and how she dressed? I told her all I knew. What I knew not
  That straight I did invent to please the child,
  And oftimes on a chilly wintry night
  Of storm and tempest, when the lightning's flash
  Lit up with lurid glare the outward gloom,
  And the loud thunder, like to wake the dead,
  Shook the old castle walls to their foundation,
  On such nights as these, when sleep would desert
  Her downy pillow, I would lift her thus,
  And wrapping her up in my ample shawl,
  I'd draw her to the fire. Then, whilst the warmth
  Of the genial element diffused
  Itself throughout the chamber, rendering
  By the contrast of the black storm without
  Its growing blaze more grateful, then would I
  Beguile the night with tales of ghosts and ghouls,
  Of elves and fairies, and hobgoblins grim,
  Of witches, wizards, vampires, dwarfs, and giants,
  Pirates, brigands, and unburied corpses,
  Whose restless spirits, ever hovering near,
  Render the place accursed, and bring ill
  To happen unto those who wander there. Wraiths and doubles, and corpse candles glim'ring
  O'er unhallowed graves. Of secret murders,
  Of spells, enchantment, and of hidden treasure,
  Fights of knights and dragons, Christian damsels
  Rescued from Moorish captors by their lovers,
  Tales of the Inquisition and its tortures,
  Of dungeons dark and drear, and skeletons
  Found bleak and bare, laden with rusty chains
  That ever and anon at midnight's hour
  Were heard to move and shake, with many a tale
  Of the wild gipsy tribes that roam these mountains,
  Of haunted houses and weird palaces,
  That at the magician's word sink 'neath the ground,
  Of devils and of fiends--

  D. SIL. And all the lore
  That gossips love to frighten children with. Wretch and most wicked beldam! Is it thus
  By giving reins to thine accursed tongue
  That thou hast sought to poison my child's mind? Is this why every eve when it grew dark
  I've seen her shudder and look o'er her shoulder? Why she would never enter a dark room? Why, as I've watched beside her tiny crib,
  I've seen her start in sleep with stifled sob? When I have watched her wan and haggard cheek,
  Her thoughtful mien, her dreamy vacant stare,
  Until I've fancied her in a decline,
  And feared she would not long be left to cheer
  My gloomy hearth; then was it this, I say,
  Thy foolish wicked lies, torturing thus
  Her tender infant brain? I say, for shame! In good time I rescued her from thy hands. ROD. I'm sure my lord, I've always sought to--

  D. SIL. Hush! And give me no more of thy silly prate,
  I've some affairs on hand, and must away,
  O'er long thou hast detained me with thy cant. Here, take this note, bid Pedro start at once
  And bear this safely to my daughter there,
  For to-night at the hostel he must sleep,
  To-morrow early he must start towards home,
  Accompanying my daughter by the way. [_Going._

  ROD. My lord, I'll see to't. D. SIL. And hark! Rodriguez,
  There's one thing I would caution you against. ROD. And that is, my lord? D. SIL. And that is, I say,
  That when my daughter home arrives to-morrow,
  You fill not her head with foolish stories
  And antiquated superstitions. Above all, talk to her not of gallants,
  Of tournaments, elopements, serenades,
  Or anecdotes of thine own frivolous life. RON. My lord! my lord! D. SIL. Once for all, I repeat,
  Detail not all the follies of thy youth;
  Talk to her not of dress or finery,
  Nor all the gilded pageantries of courts,
  Or such like vanities; and now, adieu,
  I must go hence. Think well of what I've said. [_Exit._

  ROD. (_Alone._) Poor, poor gentleman, I fear he's going;
  He's growing old now, is my poor master,
  And folks when they grow old are ever childish. He ne'er has been the same since the departure
  Of my poor mistress, Lady Dorothea. What said he about my frivolous life? Who can cast a stone at Dame Rodriguez? Oh, his head's gone; that's very clear, alas! _My_ life! 'Twere well he thought about his own,
  Spent here mid dusty books and parchments old,
  With dirty bottles and queer instruments. As no one ever saw the like before. What he does with them, who can understand? Shut up here like a hermit all day long. A plague on him, and all his crotchety ways! Wait till my mistress Inez doth return;
  She will enliven him, and 'twixt us two,
  We'll make a clearance of this dusty cell. "Talk to her not of dress!" Poor silly man! Why, how on earth is the poor child to know,
  Shut up these five years in those convent walls,
  Of all the latest fashions of the day? How should she dress herself without the aid
  Of old Rodriguez? See how these men are. Do we live in a world or do we not? I should not do my duty to his child
  Were I to listen to him. No I must,
  The instant she arrives, take her in hand. "Talk to her not of gallants!" Why, forsooth? Must the poor child see no society? Is this hall a convent or a desert? Was she not born to marry and to mix
  With other ladies of her state and rank? How should she find a husband without me? She's growing up now, and has no mother,
  And as for her poor father, he'd as soon
  Think of flying as of his daughter's weal.