Then straightway she did ask me of my lord--
  How he fared, and also of Don Diego. "Excellent well," said I, and here I laughed. "Too well, too well, for one with head so white." "How mean'st thou?" she said, with searching gaze. "Why, marry thus!" said I; "they say Don Diego----
  Hush, but this is a secret (here I winked)
  That old Don Diego, spite his years, doth think
  To take to him a young and pretty wife." Here the crone started somewhat, as I thought,
  And o'er her bronzed features came a flush
  Like burnished copper, and her eagle eye
  Flashed as with fire; but in an instant
  Her cheeks grew ashen pale and her lips trembled. Why I know not; but deeming her unwell,
  I offered her a sip of wine from out
  The gourd I carried at my saddle's flank;
  But she declined. "No wine," saith she, "hath ever
  Passed my lips since I was born. Shall I
  Break through my abstinence in hoary age?" Then seeming quite recovered, "Well," she said,
  "What was it of Don Diego, thou wert saying? Thou saidst, he thought to take to him a wife. Can this be true? Who may the lady be?" Then, mocking her, I said, "Thou knowest all things,
  Know'st thou not, the lady is our Inez,
  The daughter of my old lord Don Silvio. Still in her teens, and staying with her aunt,
  Lady Superior at St Ursula's,
  From here some fifteen miles, whither I go
  By order of her father, at full speed
  To carry back his daughter to his hall? And know'st thou not the wedding day is fixed,
  And all in readiness, but that our Inez
  As yet knows nought o't; but that to-morrow,
  When at eve I bring her to her father,
  She will soon learn it all, and willy, nilly,
  Will have to wed the old man for his gold?"' All this I told her. Then she said, "True, true,
  The stars already have revealed so much;
  But mark me, Pedro, mark me well, I say,
  For I know all things. It shall never be
  It will not happen. The stars forbid it." "What! Don Diego's wedding," said I. "We'll see." And off I trotted till I reached the convent. _Re-enter_ LADY ABBESS _and_ INEZ. LADY AB. And now, dear Inez, now that all's prepared
  For thy long homeward journey, one more kiss. Salute thy father, and bear well in mind
  All I have taught thee. When thou hast arrived
  Write to me straight to say that thou art safe. Thou, Pedro, do thy duty towards thy charge. And, Inez, love, thou'lt think of me sometimes,
  And should chance ever bring thee by this way,
  Thou'lt come and see me, eh? And now farewell. I dare not keep thee longer. Bless thee, Inez. Adieu; the saints protect thee. Go in peace. [_Embracing her._

  INEZ. Farewell, kind aunt, farewell. [_Exeunt Lady Abbess and Inez weeping, Pedro following._



ACT II. SCENE I.--_A country inn in the Sierra Nevada. A table spread under a
vine._

        _Enter_ DON ALFONSO _and_ DON PASCUAL. D. PAS. Must thou then really leave me and return
  To Salamanca to resume thy studies? Alas! to think that thou shouldst go alone,
  And that I dare not bear thee company. Tell me, Alfonso, think'st thou the police
  Are ever on my track, or else that they
  Have now given up all strict and diligent search,
  Some weeks having passed o'er since the fatal deed? D. ALF. I would not counsel thee yet to return. Too many rash deeds have been done of late
  For the law to lie much longer passive;
  Besides, the man you murdered was a count,
  A great hidalgo, and of haughty race;
  His family will leave no stone unturned
  Until this murdered member is avenged. D. PAS. Murdered! say'st thou again? 'Twas in a duel. D. ALF. Murder or homicide, 'twill go ill with thee,
  An thou fall'st in the clutches of the law. In good time thou leftest Salamanca. But live and learn; I did ever tell thee
  Thou wast over ready with thy weapon. What! For a hasty word said in hot blood
  Must thou be ever quarte, and tierce, and thrust? D. PAS. Hold, friend, but you must know the case was thus--
  I met Count Pablo----

  D. ALF. I know the story. The count was stern and haughty as thyself,
  Nor made allowances for others' pride;
  He could not brook the independent gaze
  Of one whom, perhaps, he deemed of lower birth;
  This led to altercation and fierce looks
  (I own him wrong, for he began the quarrel),
  But it was thou who wast the first to challenge;
  And all for a word, too. D. PAS. And was that nought? Nought, the being called a gipsy bastard? What! Call'st thou that a trifle? Bastard! Ugh! I swear, that had he been ten times my friend,
  I would have slain him. Bastard! Gipsy, too! What! Are we Spaniards of so fair a skin
  That he would have me pale-eyed, flaxen-haired,
  Like the barbarians of northern climes? May not a Spaniard have an olive skin
  And jetty eye without being gipsy called? A mystery, I know, hangs o'er my birth;
  I ne'er knew my parents. Some secret hand
  Doth forward me remittances at times,
  That I might be enabled to pursue
  My studies at the university. I cannot think it is my spurious father,
  For I do well remember me of one--
  Indeed, I think that she was not my mother. Although she treated me as her own son--
  A lady of high rank and ample means,
  A widow, too, with kind and gentle ways. I knew not then that she was not my mother;
  But dying when I yet was but a child,
  I was put early to a seminary. It may be I inherited her fortune,
  And out of this expenses are disbursed. When young I made no strict inquiries
  As to my origin. Those around me
  Told me but little, but I think I heard
  I was adopted by this widow lady. More I ne'er cared to know, until of late,
  Being stung by the count's taunt of spurious birth,
  I challenged him and killed him in a duel. And now I fain would have the myst'ry cleared,
  E'en should the certain knowledge gall my soul
  And I in truth should be a gipsy bastard. It may be that he spoke the truth. But how
  Did he come to know of it? Or, if truth,
  That truth was spoke in insult, and so ta'en. He who would call me gipsy, let him fear
  My gipsy blood. Let who would call me bastard
  Prepare to feel the sting a bastard feels. [_Touching his sword hilt._

  D. ALF. Chafe not thyself; the deed is done. No more
  Mar not the precious moments of our parting
  With fiery words, like braggadocio,
  Or vain lamentings of the fatal past,
  But let us rather draw unto the table,
  And o'er a merry flask of Val de Peñas
  Strive to forget all sorrow. D. PAS. So say I;  [_Seating themselves at the table._
  And here's to thy safe journey and return
  To thy most beloved Salamanca. And here's to the eyes that await thee there. Here's also to the delicate moustache----

  D. ALF. Enough, enough, my friend. Such toasts as these
  Keep for thyself. I've other ends in view. I have to carve my passage through the world,
  To which no syren's eyes must be a hindrance. Wish me but success in all my studies. D. PAS. Ay, so I do, Alfonso, from my heart. D. ALF.