A trifle old, perhaps; so much the better,
  He will but die the sooner, and so leave
  Our Inez mistress of his lordly hall. Once left a widow, young and rich, she then
  May marry any gallant that she likes. First let her fill her mouth and clothe her back,
  Then indulge her own caprice at leisure. I'm for Don Diego, and will help his plan
  With all my power. ROD. Oh! you men, you men,
  You're all alike, and have no sentiments. Just such a one is master, who would sell
  His only child to pay his debts withal. PED. Why, how can he help it? Debts must be paid. And when the debt is cancelled in this way
  I fancy I can see the old miser chuckle
  To himself at having got off so cheap. DON SILVIO _advances in their midst_. D. SIL. Discussing matters that concern ye not,
  Eavesdropping hounds, unmannered miscreants! Is this your duty and your gratitude? Knaves that ye are, and base-born time-servers,
  Off with ye both! Thou, Pedro, lazy lout,
  Off to the convent, as I bade thee. Fly! Rouse not my wrath; and thou, thou gossiping hag,
  Back to thy room and give thy tongue a rest,
  Else it will swell and choke thee. Would it might. [_Exeunt severally Pedro and Rodriguez. Don Silvio throws
          himself into an armchair, and covers his face with his
          hands._


SCENE II.--_Interior of the Convent of St. Ursula. Inez discovered
pacing up and down dejectedly._

  INEZ. 'Tis passing strange that all these five long years
  That I have lived within these convent walls,
  A stranger to the world without, unless
  To the narrow limits of our garden. I ne'er remember to have passed a night
  Like last night was. Most strange and fearful dreams
  Disturbed my slumber, robbing me of rest;
  Confused they were, and I can scarce recall
  Aught of their substance, but methought that I
  Was caught and roughly handled by rude men
  With dark ferocious faces. By their dress
  I should have deemed them gipsies; then methought
  I saw a female--tall, majestic, old,
  Or middle-aged, in strange and wild attire,
  Who spoke to me, and questioned me in proud,
  Yet calm and kindly accents, and that she
  Rebuked the ruffians, so that they fell back
  And did no harm to me; yet still I sat
  Surrounded by the band, which kept close guard. My fear was very great, so that I think
  I must have fainted, for I knew no more. It was a dream most unaccountable. My aunt, the Lady Abbess, says that dreams
  Are sent us oftimes by the saints to warn,
  Guide, and admonish us. That holy men,
  Ay, and women, too, have had many things
  Revealed to them in dreams and visions. Old nurse Rodriguez, too, I can recall,
  Oft would relate me hers, and would declare
  They all came true, or bore some hidden sense
  That none save gifted sybils could explain. And now, although my memory's much confused,
  Methinks Rodriguez formed part of my dream. _Enter_ LADY ABBESS. LADY AB. What! Inez, musing--art not well, my child? INEZ. I've slept badly, aunt, and have a headache. LADY AB. Here's that will cure it. INEZ. What! A letter? LADY AB. Ay, from thy father; it was hither brought
  By an old servitor. INEZ. The good Pedro? LADY AB. I think the same; I've seen his face before. Thou know'st, Inez, that it is my custom
  To break the seal of all the letters that
  Come here directed to my novices,
  To prevent clandestine correspondence;
  But knowing well my brother's handwriting,
  And being well informed of the contents
  By this same Pedro, I deemed it useless. Read it then, dear, thyself. INEZ. (_Reads._)  "My dearest child,
  The time has now come round when thou should'st end
  Thy course of studies at St. Ursula's. It is my wish that thou at once take leave
  For ever of thy aunt, the Lady Abbess,
  And without more delay prepare to start
  In the company of my servant Pedro. See that thou be not tardy, but straightway,
  Quick after the perusal of these lines,
  Set off upon thy journey, for I have
  Much to say to thee. Greet my good sister. Your loving father,
                              Silvio." Dearest aunt,
  I know not if I should laugh for joy or weep,
  For, returning home to see my father,
  I needs must bid farewell to you, who e'er
  Have been a mother to me. LADY AB. Dearest child! I am full loath to part with thee, but still,
  In obedience to thy father's orders,
  Thou must not tarry. Take my blessing then,
  And may the blessed Virgin and the saints
  Protect thee from all harm upon the road. Kiss me, my Inez, and now straight commence
  To get thy baggage ready. INEZ. And Pedro? LADY AB. He is without. I'll call him. What! Pedro. _Enter_ PEDRO. PED. Gracious Donna Inez, I kiss your hands. INEZ. Ah, good Pedro, sure thou scarce knowest me;
  These many years have wrought a change in us. How leftest thou my father? Well, I hope;
  And nurse Rodriguez, she, I hope, is well. PED. Excellent well, most gracious lady, both. INEZ. I'm glad of 't. And thou thyself, good Pedro? PED. I thank the Lord, good lady, I'm not worse--
  I'm getting old. LADY AB. That is the fate of all;
  We cannot aye be young. PED. True, good lady. INEZ. And now, Pedro, do thou wait here until
  I shall return. I'll try not to be long;
  I've my baggage yet to pack, and to say
  Some words in private to our Lady Abbess
                                     [_Exeunt Inez and Lady Abbess._

  PED. Why, how the little wench has grown, i' faith! But I'd have known her anywhere, I would,
  So strong is the resemblance to her mother--
  Her voice, her very manner too's the same
  As Lady Dorothy's when first I knew her. Ah, those were merry days. Would I could live
  Them o'er again. Let me see. What was it
  The gipsy beldam told me by the road? Ha! I remember. When about half-way
  Between the castle and St. Ursula,
  While jogging through a bleak and bare ravine
  Upon my mule, and leading on the other,
  A crone stood in my path--a gipsy crone. I know not how old; but past middle age. Still, from her mien, which was majestic, proud,
  I think she had been handsome in her youth. "Good morrow, Pedro," said the crone. "Speed well"
  "Good morrow, Dame," said I. "You know me, then?" "And have done long. Gipsies know everything. Wilt have a proof of it? Wilt know thy fortune? Show me thy palm," she said. "My palm!" said I,
  "Know thou, good gipsy, I have nought withal
  To pay thee." "Never mind for that," she said;
  "I love to gossip with an old retainer. Thy gossip shall repay me. Quick, thy palm." Then tracing with her gaunt and taloned finger
  A mystic sign across the line of life,
  "Not always thus, good Pedro, hast thou been. Thou hast a master who but ill repays
  Thy manifold and useful services. Thou hadst a mistress once, but she is gone;
  With her decease good luck hath fled the house,
  But times will change, and luck will reappear,
  And thou shalt live content to good old age." I recollect no more of what she said,
  But mighty promises she made of luck.