philosophic, wise Don Silvio,
He who despises wealth and this world's pomp,
Yet sells his daughter for Don Diego's gold?"
Thus run I counter both to God and man,
And mine own conscience. Crushing my child's heart
That I might save my own grey head from ruin.
Help me, ye saints! for I have need of guidance. [Kneeling.
Soul of my blest departed Dorothea!
Assist me with thy counsels, and send down
From that high heaven where thou in peace doth dwell
A blessing on thy daughter and her sire;
It cannot, sure, be that our Inez shall
Unwillingly and loathingly consent
To wed a vicious dotard for his gold. [Rising.
Time wanes, and with my part I must go through;
Then, as to the rest, let heaven think on't.
I know not if I meditate aright;
Nay, I know I am wrong, but I've no choice.
Hola! Rodriguez!—Rodriguez, I say!

Enter Rodriguez.

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.

Rod. 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