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THE SPANISH GYPSY: BOOK 2, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Silva was marching homeward while the moon
Last Line: "maketh himself as allah true to friends."
Alternate Author Name(s): Eliot, George; Cross, Marian Lewes; Evans, Marian; Ann, Mary
Subject(s): Christianity; Courts & Courtiers; Inquisition; Letters; Love; Man-woman Relationships; Moors (people); Spain - History; Royal Court Life; Royalty; Kings; Queens; Male-female Relations


SILVA was marching homeward while the moon
Still shed mild brightness like the far-off hope
Of those pale virgin lives that wait and pray.
The stars thin-scattered made the heavens large,
Bending in slow procession; in the east
Emergent from the dark waves of the hills,
Seeming a little sister of the moon,
Glowed Venus all unquenched. Silva, in haste,
Exultant and yet anxious, urged his troop
To quick and quicker march: he had delight
In forward stretching shadows, in the gleams
That travelled on the armor of the van,
And in the many-hoofed sound: in all that told
Of hurrying movement to o'ertake his thought
Already in Bedmár, close to Fedalma,
Leading her forth a wedded bride, fast vowed,
Defying Father Isidor. His glance
Took in with much content the priest who rode
Firm in his saddle, stalwart and broad-backed,
Crisp-curled, and comfortably secular,
Right in the front of him. But by degrees
Stealthily faint, disturbing with slow loss
That showed not yet full promise of a gain,
The light was changing and the watch intense
Of moon and stars seemed weary, shivering:
The sharp white brightness passed from off the rocks
Carrying the shadows: beauteous Night lay dead
Under the pall of twilight, and the love-star
Sickened and shrank. The troop was winding now
Upward to where a pass between the peaks
Seemed like an opened gate, — to Silva seemed
An outer-gate of heaven, for through that pass
They entered his own valley, near Bedmár.
Sudden within the pass a horseman rose
One instant dark upon the banner pale
Of rock-cut sky, the next in motion swift
With hat and plume high shaken, — ominous.
Silva had dreamed his future, and the dream
Held not this messenger. A minute more, —
It was his friend Don Alvar whom he saw
Reining his horse up, face to face with him,
Sad as the twilight, all his clothes ill-girt, —
As if he had been roused to see one die,
And brought the news to him whom death had robbed.
Silva believed he saw the worst, — the town
Stormed by the infidel, — or, could it be
Fedalma dragged? — no, there was not yet time.
But with a marble face, he only said,
"What evil, Alvar?"
"What this paper speaks."
It was Fedalma's letter folded close
And mute as yet for Silva. But his friend
Keeping it still sharp-pinched against his breast,
"It will smite hard, my lord: a private grief.
I would not have you pause to read it here.
Let us ride on, — we use the moments best,
Reaching the town with speed. The smaller ill
Is that our Gypsy prisoners have escaped."
"No more. Give me the paper, — nay, I know, —
'T will make no difference. Bid them march on faster."
Silva pushed forward, — held the paper crushed
Close in his right. "They have imprisoned her,"
He said to Alvar in low, hard-cut tones,
Like a dream-speech of slumbering revenge.
"No, — when they came to fetch her she was gone."
Swift as the right touch on a spring, that word
Made Silva read the letter. She was gone!
But not into locked darkness, — only gone
Into free air, — where he might find her yet.
The bitter loss had triumph in it, — what!
They would have seized her with their holy claws?
The Prior's sweet morsel of despotic hate
Was snatched from off his lips. This misery
Had yet a taste of joy.
But she was gone!
The sun had risen, and in the castle walls
The light grew strong and stronger. Silva walked
Through the long corridor where dimness yet
Cherished a lingering, flickering, dying hope:
Fedalma still was there, — he could not see
The vacant place that once her presence filled.
Can we believe that the dear dead are gone?
Love in sad weeds forgets the funeral day,
Opens the chamber door and almost smiles, —
Then sees the sunbeams pierce athwart the bed
Where the pale face is not. So Silva's joy,
Like the sweet habit of caressing hands
That seek the memory of another hand,
Still lived on fitfully in spite of words,
And, numbing thought with vague illusion, dulled
The slow and steadfast beat of certainty.
But in the rooms inexorable light
Streamed through the open window where she fled,
Streamed on the belt and coronet thrown down, —
Mute witnesses, — sought out the typic ring
That sparkled on the crimson, solitary,
Wounding him like a word. O hateful light!
It filled the chambers with her absence, glared
On all the motionless things her hand had touched,
Motionless all, — save where old Iñez lay
Sunk on the floor holding her rosary,
Making its shadow tremble with her fear.
And Silva passed her by because she grieved:
It was the lute, the gems, the pictured heads,
He longed to crush, because they made no signBut of insistence that she was not
there,
She who had filled his sight and hidden them.
He went forth on the terrace tow'rd the stairs,
Saw the rained petals of the cistus flowers
Crushed by large feet; but on one shady spot
Far down the steps, where dampness made a home,
He saw a footprint delicate-slippered, small,
So dear to him, he searched for sister-prints,
Searched in the rock-hewn passage with a lamp
For other trace of her, and found a glove;
But not Fedalma's. It was Juan's glove,
Tasselled, perfumed, embroidered with his name,
A gift of dames. Then Juan, too, was gone?
Full-mouthed conjecture, hurrying through the town,
Had spread the tale already, — it was he
That helped the Gypsies' flight. He talked and sang
Of nothing but the Gypsies and Fedalma.
He drew the threads together, wove the plan.
Had lingered out by moonlight and been seen
Strolling, as was his wont, within the walls,
Humming his ditties. So Don Alvar told,
Conveying outside rumor. But the Duke
Keeping his haughtiness as a visor closed
Would show no agitated front in quest
Of small disclosures. What her writing bore
Had been enough. He knew that she was gone,
Knew why.
"The Duke," some said, "will send a force,
Retake the prisoners, and bring back his bride."
But others, winking, "Nay, her wedding dress
Would be the san-benito. 'T is a fight
Between the Duke and Prior. Wise bets will choose
The churchman: he's the iron, and the Duke" —
"Is a fine piece of pottery," said mine host,
Softening the epigram with a bland regret.

There was the thread that in the new-made knot
Of obstinate circumstance seemed hardest drawn,
Vexed most the sense of Silva, in these hours
Of fresh and angry pain, — there, in that fight
Against a foe whose sword was magical,
His shield invisible terrors, — against a foe
Who stood as if upon the smoking mount
Ordaining plagues. All else, Fedalma's flight,
The father's claim, her Gypsy birth disclosed,
Were momentary crosses, hindrances
A Spanish noble might despise. This Chief
Might still be treated with, would not refuse
A proffered ransom, which would better serve
Gypsy prosperity, give him more power
Over his tribe, than any fatherhood:
Nay, all the father in him must plead loud
For marriage of his daughter where she loved, —
Her love being placed so high and lustrously.
The keen Zincalo had foreseen a price
That would be paid him for his daughter's dower, —
Might soon give signs. Oh, all his purpose lay
Face upward. Silva here felt strong, and smiled.
What could a Spanish noble not command?
He only helped the Queen, because he chose, —
Could war on Spaniards, and could spare the Moor, —
Buy justice, or defeat it, — if he would:
Was loyal, not from weakness but from strength
Of high resolve to use his birthright well.
For nobles too are gods, like Emperors,
Accept perforce their own divinity
And wonder at the virtue of their touch,
Till obstinate resistance shakes their creed,
Shattering that self whose wholeness is not rounded
Save in the plastic souls of other men.
Don Silva had been suckled in that creed
(A speculative noble else, knowing Italian),
Held it absurd as foolish argument
If any failed in deference, was too proud
Not to be courteous to so poor a knave
As one who knew not necessary truths
Of birth and precedence; but cross his will,
The miracle-working will, his rage leaped out
As by a right divine to rage more fatal
Than a mere mortal man's. And now that will
Had met a stronger adversary, — strong
As awful ghosts are whom we cannot touch,
While they grasp us, subtly as poisoned air,
In deep-laid fibres of inherited fear
That lie below all courage.
Silva said,
"She is not lost to me, might still be mine
But for the Inquisition, — the dire hand
That waits to clutch her with a hideous grasp,
Not passionate, human, living, but a grasp
As in the death-throe when the human soul
Departs and leaves force unrelenting, locked,
Not to be loosened save by slow decay
That frets the universe. Father Isidor
Has willed it so: his phial dropped the oil
To catch the air-borne motes of idle slander;
He fed the fascinated gaze that clung
Round all her movements, frank as growths of spring,
With the new hateful interest of suspicion.
What barrier is this Gypsy? a mere gate
I'll find the key for. The one barrier,
The tightening cord that winds about my limbs,
Is this kind uncle, this imperious saint,
He who will save me, guard me from myself.
And he can work his will: I have no help
Save reptile secrecy, and no revenge
Save that I will do what he schemes to hinder.
Ay, secrecy, and disobedience, — these
No tyranny can master. Disobey!
You may divide the universe with God,
Keeping your will unbent, and hold a world
Where he is not supreme. The Prior shall know it!
His will shall breed resistance: he shall do
The thing he would not, further what he hates
By hardening my resolve."
But 'neath this inward speech, —
Predominant, hectoring, the more passionate voice
Of many-blended consciousness, — there breathed
Murmurs of doubt, the weakness of a self
That is not one; denies and yet believes;
Protests with passion, "This is natural," —
Yet owns the other still were truer, better,
Could nature follow it. A self disturbed
By budding growths of reason premature
That breed disease. Spite of defiant rage
Silva half shrank before the steadfast man
Whose life was one compacted whole, a state
Where the rule changed not, and the law was strong.
Then straightway he resented that forced tribute,
Rousing rebellion with intenser will.

But soon this inward strife the slow-placed hours
Slackened; and the soul sank with hunger-pangs,
Hunger of love. Debate was swept right down
By certainty of loss intolerable.
A little loss! only a dark-tressed maid
Who had no heritage save her beauteous being!
But in the candor of her virgin eyes
Saying, I love; and in the mystic charm
Of her dear presence, Silva found a heaven
Where faith and hope were drowned as stars in day.
Fedalma there, each momentary Now
Seemed a whole blest existence, a full cup
That, flowing over, asked no pouring hand
From past to future. All the world was hers.
Splendor was but the herald trumpet note
Of her imperial coming: penury
Vanished before her as before a gem
The pledge of treasuries. Fedalma there,
He thought all loveliness was lovelier,
She crowning it: all goodness credible,
Because of the great trust her goodness bred.
For the strong current of that passionate love
Which urged his life tow'rds hers, like urgent floods
That hurry through the various-mingled earth,
Carried within its stream all qualities
Of what it penetrated, and made love
Only another name, as Silva was,
For the whole man that breathed within his frame.
And she was gone. Well, goddesses will go;
But for a noble there were mortals left
Shaped just like goddesses, — O hateful sweet!
O impudent pleasure that should dare to front
With vulgar visage memories divine!
The noble's birthright of miraculous will
Turning I would to must be, spurning all
Offered as substitute for what it chose,
Tightened and fixed in strain irrevocable
The passionate selection of that love
Which came not first but as all-conquering last.
Great Love has many attributes, and shrines
For varied worshippers, but his force divine
Shows most its many-named fulness in the man
Whose nature multitudinously mixed,
Each ardent impulse grappling with a thought
Resists all easy gladness, all content
Save mystic rapture, where the questioning soul
Flooded with consciousness of good that is
Finds life one bounteous answer. So it was
In Silva's nature, Love had mastery there,
Not as a holiday ruler, but as one
Who quells a tumult in a day of dread,
A welcomed despot.
Oh, all comforters,
All soothing things that bring mild ecstasy,
Came with her coming, in her presence lived.
Spring afternoons, when delicate shadows fall
Pencilled upon the grass; high summer morns
When white light rains upon the quiet sea
And corn-fields flush with ripeness; odors soft, —
Dumb vagrant bliss that seems to seek a home
And find it deep within 'mid stirrings vague
Of far-off moments when our life was fresh;
All sweetly-tempered music, gentle change
Of sound, form, color, as on wide lagoons
At sunset when from black far-floating prows
Comes a clear wafted song; all exquisite joy
Of a subdued desire, like some strong stream
Made placid in the fulness of a lake, —
All came with her sweet presence, for she brought
The love supreme which gathers to its realm
All powers of loving. Subtle nature's hand
Waked with a touch the intricate harmonies
In her own manifold work. Fedalma there,
Fastidiousness became the prelude fine
For full contentment, and young melancholy,
Lost for its origin, seemed but the pain
Of waiting for that perfect happiness —
The happiness was gone!
He sat alone,
Hating companionship that was not hers;
Felt bruised with hopeless longing; drank, as wine,
Illusions of what had been, would have been;
Weary with anger and a strained resolve,
Sought passive happiness in a waking dream.
It has been so with rulers, emperors,
Nay, sages who held secrets of great Time,
Sharing his hoary and beneficent life, —
Men who sat throned among the multitudes, —
They have sore sickened at the loss of one.
Silva sat lonely in her chamber, leaned
Where she had leaned, to feel the evening breath
Shed from the orange-trees; when suddenly
His grief was echoed in a sad young voice
Far and yet near, brought by aerial wings.

The world is great: the birds all fly from me,
The stars are golden fruit upon a tree
All out of reach: my little sister went,
And I am lonely.

The world is great: I tried to mount the hill
Above the pines, where the light lies so still,
But it rose higher: little Lisa went,
And I am lonely.

The world is great: the wind comes rushing by,
I wonder where it comes from; sea birds cry
And hurt my heart: my little sister went,
And I am lonely.

The world is great: the people laugh and talk,
And make loud holiday: how fast they walk!
I'm lame, they push me: little Lisa went,
And I am lonely.

'T was Pablo, like the wounded spirit of song
Pouring melodious pain to cheat the hour
For idle soldiers in the castle court.
Dreamily Silva heard and hardly felt
The song was outward, rather felt it part
Of his own aching, like the lingering day,
Or slow and mournful cadence of the bell.
But when the voice had ceased, he longed for it,
And fretted at the pause, as memory frets
When words that made its body fall away
And leave it yearning dumbly. Silva then
Bethought him whence the voice came, framed perforce
Some outward image of a life not his
That made a sorrowful centre to the world, —
A boy lame, melancholy-eyed, who bore
A viol, — yes, that very child he saw
This morning eating roots by the gateway, — saw
As one fresh-ruined sees and spells a name
And knows not what he does, yet finds it writ
Full in the inner record. Hark, again!
The voice and viol. Silva called his thought
To guide his ear and track the travelling sound.

O bird that used to press
Thy head against my cheek
With, touch that seemed to speak
And ask a tender "yes," —
Ay de mi, my bird!

O tender downy breast
And warmly beating heart,
That beating seemed a part
Of me who gave it rest, —
Ay de mi, my bird!

The western court! The singer might be seen
From the upper gallery: quick the Duke was there
Looking upon the court as on a stage.
Men eased of armor, stretched upon the ground,
Gambling by snatches; shepherds from the hills
Who brought their bleating friends for slaughter; grooms
Shouldering loose harness; leather-aproned smiths,
Traders with wares, green-suited serving-men,
Made a round audience; and in their midst
Stood little Pablo, pouring forth his song,
Just as the Duke had pictured. But the song
Was strangely companied by Roldan's play
With the swift-gleaming balls, and now was crushed
By peals of laughter at grave Annibal,
Who carrying stick and purse o'erturned the pence,
Making mistake by rule. Silva had thought
To melt hard bitter grief by fellowship
With the world-sorrow trembling in his ear
In Pablo's voice; had meant to give command
For the boy's presence; but this company,
This mountebank and monkey, must be — stay!
Not be excepted — must be ordered too
Into his private presence; they had brought
Suggestion of a ready shapen tool
To cut a path between his helpless wish
And what it imaged. A ready shapen tool!
A spy, an envoy whom he might despatch
In unsuspected secrecy, to find
The Gypsies' refuge so that none beside
Might learn it. And this juggler could be bribed,
Would have no fear of Moors, — for who would kill
Dancers and monkeys? — could pretend a journey
Back to his home, leaving his boy the while
To please the Duke with song. Without such chance, —
An envoy cheap and secret as a mole
Who could go scathless, come back for his pay
And vanish straight, tied by no neighborhood, —
Without such chance as this poor juggler brought,
Finding Fedalma was betraying her.

Short interval betwixt the thought and deed.
Roldan was called to private audience
With Annibal and Pablo. All the world
(By which I mean the score or two who heard)
Shrugged high their shoulders, and supposed the Duke
Would fain beguile the evening and replace
His lacking happiness, as was the right
Of nobles, who could pay for any cure,
And wore naught broken, save a broken limb.
In truth, at first, the Duke bade Pablo sing,
But, while he sang, called Roldan wide apart,
And told him of a mission secret, brief, —
A quest which well performed might earn much gold,
But, if betrayed, another sort of wages.
Roldan was ready; "wished above all for gold
And never wished to speak; had worked enough
At wagging his old tongue and chiming jokes;
Thought it was others' turn to play the fool.
Give him but pence enough, no rabbit, sirs,
Would eat and stare and be more dumb than he.
Give him his orders."
They were given straight;
Gold for the journey, and to buy a mule
Outside the gates through which he was to pass
Afoot and carelessly. The boy would stay
Within the castle, at the Duke's command,
And must have naught but ignorance to betray
For threats or coaxing. Once the quest performed,
The news delivered with some pledge of truth
Safe to the Duke, the juggler should go forth,
A fortune in his girdle, take his boy
And settle firm as any planted tree
In fair Valencia, never more to roam.
"Good! good! most worthy of a great hidalgo!
And Roldan was the man! But Annibal, —
A monkey like no other, though morose
In private character, yet full of tricks, —
'T were hard to carry him, yet harder still
To leave the boy and him in company
And free to slip away. The boy was wild
And shy as mountain kid; once hid himself
And tried to run away; and Annibal,
Who always took the lad's side (he was small,
And they were nearer of a size, and, sirs,
Your monkey has a spite against us men
For being bigger), — Annibal went too.
Would hardly know himself, were he to lose
Both boy and monkey, — and 't was property,
The trouble he had put in Annibal.
He didn't choose another man should beat
His boy and monkey. If they ran away
Some man would snap them up, and square himself
And say they were his goods, — he'd taught them. — no!
He Roldan had no mind another man
Should fatten by his monkey, and the boy
Should not be kicked by any pair of sticks
Calling himself a juggler." . . . .
But the Duke,
Tired of that hammering, signed that it should cease;
Bade Roldan quit all fears, — the boy and ape
Should be safe lodged in Abderahman's tower,
In keeping of the great physician there,
The Duke's most special confidant and friend,
One skilled in taming brutes, and always kind.
The Duke himself this eve would see them lodged.
Roldan must go, — spend no more words, — but go.
A room high up in Abderahman's tower,
A window open to the still warm eve,
And the bright disk of royal Jupiter.
Lamps burning low make little atmospheres
Of light amid the dimness; here and there
Show books and phials, stones and instruments.
In carved dark-oaken chair, unpillowed, sleeps
Right in the rays of Jupiter a small man,
In skull-cap bordered close with crisp gray curls,
And loose black gown showing a neck and breast
Protected by a dim-green amulet;
Pale faced, with finest nostril wont to breathe
Ethereal passion in a world of thought;
Eyebrows jet-black and firm, yet delicate;
Beard scant and grizzled; mouth shut firm, with curves
So subtly turned to meanings exquisite,
You seem to read them as you read a word
Full-vowelled, long-descended, pregnant, — rich
With legacies from long, laborious lives.
Close by him, like a genius of sleep,
Purrs the gray cat, bridling, with snowy breast.
A loud knock. "Forward!" in clear vocal ring.
Enter the Duke, Pablo, and Annibal.
Exit the cat, retreating toward the dark.

DON SILVA.
You slept, Sephardo. I am come too soon.

SEPHARDO.
Nay, my lord, it was I who slept too long.
I go to court among the stars to-night,
So bathed my soul beforehand in deep sleep.
But who are these?

DON SILVA.
Small guests, for whom I ask
Your hospitality. Their owner comes
Some short time hence to claim them. I am pledged
To keep them safely; so I bring them you,
Trusting your friendship for small animals.

SEPHARDO.
Yea, am not I too a small animal?

DON SILVA.
I shall be much beholden to your love
If you will be their guardian. I can trust
No other man so well as you. The boy
Will please you with his singing, touches too
The viol wondrously.

SEPHARDO.
They are welcome both.
Their names are?

DON SILVA.
Pablo, this — this Annibal,
And yet, I hope, no warrior.

SEPHARDO.
We'll make peace.
Come, Pablo, let us loosen our friend's chain.
Deign you, my lord, to sit. Here, Pablo, thou —
Close to my chair. Now Annibal shall choose.

[The cautious monkey, in a Moorish dress,
A tunic white, turban and scymitar,
Wears these stage garments, nay, his very flesh
With silent protest; keeps a neutral air
As aiming at a metaphysic state
Twixt "is" and "is not"; lets his chain be loosed
By sage Sephardo's hands, sits still at first,
Then trembles out of his neutrality,
Looks up and leaps into Sephardo's lap,
And chatters forth his agitated soul,
Turning to peep at Pablo on the floor.]

SEPHARDO.
See, he declares we are at amity!

DON SILVA.
No brother sage had read your nature faster.

SEPHARDO.
Why, so he is a brother sage. Man thinks
Brutes have no wisdom, since they know not his:
Can we divine their world? — the hidden life
That mirrors us as hideous shapeless power,
Cruel supremacy of sharp-edged death,
Or fate that leaves a bleeding mother robbed?
Oh, they have long tradition and swift speech,
Can tell with touches and sharp darting cries
Whole histories of timid races taught
To breathe in terror by red-handed man.

DON SILVA.
Ah, you denounce my sport with hawk and hound.
I would not have the angel Gabriel
As hard as you in noting down my sins.

SEPHARDO.
Nay, they are virtues for you warriors, —
Hawking and hunting! You are merciful
When you leave killing men to kill the brutes.
But, for the point of wisdom, I would choose
To know the mind that stirs between the wings
Of bees and building wasps, or fills the woods
With myriad murmurs of responsive sense
And true-aimed impulse, rather than to know
The thoughts of warriors.

DON SILVA.
Yet they are warriors too, —
Your animals. Your judgment limps, Sephardo:
Death is the king of this world; 't is his park
Where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain
Are music for his banquet; and the masque, —
The last grand masque for his diversion, is
The Holy Inquisition.

SEPHARDO.
Ay, anon
I may chime in with you. But not the less
My judgment has firm feet. Though death were king,
And cruelty his right-hand minister,
Pity insurgent in some human breasts
Makes spiritual empire, reigns supreme
As persecuted faith in faithful hearts.
Your small physician, weighing ninety pounds,
A petty morsel for a healthy shark,
Will worship mercy throned within his soul
Though all the luminous angels of the stars
Burst into cruel chorus on his ear,
Singing, "We know no mercy." He would cry
"I know it" still, and soothe the frightened bird
And feed the child a-hungered, walk abreast
Of persecuted men, and keep most hate
For rational torturers. There I stand firm.
But you are bitter, and my speech rolls on
Out of your note.

DON SILVA.
No, no, I follow you.
I too have that within which I will worship
In spite of — yes, Sephardo, I am bitter.
I need your counsel, foresight, all your aid.
Lay these small guests to bed, then we will talk.

SEPHARDO.
See, they are sleeping now. The boy has made
My leg his pillow. For my brother sage,
He'll never heed us; he knit long ago
A sound ape-system, wherein men are brutes
Emitting doubtful noises. Pray, my lord,
Unlade what burdens you: my ear and hand
Are servants of a heart much bound to you.

DON SILVA.
Yes, yours is love that roots in gifts bestowed
By you on others, and will thrive the more
The more it gives. I have a double want:
First a confessor, — not a Catholic;
A heart without a livery, — naked manhood.

SEPHARDO.
My lord, I will be frank, there's no such thing
As naked manhood. If the stars look down
On any mortal of our shape, whose strength
Is to judge all things without preference,
He is a monster, not a faithful man.
While my heart beats, it shall wear livery, —
My people's livery, whose yellow badge
Marks them for Christian scorn. I will not say
Man is first man to me, then Jew or Gentile:
That suits the rich marranos; but to me
My father is first father and then man.
So much for frankness' sake. But let that pass.
'T is true at least, I am no Catholic,
But Salomo Sephardo, a born Jew,
Willing to serve Don Silva.

DON SILVA.
Oft you sing
Another strain, and melt distinctions down
As no more real than the wall of dark
Seen by small fishes' eyes, that pierce a span
In the wide ocean. Now you league yourself
To hem me, hold me prisoner in bonds
Made, say you, — how? — by God or Demiurge,
By spirit or flesh, — I care not! Love was made
Stronger than bonds, and where they press must break them.
I came to you that I might breathe at large,
And now you stifle me with talk of birth,
Of race and livery. Yet you knew Fedalma.
She was your friend, Sephardo. And you know
She is gone from me, — know the hounds are loosed
To dog me if I seek her.

SEPHARDO.
Yes, I know.
Forgive me that I used untimely speech,
Pressing a bruise. I loved her well, my lord:
A woman mixed of such fine elements
That were all virtue and religion dead
She'd make them newly, being what she was.

DON SILVA.
Was? say not was, Sephardo! She still lives, —
Is, and is mine; and I will not renounce
What heaven, nay, what she gave me. I will sin,
If sin I must, to win my life again.
The fault lie with those powers who have embroiled
The world in hopeless conflict, where all truth
Fights manacled with falsehood, and all good
Makes but one palpitating life with evil.
(DON SILVA pauses. SEPHARDO is silent.)

Sepharde, speak! am I not justified?
You taught my mind to use the wing that soars
Above the petty fences of the herd:
Now, when I need your doctrine, you are dumb.

SEPHARDO.
Patience! Hidalgos want interpreters
Of untold dreams and riddles; they insist
On dateless horoscopes, on formulas
To raise a possible spirit, nowhere named.
Science must be their wishing cap; the stars
Speak plainer for high largesse. No, my lord!
I cannot counsel you to unknown deeds.
Thus much I can divine: you wish to find
Her whom you love, — to make a secret search.

DON SILVA.
That is begun already: a messenger
Unknown to all has been despatched this night.
But forecast must be used, a plan devised,
Ready for service when my scout returns,
Bringing the invisible thread to guide my steps
Toward that lost self my life is aching with.
Sephardo, I will go: and I must go
Unseen by all save you; though, at our need,
We may trust Alvar.

SEPHARDO.
A grave task, my lord.
Have you a shapen purpose, or mere will
That sees the end alone and not the means?
Resolve will melt no rocks.

DON SILVA.
But it can scale them.
This fortress has two private issues: one,
Which served the Gypsies' flight, to me is closed:
Our bands must watch the outlet, now betrayed
To cunning enemies. Remains one other,
Known to no man save me: a secret left
As heirloom in our house: a secret safe
Even from him, — from Father Isidor.
'T is he who forces me to use it, — he:
All's virtue that cheats bloodhounds. Hear, Sephardo.
Given, my scout returns and brings me news
I can straight act on, I shall want your aid.
The issue lies below this tower, your fastness,
Where, by my charter, you rule absolute.
I shall feign illness; you with mystic air
Must speak of treatment asking vigilance
(Nay I am ill, — my life has half ebbed out).
I shall be whimsical, devolve command
On Don Diego, speak of poisoning,
Insist on being lodged within this tower,
And rid myself of tendance save from you
And perhaps from Alvar. So I shall escape
Unseen by spies, shall win the days I need
To ransom her and have her safe enshrined.
No matter, were my flight disclosed at last:
I shall come back as from a duel fought
Which no man can undo. Now you know all.
Say, can I count on you?

SEPHARDO.
For faithfulness
In aught that I may promise — yes, my lord.
But, — for a pledge of faithfulness, — this warning.
I will betray naught for your personal harm:
I love you. But note this, — I am a Jew;
And while the Christian persecutes my race,
I'll turn at need even the Christian's trust
Into a weapon and a shield for Jews.
Shall Cruelty crowned — wielding the savage force
Of multitudes, and calling savageness God
Who gives it victory — upbraid deceit
And ask for faithfulness? I love you well.
You are my friend. But yet you are a Christian,
Whose birth has bound you to the Catholic kings.
There may come moments when to share my joy
Would make you traitor, when to share your grief
Would make me other than a Jew . . . .

DON SILVA.
What need
To urge that now, Sephardo? I am one
Of many Spanish nobles who detest
The roaring bigotry of the herd, would fain
Dash from the lips of king and queen the cup
Filled with besotting venom, half infused
By avarice and half by priests. And now, —
Now when the cruelty you flout me with
Pierces me too in the apple of my eye,
Now when my kinship scorches me like hate
Flashed from a mother's eye, you choose this time
To talk of birth as of inherited rage
Deep-down, volcanic, fatal, bursting forth
From under hard-taught reason? Wondrous friendship!
My uncle Isidor's echo, mocking me,
From the opposing quarter of the heavens,
With iteration of the thing I know,
That I'm a Christian knight and Spanish noble!
The consequence? Why, that I know. It lies
In my own hands and not on raven tongues.
The knight and noble shall not wear the chain
Of false-linked thoughts in brains of other men.
What question was there 'twixt us two, of aught
That makes division? When I come to you
I come for other doctrine than the Prior's.

SEPHARDO.
My lord, you are o'erwrought by pain. My words,
That carried innocent meaning, do but float
Like little emptied cups upon the flood
Your mind brings with it. I but answered you
With regular proviso, such as stands
In testaments and charters, to forefend
A possible case which none deem likelihood;
Just turned my sleeve, and pointed to the brand
Of brotherhood that limits every pledge.
Superfluous nicety, — the student's trick,
Who will not drink until he can define
What water is and is not. But enough.
My will to serve you now knows no division
Save the alternate beat of love and fear.
There's danger in this quest, — name, honor, life, —
My lord, the stake is great, and are you sure . . . .

DON SILVA.
No, I am sure of naught but this, Sephardo,
That I will go. Prudence is but conceit
Hoodwinked by ignorance. There's naught exists
That is not dangerous and holds not death
For souls or bodies. Prudence turns its helm
To flee the storm and lands 'mid pestilence.
Wisdom must end by throwing dice with folly
But for dire passion which alone makes choice.
And I have chosen as the lion robbed
Chooses to turn upon the ravisher.
If love were slack, the Prior's imperious will
Would move it to outmatch him. But, Sephardo,
Were all else mute, all passive as sea-calms,
My soul is one great hunger, — I must see her.
Now you are smiling. Oh, you merciful men
Pick up coarse griefs and fling them in the face
Of us whom life with long descent has trained
To subtler pains, mocking your ready balms.
You smile at my soul's hunger.

SEPHARDO.
Science smiles
And sways our lips in spite of us, my lord,
When thought weds fact, — when maiden prophecy
Waiting, believing, sees the bridal torch.
I use not vulgar measures for your grief,
My pity keeps no cruel feasts; but thought
Has joys apart, even in blackest woe,
And seizing some fine thread of verity
Knows momentary godhead.

DON SILVA.
And your thought?

SEPHARDO.
Seized on the close agreement of your words
With what is written in your horoscope.

DON SILVA.
Reach it me now.

SEPHARDO.
By your leave, Annibal.

(He places ANNIBAL on PABLO'S lap and rises. The boy moves
without waking, and his head falls on the opposite side. SEPHARDO fetches a
cushion and lays PABLO'S head gently down upon it, then goes to reach the
parchment from a cabinet. ANNIBAL, having waked up in alarm, shuts his eyes
quickly again and pretends to sleep.)

DON SILVA.
I wish, by new appliance of your skill,
Reading afresh the records of the sky,
You could detect more special augury.
Such chance oft happens, for all characters
Must shrink or widen, as our wine-skins do,
For more or less that we can pour in them;
And added years give ever a new key
To fixed prediction.

SEPHARDO (returning with the parchment and reseating himself).
True; our growing thought
Makes growing revelation. But demand not
Specific augury, as of sure success
In meditated projects, or of ends
To be foreknown by peeping in God's scroll.
I say — nay, Ptolemy said it, but wise books
For half the truths they hold are honored tombs —
Prediction is contingent, of effects
Where causes and concomitants are mixed
To seeming wealth of possibilities
Beyond our reckoning. Who will pretend
To tell the adventures of each single fish
Within the Syrian Sea? Show me a fish,
I'll weigh him, tell his kind, what he devoured,
What would have devoured him, — but for one Blas
Who netted him instead; nay, could I tell
That had Blas missed him, he would not have died
Of poisonous mud, and so made carrion,
Swept off at last by some sea-scavenger?

DON SILVA.
Ay, now you talk of fishes, you get hard.
I note you merciful men: you can endure
Torture of fishes and hidalgos. Follows?

SEPHARDO.
By how much, then, the fortunes of a man
Are made of elements refined and mixed
Beyond a tunny's, what our science tells
Of the stars' influence hath contingency
In special issues. Thus, the loadstone draws,
Acts like a will to make the iron submiss;
But garlic rubbing it, that chief effect
Lies in suspense; the iron keeps at large,
And garlic is controller of the stone.
And so, my lord, your horoscope declares
Naught absolutely of your sequent lot,
But, by our lore's authentic rules, sets forth
What gifts, what dispositions, likelihoods,
The aspects of the heavens conspired to fuse
With your incorporate soul. Aught more than this
Is vulgar doctrine. For the ambient,
Though a cause regnant, is not absolute,
But suffers a determining restraint
From action of the subject qualities
In proximate motion.

DON SILVA.
Yet you smiled just now
At some close fitting of my horoscope
With present fact, — with this resolve of mine
To quit the fortress?

SEPHARDO.
Nay, not so, I smiled,
Observing how the temper of your soul
Sealed long tradition of the influence shed
By the heavenly spheres. Here is your horoscope:
The aspects of the moon with Mars conjunct,
Of Venus and the Sun with Saturn, lord
Of the ascendant, make symbolic speech
Whereto your words gave running paraphrase.

DON SILVA (impatiently).
What did I say?

SEPHARDO.
You spoke as oft you did
When I was schooling you at Córdova,
And lessons on the noun and verb were drowned
With sudden stream of general debate
On things and actions. Always in that stream
I saw the play of babbling currents, saw
A nature o'er-endowed with opposites
Making a self alternate, where each hour
Was critic of the last, each mood too strong
For tolerance of its fellow in close yoke.
The ardent planets stationed as supreme,
Potent in action, suffer light malign
From luminaries large and coldly bright
Inspiring meditative doubt, which straight
Doubts of itself, by interposing act
Of Jupiter in the fourth house fortified
With power ancestral. So, my lord, I read
The changeless in the changing; so I read
The constant action of celestial powers
Mixed into waywardness of mortal men,
Whereof no sage's eye can trace the course
And see the close.

DON SILVA.
Fruitful result, O sage!
Certain uncertainty.

SEPHARDO.
Yea, a result
I Fruitful as seeded earth, where certainty
To Would be as barren as a globe of gold.
I love you, and would serve you well, my lord.
Your rashness vindicates itself too much,
Puts harness on of cobweb theory
While rushing like a cataract. Be warned.
Resolve with you is a fire-breathing steed,
But it sees visions, and may feel the air
Impassable with thoughts that come too late,
Rising from out the grave of murdered honor.
Look at your image in your horoscope:

(Laying the horoscope before SILVA.)
You are so mixed, my lord, that each to-dayMay seem a maniac to its morrow.

DON SILVA (pushing away the horoscope, rising and turning to look out at the
open window).
No!
No morrow e'er will say that I am mad
Not to renounce her. Risks! I know them all.
I've dogged each lurking, ambushed consequence.
I've handled every chance to know its shape
As blind men handle bolts. Oh, I'm too sane!
I see the Prior's nets. He does my deed;
For he has narrowed all my life to this, —
That I must find her by some hidden means.

(He turns and stands close in front of SEPHARDO.)
One word, Sephardo, — leave that horoscope,
Which is but iteration of myself,
And give me promise. Shall I count on you
To act upon my signal? Kings of Spain
Like me have found their refuge in a Jew,
And trusted in his counsel. You will help me?

SEPHARDO.
Yes, my lord, I will help you. Israel
Is to the nations as the body's heart:
Thus saith the Book of Light: and I will act
So that no man may ever say through me
"Your Israel is naught," and make my deeds
The mud they fling upon my brethren.
I will not fail you, save, — you know the terms:
I am a Jew, and not that infamous life
That takes on bastardy, will know no father,
So shrouds itself in the pale abstract, Man.
You should be sacrificed to Israel
If Israel needed it.

DON SILVA.
I fear not that.
I am no friend of fines and banishment,
Or flames that, fed on heretics, still gape,And must have heretics made to feed
them still.
I take your terms, and, for the rest, your love
Will not forsake me.

SEPHARDO.
'T is hard Roman love,
That looks away and stretches forth the sword
Bared for its master's breast to run upon.
But you will have it so. Love shall obey.

(SILVA turns to the window again, and is silent for a few moments,
looking at the sky.)

DON SILVA.
See now, Sephardo, you would keep no faith
To smooth the path of cruelty. Confess,
The deed I would not do, save for the strait
Another brings me to (quit my command,
Resign it for brief space, I mean no more), —
Were that deed branded, then the brand should fix
On him who urged me.

SEPHARDO.
Will it, though, my lord?

DON SILVA.
I speak not of the fact, but of the right.

SEPHARDO.
My lord, you said but now you were resolved.
Question not if the world will be unjust
Branding your deed. If conscience has two courts
With differing verdicts, where shall lie the appeal?
Our law must be without us or within.
The Highest speaks through all our people's voice,
Custom, tradition, and old sanctities;
Or he reveals himself by new decrees
Of inward certitude.

DON SILVA.
My love for her
Makes highest law, must be the voice of God.

SEPHARDO.
I thought, but now, you seemed to make excuse,
And plead as in some court where Spanish knights
Are tried by other laws than those of love.

DON SILVA.
'T was momentary. I shall dare it all.
How the great planet glows, and looks at me,
And seems to pierce me with his effluence!
Were he a living God, these rays that stir
In me the pulse of wonder were in him
Fulness of knowledge. Are you, certified,
Sephardo, that the astral science shrinks
To such pale ashes, dead symbolic forms
For that congenital mixture of effects
Which life declares without the aid of lore?
If there are times propitious or malign
To our first framing, then must all events
Have favoring periods: you cull your plants
By signal of the heavens, then why not trace
As others would by astrologic rule
Times of good augury for momentous acts, —
As secret journeys?

SEPHARDO.
O my lord, the stars
Act not as witchcraft or as muttered spells.
I said before they are not absolute,
And tell no fortunes. I adhere alone
To such tradition of their agencies
As reason fortifies.

DON SILVA.
A barren science!
Some argue now 't is folly. 'T were as well
Be of their mind. If those bright stars had will, —
But they are fatal fires, and know no love.
Of old, I think, the world was happier
With many gods, who held a struggling life
As mortals do, and helped men in the straits
Of forced misdoing. I doubt that horoscope.

(DON SILVA turns from the window and reseats himself opposite
SEPHARDO.)
I am most self-contained, and strong to bear.
No man save you has seen my trembling lip
Uttering her name, since she was lost to me.
I'll face the progeny of all my deeds.

SEPHARDO.
May they be fair! No horoscope makes slaves.
'T is but a mirror, shows one image forth,
And leaves the future dark with endless "ifs."

DON SILVA.
I marvel, my Sephardo, you can pinch
With confident selection these few grains,
And call them verity, from out the dust
Of crumbling error. Surely such thought creeps,
With insect exploration of the world.
Were I a Hebrew, now, I would be bold.
Why should you fear, not being Catholic?

SEPHARDO.
Lo! you yourself, my lord, mix subtleties
With gross belief; by momentary lapse
Conceive, with all the vulgar, that we Jews
Must hold ourselves God's outlaws, and defy
All good with blasphemy, because we hold
Your good is evil; think we must turn pale
To see our portraits painted in your hell,
And sin the more for knowing we are lost.

DON SILVA.
Read not my words with malice. I but meant,
My temper hates an over-cautious march.

SEPHARDO.
The Unnamable made not the search for truth
To suit hidalgos' temper. I abide
By that wise spirit of listening reverence
Which marks the boldest doctors of our race.
For truth, to us, is like a living child
Born of two parents: if the parents part
And will divide the child, how shall it live?
Or, I will rather say: Two angels guide
The path of man, both aged and yet young,
As angels are, ripening through endless years.
On one he leans: some call her Memory,
And some, Tradition; and her voice is sweet,
With deep mysterious accords: the other,
Floating above, holds down a lamp which streams
A light divine and searching on the earth,
Compelling eyes and footsteps. Memory yields,
Yet clings with loving check, and shines anew
Reflecting all the rays of that bright lamp
Our angel Reason holds. We had not walked
But for Tradition; we walk evermore
To higher paths, by brightening Reason's lamp.
Still we are purblind, tottering. I hold less
Than Aben-Ezra, of that aged lore
Brought by long centuries from Chaldæan plains;
The Jew-taught Florentine rejects it all.
For still the light is measured by the eye,
And the weak organ fails. I may see ill;
But over all belief is faithfulness,
Which fulfils vision with obedience.
So, I must grasp my morsels: truth is oft
Scattered in fragments round a stately pile
Built half of error; and the eye's defect
May breed too much denial. But, my lord,
I weary your sick soul. Go now with me
Into the turret. We will watch the spheres,
And see the constellations bend and plunge
Into a depth of being where our eyes
Hold them no more. We'll quit ourselves and be
The red Aldebaran or bright Sirius,
And sail as in a solemn voyage, bound
On some great quest we know not.

DON SILVA.
Let us go.
She may be watching too, and thought of her
Sways me, as if she knew, to every act
Of pure allegiance.

SEPHARDO.
That is love's perfection, —
Tuning the soul to all her harmonies
So that no chord can jar. Now we will mount.
(Exeunt.)

A large hall in the Castle, of Moorish architecture. On the side where the
windows are, an outer gallery. Pages and other young gentlemen attached to DON
SILVA'S household, gathered chiefly at one end of the hall. Some are moving
about; others are lounging on the carved benches; others, half stretched on
pieces of matting and carpet, are gambling. ARIAS, a stripling of fifteen,
sings by snatches in a boyish treble, as he walks up and down, and tosses back
the nuts which another youth flings towards him. In the middle DON AMADOR, a
gaunt, gray-haired soldier, in a handsome uniform, sits in a marble red-
cushioned chair, with a large book spread out on his knees, from which he is
reading aloud, while his voice is half drowned by the talk that is going on
around him, first one voice and then another surging above the hum.

ARIAS (singing).
There was a holy hermit
Who counted all things loss For Christ his Master's glory:
He made an ivory cross,
And as he knelt before it
And wept his murdered Lord,
The ivory turned to iron,
The cross became a sword.

JOSÉ (from the floor).
I say, twenty cruzados! thy Galician wit
Can never count.

HERNANDO (also from the floor).
And thy Sevillian with always counts double.

ARIAS (singing).
The tears that fell upon it,
They turned to red, red rust,
The tears that fell from off it
Made writing in the dust.
The holy hermit, gazing,
Saw words upon the ground:
"The sword be red forever
With the blood of false Mahound."

DON AMADOR (looking up from his book, and raising his voice).
What, gentlemen! Our glorious Lady defend us!

ENRIQUEZ (from the benches).
Serves the infidels right! They have sold Christians enough to people half
the towns in Paradise. If the Queen, now, had divided the pretty damsels of
Malaga among the Castilians who have been helping in the holy war, and not sent
half of them to Naples . . . .

ARIAS (singing again).
At the battle of Clavijo
In the days of King Ramiro,
Help us, Allah! cried the Moslem,
Cried the Spaniard, Heaven's chosen,
God and Santiago!

FABIAN.
Oh, the very tail of our chance has vanished. The royal army is breaking
up, — going home for the winter. The Grand Master sticks to his own border.

ARIAS (singing).
Straight out-flushing like the rainbow,
See him come, celestial Baron,
Mounted knight, with red-crossed banner,
Plunging earthward to the battle,
Glorious Santiago!

HURTADO.
Yes, yes, through the pass of By-and-by you go to the valley of Never. We
might have done a great feat, if the Marquis of Cadiz . . . .

ARIAS (sings).
As the flame before the swift wind,
See, he fires us, we burn with him!
Flash our swords, dash Pagans backward, —
Victory he! pale fear is allah!
God with Santiago!

DON AMADOR (raising his voice to a cry).
Sangre de Dios, gentlemen!

(He shuts the book, and lets it fall with a bang on the floor. There is
instant silence.)
To what good end is it that I, who studied at Salamanca, and can write
verses agreeable to the glorious Lady with the point of a sword which hath done
harder service, am reading aloud in a clerkly manner from a book which hath been
culled from the flowers of all books, to instruct you in the knowledge befitting
those who would be knights and worthy hidalgos. I had as lief be reading in a
belfry. And gambling too! As if it were a time when we needed not the help of
God and the saints! Surely for the space of one hour ye might subdue your
tongues to your ears that so your tongues might learn somewhat of civility and
modesty. Wherefore am I master of the Duke's retinue, if my voice is to run
along like a gutter in a storm?


HURTADO (lifting up the book, and respectfully presenting it to DON
AMADOR).
Pardon, Don Amador! The air is so commoved by your voice, that it stirs our
tongues in spite of us.

DON AMADOR (reopening the book).
Confess, now, it is a goose-headed trick, that when rational sounds are
made for your edification, you find naught in it but an occasion for purposeless
gabble. I will report it to the Duke, and the reading-time shall be doubled, and
my office of reader shall be handed over to Fray Domingo.

(While DON AMADOR has been speaking, DON SILVA, with DON ALVAR,
has appeared walking in the outer gallery on which the windows are opened.)

ALL (in concert).
No, no, no.
DON AMADOR.
Are ye ready, then, to listen, if I finish the wholesome extract from the
Seven Parts, wherein the wise King Alfonso hath set down the reason why knights
should be of gentle birth? Will ye now be silent?
ALL
Yes, silent.

DON AMADOR.
But when I pause, and look up, I give any leave to speak, if he hath aught
pertinent to say.
(Reads.)
"And this nobility cometh in three ways: first, by lineage;
secondly, by science; and thirdly, by valor and worthy behavior. Now,
although they who gain nobility through science or good deeds are rightfully
called noble and gentle; nevertheless, they are with the highest fitness so
called who are noble by ancient lineage, and lead a worthy life as by
inheritance from afar; and hence are more bound and constrained to act well, and
guard themselves from error and wrong-doing; for in their case it is more true
that by evil-doing they bring injury and shame not only on themselves, but also
on those from whom they are derived."

(DON AMADOR places his forefinger for a mark on the page, and looks up,
while he keeps his voice raised, as wishing DON SILVA to overhear him in the
judicious discharge of his function.)

Hear ye that, young gentlemen? See ye not that if ye have but had manners
even, they disgrace you more than gross misdoings disgrace the low-born? Think
you, Arias, it becomes the son of your house irreverently to sing and fling
nuts, to the interruption of your elders?

ARIAS (sitting on the floor and leaning backward on his elbows).
Nay, Don Amador; King Alfonso, they say, was a heretic, and I think that is
not true writing. For noble birth gives us more leave to do ill if we like.

DON AMADOR (lifting his brows).
What bold and blasphemous talk is this?

ARIAS.
Why, nobles are only punished now and then, in a grand way, and have their
heads cut off, like the Grand Constable. I shouldn't mind that.

JOSÉ.
Nonsense, Arias! nobles have their heads cut off because their crimes are
noble. If they did what was unknightly, they would come to shame. Isn't that
true, Don Amador?

DON AMADOR.
Arias is a contumacious puppy, who will bring dishonor on his parentage.
Pray, sirrah, whom did you ever hear speak as you have spoken?

ARIAS.
Nay, I speak out of my own head. I shall go and ask the Duke.

HURTADO.
Now, now! you are too bold, Arias.

ARIAS.
Oh, he is never angry with me (dropping his voice), because the lady
Fedalma liked me. She said I was a good boy, and pretty, and that is what you
are not, Hurtado.

HURTADO.
Girl-face! See, now, if you dare ask the Duke.

(DON SILVA is just entering the hall from the gallery, with ALVAR
behind him, intending to pass out at the other end. All rise with homage.
DON SILVA bows coldly and abstractedly. ARIAS advances from the group, and
goes up to DON SILVA.)

ARIAS.
My lord, is it true that a noble is more dishonored than other men if he
does aught dishonorable?

DON SILVA (first blushing deeply, and grasping his sword, then raising his
hand and giving Arias a blow on the ear).
Varlet!

ARIAS.
My lord, I am a gentleman.

(DON SILVA pushes him away, and passes on hurriedly.)

DON ALVAR (following and turning to speak).
Go, go! you should not speak to the Duke when you are not called upon. He
is ill and much distempered.

(ARIAS retires, flushed, with tears in his eyes. His companions look too
much surprised to triumph. DON AMADOR remains silent and confused.)

The Plaça Santiago during busy market time. Mules and asses laden
with fruits and vegetables. Stalls and booths filled with wares of all sorts. A
crowd of buyers and sellers. A stalwart woman with keen eyes, leaning over the
panniers of a mule laden with apples, watches LORENZO, who is lounging
through the market. As he approaches her, he is met by BLASCO.

LORENZO.
Well met, friend.

BLASCO.
Ay, for we are soon to part,
And I would see you at the hostelry,
To take my reckoning. I go forth to-day.

LORENZO.
'T is grievous parting with good company.
I would I had the gold to pay such guests
For all my pleasure in their talk.

BLASCO.
Why, yes;
A solid-headed man of Aragon
Has matter in him that you Southerners lack.
You like my company, — 't is natural.
But, look you, I have done my business well,
Have sold and ta'en commissions. I come straight
From — you know who — I like not naming him.
I'm a thick man: you reach not my backbone
With any toothpick. But I tell you this:
He reached it with his eye, right to the marrow!
It gave me heart that I had plate to sell,
For, saint or no saint, a good silversmith
Is wanted for God's service; and my plate —
He judged it well — bought nobly.

LORENZO.
A great man,
And holy!
BLASCO.
Yes, I'm glad I leave to-day.
For there are stories give a sort of smell, —
One's nose has fancies. A good trader, sir,
Likes not this plague of lapsing in the air,
Most caught by men with funds. And they do say
There's a great terror here in Moors and Jews,
I would say, Christians of unhappy blood.
'T is monstrous, sure, that men of substance lapse,
And risk their property. I know I'm sound.
No heresy was ever bait to me. Whate'er
Is the right faith, that I believe, — naught else.

LORENZO.
Ay, truly, for the flavor of true faith
Once known must sure be sweetest to the taste.
But an uneasy mood is now abroad
Within the town; partly, for that the Duke
Being sorely sick, has yielded the command
To Don Diego, a most valiant man,
More Catholic than the Holy Father's self,
Half chiding God that he will tolerate
A Jew or Arab; though 't is plain they're made
For profit of good Christians. And weak heads —
Panic will knit all disconnected facts —
Draw hence belief in evil auguries,
Rumors of accusation and arrest,All air-begotten. Sir, you need not go.
But if it must be so, I'll follow you
In fifteen minutes, — finish marketing,
Then be at home to speed you on your way.

BLASCO.
Do so. I'll back to Saragossa straight.
The court and nobles are retiring now
And wending northward. There'll be fresh demand
For bells and images against the Spring,
When doubtless our great Catholic sovereigns
Will move to conquest of these eastern parts,
And cleanse Granada from the infidel.
Stay, sir, with God until we meet again!

LORENZO.
Go, sir, with God, until I follow you!

(Exit BLASCO. LORENZO passes on towards the market-woman, who, as he
approaches, raises herself from her leaning attitude.)

LORENZO.
Good day, my mistress. How's your merchandise?
Fit for a host to buy? Your apples now,
They have fair cheeks; how are they at the core?

MARKET–WOMAN.
Good, good, sir! Taste and try. See, here is one
Weighs a man's head. The best are bound with tow:
They're worth the pains, to keep the peel from splits.

(She takes out an apple bound with tow, and, as she puts it into
LORENZO'S hand, speaks in a lower tone.)
'T is called the Miracle. You open it,
And find it full of speech.

LORENZO.
Ay, give it me,
I'll take it to the Doctor in the tower.
He feeds on fruit, and if he likes the sort
I'll buy them for him. Meanwhile, drive your ass
Round to my hostelry. I'll straight be there.
You'll not refuse some barter?

MARKET–WOMAN.
No, not I.
Feathers and skins.
LORENZO.
Good, till we meet again.
(LORENZO, after smelling at the apple, puts it into a pouch-like basket
which hangs before him, and walks away. The woman drives off the mule.)

A LETTER.
"Zarca, the chief of the Zincali, greets
The King El Zagal. Let the force be sent
With utmost swiftness to the Pass of Luz.
A good five hundred added to my bands
Will master all the garrison: the town
Is half with us, and will not lift an arm
Save on our side. My scouts have found a way
Where once we thought the fortress most secure:
Spying a man upon the height, they traced,
By keen conjecture piecing broken sight,
His downward path, and found its issue. There
A file of us can mount, surprise the fort
And give the signal to our friends within
To ope the gates for our confederate bands,
Who will lie eastward ambushed by the rocks,
Waiting the night. Enough; give me command,
Bedmár is yours. Chief Zarca will redeem
His pledge of highest service to the Moor:
Let the Moor, too, be faithful and repay
The Gypsy with the furtherance he needs
To lead his people over Bahr el Scham
And plant them on the shore of Africa.
So may the King El Zagal live as one
Who, trusting Allah will be true to him,
Maketh himself as Allah true to friends."





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