Chispa. Ay, robbed and murdered; and good evening to you, My worthy masters. Vict. Speak; what brings thee here? Chispa (to PRECIOSA) Good news from Court; good news! Beltran Cruzado, The Count of the Calés, is not your father; But your true father has returned to Spain You are no more a Gipsy. And we have all Vict. Strange as a Moorish tale! Chispa. As the old song says, His body is in Segovia, His soul is in Madrid. Prec. Is this a dream? O, if it be a dream, Vict. It is a dream, sweet child! a waking dream, A blissful certainty, a vision bright Of that rare happiness, which even on carth Heaven gives to those it loves. Now art thou rich, As thou wast ever beautiful and good; And I am now the beggar. Prec. (giving him her hand). I have still A hand to give. Chispa (aside). And I have two to take. I've heard my grandmother say, that Heaven gives almonds To those who have no teeth. That's nuts to crack. Nothing more. I've teeth to spare, but where shall I find almonds? The proofs of what I tell you. The old hag, Vict. No; let it be a day of general joy; So farewell, Hyp. And all that makes vacation beautiful! And leaves the Gipsy with the Spanish Student. SCENE VI.-A pass in the Guadarrama mountains. Early morning. A Muleteer crosses the stage, sitting sideways on his mule, and lighting a paper cigar with flint and steel. SONG.* If thou art sleeping, maiden, 'Tis the break of day, and we must away, O'er meadow, and mount, and moor. Wait not to find thy slippers, But come with thy naked feet; We shall have to pass through the dewy grass, (Disappears down the pass. Enter a Monk. A Shepherd appears on the rocks above.) Monk. Ave Maria, gratia pleza. Olá! good man! Shep. Olá! Monk. Is this the road to Segovia? Shep. It is, your reverence. Monk. How far is it? Shep. I do not know. Monk. What is that yonder in the valley? Shep. San Ildefonso. Monk. A long way to breakfast. Shep. Ay, marry. Monk. Are there robbers in these mountains? Shep. Yes, and worse than that. Monk. What? Shep. Wolves. Monk. Santa Maria! Come with me to San Ildefonso, and thou shalt be well rewarded. Shep. What wilt thou give me? Monk. An Agnus Dei and my benediction. (They disappear. A mounted Contrabandista passes, wrapped in his cloak, and a gun at his saddle-bow. singing.) SONG. He goes down the pass Worn with speed is my good steed, Onward, caballito mio, With the white star in thy forehead! * From the Spanish; as is likewise the song of the Contrabandista, (Song dies away. Onward, for here comes the Ronda, Ay, jaléo! Ay, ay, jaléo ! Ay, jaléo! They cross our track. Enter PRECIOSA, on horseback, attended by VICTORIAN, HYPOLITO, DON CARLOS, and CHISPA, on foot and armed.) Vict. This is the highest point. Here let us rest. Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty mountains O glorious sight! Most beautiful indeed! Hyp. Most wonderful! And in the vale below, Where yonder steeples flash like lifted halberds, Sends up a salutation to the morn, As if an army smote their brazen shields, Prec. Segovia? And which way lies Vict. At a great distance yonder. Prec. No. I do not see it. Vict. The merest flaw that dents the horizon's edge. Нур. "Tis a notable old town, Prec. Oh yes! I see it now, The Eastern Tale, against the wind and tide, Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic Mountains, Vict. O gentle spirit! Thou didst bear unmoved But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee Nor thirst, nor hunger; but be comforted Prec. Stay no longer! O father! father! (They descend the pass. CHISPA remains behind.) Chispa. I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. Alas and alack-a-day! Poor was I born, and poor do I remain. I neither win nor lose. Thus I wag through the world, half the time on foot, and the other half walking; and always as merry as a thunder-storm in the night. And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox. Who knows what may happen? Patience, and shuffle the cards! I am not yet so bald that you can see my brains; and perhaps, after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and come back Saint Peter. Benedicite! (A pause. [Exit. Then enter BARTOLOME wildly, as if in pursuit, with a carbine in his hand.) Bart. They passed this way! I hear their horses' hoofs ! Yonder I see them! Come, sweet caramillo, This serenade shall be the Gipsy's last! Ha ha! (Fires down the pass.) Well whistled, my sweet caramillo ! (The shot is returned. BARTOLOME falls.) Songs. SEA-WEED. WHEN descends on the Atlantic Laden with sea-weed from the rocks: Surges of San Salvador; From the tumbling surf, that buries On the desolate, rainy seas; Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless main; All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Of the poet's soul, ere long From each cave and rocky fastness, Floats some fragment of a song: From the far-off isles enchanted, With the golden fruit of Truth; In the tropic clime of Youth; From the strong Will, and the Endeavour That forever Wrestle with the tides of Fate; |