Yon moon approves the deed, else in the clouds
That float around she'd hide her conscious head:
No hour so meet as midnight's breathless pause,
No altar like the couch she would defile.
Nay now perhaps, in her adulterous dreams,
She thinks on Raymond.-I will wake her first,
Halloo her name, that startling from her sleep
She may confess herself, and leave no doubt
That this is her true image.-Hoa, Almanza! Al-
manza, hoa !

Alm. Who calls?

Zoa.

(Starting up.)

"Tis I; awake,

And take such greeting as the wife of Raymond

Should give to Raymond's friend.

(She lifts her hatchet to strike.)

Raym. (Holding her hand.) Woman, art mad?
Alm. Would she have killed me?

Zoa.

Ay, I am not mad,

It is the governor's daughter, is it not?

Alm. It is, indeed.

Raym. Amazement !

Zoa.

Nay, 'tis she,

Your prison comforter, look not so strange,
"It is a place well suited to her sex;"

And when she could not bless thee with herself,
You had this painted likeness of her still

To soothe the pangs of absence.

Raym. (Snatches the picture.) What is this?
Zoa. The thing you gave to Telico.

Raym.

'Tis false;

I never saw it, by my soul, till now.

Zoa. You gave't him not?

Raym. Never.

Alm. It is the picture which I gave to Florio. When he departed for the chace to-day,

He wore it round his neck.

Zoa. Nay, are you sure?

Alm. Very, for when at distance he took leave, He press'd it to his heart, and rais'd it thence To meet his lips, which bow'd to do it homage: Then sprung upon his steed and hurried off. Zoa. (After a pause.) I will not live then.

Alm.

(Snatching up the hatchet.)

Nay, 'twas madness, all

Your senses were disordered.

Zoa.

Talk not of it,

The bare suggestion now is freezing horror.

The perpetration-no, I will not live,
Cover me, night, with thy obscurest hell,
Nor let the rising of another sun

Shine full upon my shame; nay, let me go,
Yet 'tis not done. There is no blood upon you,
I feel your pulses play-your eye beams life.
I hear you softly breathe too,-all is well:
I did but lift my hand.

Alm. No more of that.

Zoa. I would weep, lady, but my burning shame Consumes my tears; nay, I would not ask forgiveness, If that could be-but at a deed like this,

Mercy would snatch th' uplifted sword from justice, And without shrinking, strike!

Had I the time I'd chide you, but the night
Teams with more horrid prodigies than this.
Come, I will lead you where a deeper wonder
Shall swallow up the sense of what has past,
In horrible amazement. Come.

[Exeunt.

Scene, a Wood.

GONSALVO and Spaniards.

Gons. We must be near them now, yet all is still, Perez, you mark'd the spot?

Perez.

A stone's throw of it.

Yes, my lord, we are within

Gons. Hark! who comes?

(ABDALLAH hails them from without.)

Perez. It is the slave Abdallah.

(He enters.)

Abd. Yes, 'tis he.

(The other Spaniards retire, and leave ABDALLAH and GONSALVO.)

Gons. Well, is he dead?

Abd. Yes.

Gons. Did you poison him?

Abd. No, stabb'd him as he slept.

Gons. Good! and the body?

Abd. Thrown into the sea.

Gons. There let it sink or swim: to-morrow's sun

Lights thee to liberty.

Now Spaniards on, th' accursed spot is near, Tread softly, where with unwash'd hands they lie, And faces grim with human sacrifice.

Yet pause a moment-should his mangled limbs

My boy! my boy! tho' by the moon's pale light Gleam on mine eyes well they shall rouse my ven

Come.

geance.

[Exeunt.

(The Creeks steal from their ambush on all sides, and TELICO and POTOWMAK come forward.)

Tel. (To POTOWMAK.) Stabb'd in his sleep: didst hear?

Pot. Had I been deaf, those words had broke the spell.

Tel. Yet 'twas foul play: this hatchet should have done it.

Pot. No matter, since 'tis done: he sleeps sound for ever.

Tel. Yes, we are sleeping too, these Spaniards say: Silent we are, and dark, but not to sleep ;Couch'd in the rustling grass - but not to sleep:Close ambush'd in the tree yet not to sleep:

Or, if we must repose, we do not lie

Stretch'd at full length to doze our surfeit out,
Like dull white fools: we close our eyes, indeed,
Yet, fearfully, our senses still keep watch,

Quick to alarm, and start at distant perils,

Which, broad awake, these Spaniards would not dream of.

U