Remorse: a Tragedy, in Five Acts

Front matter

REMORSE.

A TRAGEDY,

IN FIVE ACTS.

Preface

PREFACE.

This Tragedy was written in the summer and autumn of the year 1797; at Nether Stowey, in the county of Somerset. By whose recommendation, and of the manner in which both the Play and the Author were treated by the Recommender, let me be permitted to relate: that I knew of its having been received only by a third person; that I could procure neither answer nor the manuscript; and that but for an accident I should have had no copy of the Work itself. That such treatment would damp a young man's exertions may be easily conceived: there was no need of after-misrepresentation and calumny, as an additional sedative.

As an amusing anecdote, and in the wish to prepare future Authors, as young as I then was and as ignorant of the world, of the treatment they may meet with, I will add, that the Person who by a twice conveyed recommendation (in the year 1797) had urged me to write a Tragedy: who on my own objection that I was utterly ignorant of all Stage-tactics had promised that he would himself make the necessary alterations, if the Piece should be at all representable; who together with the copy of the Play (hastened by his means so as to prevent the full developement of the characters) received a letter from the Author to this purport, "that conscious of his inexperience, he had cherished no expectations, and should therefore feel no disappointment from the rejection of the Play; but that if beyond his hopes Mr. —— found in it any capability of being adapted to the Stage, it was delivered to him as if it had been his own Manuscript, to add, omit, or alter, as he saw occasion; and that (if it were rejected) the Author would deem himself amply remunerated by the addition to his Experience, which he should receive, if Mr. —— would point out to him the nature of its unfitness for public Representation;"—that this very Person returned me no answer, and, spite of repeated applications, retained my Manuscript when I was not conscious of any other Copy being in existence (my duplicate having been destroyed by an accident); that he suffered this Manuscript to wander about the Town from his house, so that but ten days ago I saw the song in the third Act printed and set to music, without my name, by Mr. Carnaby, in the year 1802; likewise that the same person asserted (as I have been assured) that the Play was rejected, because I would not submit to the alteration of one ludicrous line; and finally in the year 1806 amused and delighted (as who was ever in his company, if I may trust the universal report, without being amused and delighted?) a large company at the house of a highly respectable Member of Parliament, with the ridicule of the Tragedy, as "a fair specimen" of the whole of which he adduced a line:

"Drip! drip! drip! there's nothing here but dripping."

In the original copy of the Play, in the first Scene of the fourth Act, Isidore had commenced his Soliloquy in the Cavern with the words:

"Drip! drip! a ceaseless sound of water-drops."

as far as I can at present recollect: for on the possible ludicrous association being pointed out to me, I instantly and thankfully struck out the line. And as to my obstinate tenacity, not only my old acquaintance, but (I dare boldly aver) both the Managers of Drury Lane Theatre, and every Actor and Actress, whom I have recently met in the Green Room, will repel the accusation: perhaps not without surprise.

I thought it right to record these circumstances; but I turn gladly and with sincere gratitude to the converse. In the close of last year I was advised to present the Tragedy once more to the Theatre. Accordingly having altered the names, I ventured to address a letter to Mr. Whitbread, requesting information as to whom I was to present my Tragedy. My Letter was instantly and most kindly answered, and I have now nothing to tell but a Tale of Thanks. I should scarce know where to begin, if the goodness of the Manager, Mr. Arnold, had not called for my first acknowledgements. Not merely as an acting Play, but as a dramatic Poem, the Remorse has been importantly and manifoldly benefited by his suggestions. I can with severest truth say, that every hint he gave me was the ground of some improvement. In the next place it is my duty to mention Mr. Raymond, the Stage Manager. Had the "Remorse" been his own Play—nay, that is saying too little—had I been his brother, or his dearest friend, he could not have felt or exerted himself more zealously.

As the Piece is now acting, it may be thought presumptuous in me to speak of the Actors: yet how can I abstain, feel- ing, as I do, Mrs. Glover's powerful assistance, and knowing the circumstances under which she consented to act Alhadra? A time will come, when without painfully oppressing her feelings, I may speak of this more fully. To Miss Smith I have an equal, though different acknowledgement to make, namely, for her acceptance of a character not fully developed, and quite inadequate to her extraordinary powers. She enlivened and supported many passages, which (though not perhaps wholly uninteresting in the closet) would but for her have hung heavy on the ears of a Theatrical Audience. And in speaking the Epilogue, a composition which (I fear) my hurry will hardly excuse, and which, as unworthy of her name, is here omitted, she made a sacrifice, which only her established character with all judges of Tragic action, could have rendered compatible with her duty to herself. To Mr. De Camp's judgement and full conception of Isidore; to Mr. Pope's accurate representation of the partial, yet honourable Father; to Mr. Elliston's energy in the character of Alvar, and who in more than one instance gave it beauties and striking points, which not only delighted but surprized me; and to Mr. Rae, to whose zeal, and unwearied study of his part I am not less indebted as a Man, than to his impassion- ed realization of Ordonio, as an Author;——to these, and to all concerned with the bringing out of the Play, I can address but one word—Thanks!—but that word is uttered sincerely! and to persons constantly before the eye of the Public, a public acknowledgement becomes appropriate, and a duty.

I defer all answers to the different criticisms on the Piece to an Essay, which I am about to publish immediately, on Dramatic Poetry, relatively to the present State of the Metropolitan Theatres.

From the necessity of hastening the Publication I was obliged to send the Manuscript intended for the Stage: which is the sole cause of the number of directions printed in Italics.

S. T. Coleridge.

Prologue

PROLOGUE,

BY C LAMB.

Spoken by Mr. Carr.

There are, I am told, who sharply criticise Our modern theatres' unwieldy size. We players shall scarce plead guilty to that charge, Who think a house can never be too large: Griev'd when a rant, that's worth a nation's ear, Shakes some prescrib'd Lyceum's petty sphere; And pleased to mark the grin from space to space Spread epidemic o'er a town's broad face.— O might old Betterton or Booth return To view our structures from their silent urn, Could Quin come stalking from Elysian glades, Or Garrick get a day-rule from the shades— Where now, perhaps, in mirth which Spirits approve, He imitates the ways of men above, And apes the actions of our upper coast, As in his days of flesh he play'd the ghost:— How might they bless our ampler scope to please, And hate their own old shrunk up audiences.— Their houses yet were palaces to those, Which Ben and Fletcher for their triumphs chose. Shakspeare, who wish'd a kingdom for a stage, >>> Like giant pent in disproportion'd cage, Mourn'd his contracted strengths and crippled rage. He who could tame his vast ambition down To please some scatter'd gleanings of a town, And, if some hundred auditors supplied

Their meagre meed of claps, was satisfied, How had he felt, when that dread curse of Lear's Had burst tremendous on a thousand ears, While deep-struck wonder from applauding bands Return'd the tribute of as many hands! Rude were his guests; he never made his bow To such an audience as salutes us now. He lack'd the balm of labor, female praise. Few Ladies in his time frequented plays, Or came to see a youth with awkward art And shrill sharp pipe burlesque the woman's part. The very use, since so essential grown, Of painted scenes, was to his stage unknown. The air-blest castle, round whose wholesome crest, The martlet, guest of summer, chose her nest— The forest walks of Arden's fair domain, Where Jaques fed his solitary vein— No pencil's aid as yet had dared supply, Seen only by the intellectual eye. Those scenic helps, denied to Shakspeare's page, Our Author owes to a more liberal age. Nor pomp nor circumstance are wanting here; 'Tis for himself alone that he must fear. Yet shall remembrance cherish the just pride, That (be the laurel granted or denied) He first essay'd in this distinguish'd fane, Severer muses and a tragic strain.

Dramatis Personæ

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

| Marquis Valdez, Father to the two brothers, and Donna Teresa's Guardian. | | Mr. Pope.

| Don Alvar, The eldest son | Mr. Elliston.

| Don Ordonio, The youngest son | Mr. Rae.

| Monviedro, A Dominican and Inquisitor | Mr. Powell.

| Zulimez, The faithful attendant on Alvar | Mr. Crooke.

| Isidore, A Moresco Chieftain, ostensibly a Christian | Mr. de Camp.

| Familiars of the Inquisition.

| Naomi | Mr. Wallace.

| Moors and Servans, &c.

| Donna Teresa, An Orphan Heiress | Miss Smith.

| Alhadra, Wife to Isidore | Mrs. Glover.

Time. The reign of Philip II., just, at the close of the civil wars against the Moors, and during the heat of the persecution which raged against them, shortly after the edict which forbad the wearing of Moresco apparel under pain of Death.

Act I.

REMORSE.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The Sea Shore on the Coast of Granada.

Don Alvar, wrapt in a Boat Cloak, and Zulimez (a Moresco) both as just landed.

Zul. No sound, no face of joy to welcome us!

Alv. My faithful Zulimez, for one brief moment Let me forget my anguish, and their crimes. If aught on earth demand an unmix'd feeling, 'Tis surely this—after long years of exile, To step forth on firm land, and gazing round us To hail at once our country, and our birth-place. Hail, Spain! Granada, hail! once more I press Thy sands with filial awe, land of my fathers!

Zul. Then claim your rights in it! O, revered Don Alvar, Yet, yet give up your all too gentle purpose. It is too hazardous! reveal yourself, And let the guilty meet the doom of guilt!

Alv. Remember, Zulimez! I am his brother, Injur'd indeed! O deeply injur'd! yet Ordonio's brother.

Zul. Nobly minded Alvar! This sure but gives his guilt a blacker die.

Alv. The more behoves it, I should rouse within him Remorse! that I should save him from himself.

Zul. Remorse is as the heart, in which it grows: If that be gentle it drops balmy dews Of true repentance, but if proud and gloomy, It is a poison-tree, that pierced to the inmost Weeps only tears of poison!

Alv. And of a brother, Dare I hold this, unprov'd? nor make one effort To save him?—Hear me, friend! I have yet to tell thee, That this same life, which he conspir'd to take, Himself once rescued from the angry flood, And at the imminent hazard of his own. Add too my oath—

Zul. You have thrice told already, The year of absence and of secrecy, To which a forced oath bound you: if in truth A suborn'd murderer have the power to dictate A binding oath.

Alv. My long captivity Left me no choice: the very Wish too languish'd With the fond Hope, that nurs'd it; the sick babe, Droop'd at the bosom of it's famish'd mother. But (more than all) Teresa's perfidy; The assassin's strong assurance, when no interest, No motive could have tempted him to falsehood; In the first pangs of his awaken'd conscience, When with abhorrence of his own black purpose The murderous weapon, pointed at my breast, Fell from his palsied hand—

Zul. Heavy presumption!

Alv. It weigh'd not with me—Hark! I will tell thee all. As we pass'd by, I bade thee mark the base Of yonder Cliff—

Zul. That rocky seat you mean Shaped by the billows?—

Alv. There Teresa met me The morning of the day of my departure. We were alone: the purple hue of dawn, Fell from the kindling east aslant upon us, And blending with the blushes on her cheek Suffus'd the tear drops there with rosy light. There seem'd a glory round us, and Teresa The angel of the vision! >>>(then with agitation. Had'st thou seen, How in each motion her most innocent soul, Beam'd forth and brighten'd; thou thyself would'st tell me, Guilt is a thing impossible in her! She must be innocent!

Zul. (with a sigh.) Proceed, my Lord!

Alv. A portrait which she had procur'd by stealth (For even then it seems her heart foreboded Or knew Ordonio's moody rivalry) A portrait of herself with thrilling hand She tied around my neck, conjuring me With earnest prayers, that I would keep it sacred To my knowledge: nor did she desist, Till she had won a solemn promise from me, That (save my own) no eye should e'er behold it Till my return. Yet this the assassin knew, Knew that, which none but she could have disclos'd.

Zul. A damning proof!

Alv. My own life wearied me! And but for the imperative Voice within With mine own hand I had thrown off the burthen. That voice, which quell'd me, calm'd me, and I sought The Belgic states; there join'd the better cause;

And there too fought as one that courted death! Wounded, I fell among the dead and dying, In death like trance: a long imprisonment follow'd. The fulness of my anguish by degrees Waned me to a meditative melancholy; And still the more I mus'd, my soul became More doubtful, more perplex'd: and still Teresa— Night after night, she visited my sleep, Now as a saintly sufferer, wan and tearful, Now as a saint in glory beckoning to me! And still as in contempt of proof and reason, I cherish the fond faith that she is guiltless. Hear then my fix'd resolve: I'll linger here In the disguise of a Moresco chieftain.— The Moorish robes?—

Zul. All, all are in the sea-cave, Some furlong hence. I bade our mariners Secrete the boat there.

Alv. Above all, the picture Of the assassination—

Zul. Be assur'd That it remains uninjur'd.

Alv. Thus disguised I will first seek to meet Ordonio's—wife! If possible, alone too. This was her wonted walk, And this the hour; her words, her very looks Will acquit her or convict.

Zul. Will they not know you?

Alv. With your aid, friend, I shall unfearingly Trust the disguise; and as to my complexion, My long imprisonment, the scanty food, This scar,—and toil beneath a burning sun, Have done already half the business for us. Add too my youth, when last we saw each other. Manhood has swoln my chest, and taught my voice A hoarser note—Besides, they think me dead:

And what the mind believes impossible, The bodily sense is slow to recognize.

Zul. 'Tis yours, sir, to command, mine to obey. Now to the cave beneath the vaulted rock, Where having shap'd you to a Moorish chieftain, I will seek our mariners; and in the dusk Transport whate'er we need to the small dell In the Alpuxarras—there where Zagri liv'd.

Alv. I know it well: it is the obscurest haunt Of all the mountains—>>>(both stand listening). Voices at a distance! Let us away! >>>[Exeunt.

<>SCENE II.

<>Enter Teresa and Valdez.

Ter. I hold Ordonio dear; he is your son And Alvar's brother.

Val. Love him for himself, Nor make the living wretched for the dead.

Ter. I mourn that you should plead in vain, Lord Valdez, But heaven hath heard my vow, and I remain Faithful to Alvar, be he dead or living.

Val. Heaven knows with what delight I saw your loves, And could my heart's blood give him back to thee, I would die smiling. But these are idle thoughts! Thy dying father comes upon my soul With that same look, with which he gave thee to me; I held thee in my arms a powerless babe, While thy poor mother with a mute entreaty, Fixed her faint eyes on mine. Ah not for this,

That I should let thee feed thy soul with gloom, And with slow anguish wear away thy life, The victim of a useless constancy. I must not see thee wretched.

Ter. There are woes Ill bartered for the garishness of joy! If it be wretched with an untired eye To watch those skiey tints, and this green ocean; Or in the sultry hour beneath some rock, My hair dishevell'd by the pleasant sea breeze, To shape sweet visions, and live o'er again All past hours of delight! If it be wretched To watch some bark, and fancy Alvar there, To go through each minutest circumstance Of the blest meeting; and to frame adventures Most terrible and strange, and hear him tell them; (As once I knew a crazy Moorish maid, Who drest her in her buried lover's cloaths, And o'er the smooth spring in the mountain cleft Hung with her lute, and play'd the self same tune He used to play, and listened to the shadow Herself had made)—if this be wretchedness, And if indeed it be a wretched thing To trick out mine own death bed, and imagine That I had died, died just ere his return! Then see him listening to my constancy, Or hover round, as he at midnight oft Sits on my grave and gazes at the moon; Or haply, in some more fantastic mood, To be in Paradise, and with choice flowers Build up a bower where he and I might dwell, And there to wait his coming! O my sire! My Alvar's sire! if this be wretchedness That eats away the life, what were it, think you, If in a most assured reality He should return, and see a brother's infant

Smile at him from my arms? Oh what a thought! >>>(Clasping her forehead.

Vald. A thought? even so! mere thought! an empty thought. The very week he promised his return——

Ter. (abruptly.) Was it not then a busy joy? to see him, After those three years travels! we had no fears— The frequent tidings, the ne'er failing letter, Almost endear'd his absence! Yet the gladness, The tumult of our joy! What then if now——

Vald. O power of youth to feed on pleasant thoughts, Spite of conviction! I am old and heartless! Yes, I am old—I have no pleasant dreams, Hectic and unrefresh'd with rest—

Ter. (with great tenderness.) My father!

Vald. The sober truth is all too much for me! I see no sail which brings not to my mind The home bound bark in which my son was captur'd By the Algerine—to perish with his captors!

Ter. Oh no! he did not!

Vald. Captur'd in sight of land! From yon hill point, nay, from our castle watch tower We might have seen——

Ter. His capture, not his death.

Vald. Alas! how aptly thou forgett'st a tale Thou ne'er didst wish to learn! my brave Ordonio Saw both the pirate and his prize go down, In the same storm that baffled his own valor, And thus twice snatch'd a brother from his hopes: Gallant Ordonio! (pauses, then tenderly) O beloved Teresa, Would't thou best prove thy faith to generous Alvar,

And most delight his spirit, go thou, make His brother happy, make his aged father Sink to the grave in joy.

Ter. For mercy's sake Press me no more. I have no power to love him. His proud forbidding eye, and his dark brow, Chill me like dew damps of the unwholesome night: My love, a timorous and tender flower, Closes beneath his touch.

Vald. You wrong him, maiden! You wrong him, by my soul! Nor was it well To character by such unkindly phrases The stir and workings of that love for you Which he has toil'd to smother. 'Twas not well, Nor is it grateful in you to forget His wounds and perilous voyages, and how With an heroic fearlessness of danger He roam'd the coast of Afric for your Alvar. It was not well—You have moved me even to tears.

Ter. Oh pardon me my father! pardon me! It was a foolish and ungrateful speech, A most ungrateful speech! But I am hurried Beyond myself, if I but hear of one Who aims to rival Alvar. Were we not Born in one day, like twins of the same parent? Nursed in one cradle? Pardon me my father! A six years absence is a heavy thing, Yet still the hope survives——

Vald. (looking forwards) Hush! 'tis Monviedro.

Ter. The Inquisitor, on some new scent of blood!

<>Enter Monviedro with Alhadra.

Monv. (having first made his obeisance to Valdez and Teresa.) Peace and the truth be with you! Good my Lord,

My present need is with your son. >>>(Looking forward: We have hit the time. Here comes he! Yes, 'tis he. <>Enter from the opposite side Don Ordonio. My Lord Ordonio, this Moresco woman (Alhadra is her name) asks audience of you.

Ordon. Hail, reverend father! what may be the business?

Mon. My lord, on strong suspicion of relapse To their false creed, so recently abjured, The secret servants of the inquisition Have seized her husband, and at my command, To the supreme tribunal would have led him, But that he made appeal to you, my lord, As surety for his soundness in the faith. Tho' lessen'd by experience what small trust The asseverations of these Moors deserve, Yet still the deference to Ordonio's name, Nor less the wish to prove, with what high honor The Holy Church regards her faithful soldiers, Thus far prevailed with me that——

Ord. Reverend father, I am much beholden to your high opinion, Which so o'erprizes my light services.>>> (then to Alhadra I would that I could serve you; but in truth Your face is new to me.

Mon. My mind foretold me, That such would be the event. In truth, Lord Valdez, 'Twas little probable, that Don Ordonio, That your illustrious son, who fought so bravely Some four years since to quell these rebel Moors,

Should prove the patron of this infidel! The guarantee of a Moresco's faith! Now I return.

Alhad. My Lord, my husband's name Is Isidore.—You may remember it: Three years ago, three years this very week, You left him at Almeria.

Mon. Palpably false! This very week, three years ago, my lord, (You needs must recollect it by your wound) You were at sea, and there engaged the pirates, The murderers doubtless of your brother Alvar! >>>(Teresa looks at Monviedro with disgust >>>and horror. Ordonios appearance to be >>>collected from what follows.)

Mon. (to Valdez and pointing at Ordonio.) What is he ill, my Lord? how strange he looks!

Vald. (angrily.) You started on him too abruptly, father! The fate of one, on whom, you know, he doted.

Ord. (starting as in sudden agitation.) O Heavens! I?—I doted? (then recovering himself Yes! I doted on him. >>>(Ordonio walks to the end of the stage, >>>Valdez follows soothing him.)

Ter. (her eye following Ordonio.) I do not, can not, love him. Is my heart hard? Is my heart hard? that even now the thought Should force itself upon me?—Yet I feel it!

Mon. The drops did start and stand upon his forehead! I will return. In very truth, I grieve To have been the occasion. Ho! attend me woman!

Alhad. (to Teresa.) O gentle lady! make the father stay,

Until my lord recover. I am sure, That he will say, he is my husband's friend.

Ter. Stay, father! stay! my lord will soon recover.

Ord. (as they return, to Valdez). Strange, that this Monviedro Should have the power so to distemper me!

Vald. Nay, 'twas an amiable weakness, son!

Mon. My lord, I truly grieve——

Ord. Tut! name it not. A sudden seizure, father! think not of it. As to this woman's husband, I do know him. I know him well, and that he is a christian.

Mon. I hope, my lord, your merely human pity Doth not prevail——

Ord. 'Tis certain that he was a catholic; What changes may have happen'd in three years, I can not say; but grant me this, good father: Myself I'll sift him: if I find him sound, You'll grant me your authority and name To liberate his house.

Mon. Your zeal, my lord, And your late merits in this holy warfare Would authorize an ampler trust—you have it.

Ord. I will attend you home within an hour.

Vald. Meantime return with us and take refreshment.

Alhad. Not till my husband's free! I may not do it. I will stay here.

Ter. (aside.) Who is this Isidore?

Vald. Daughter!

Ter. With your permission, my dear lord, I'll loiter yet awhile t' enjoy the sea breeze. >>>[Exeunt Valdez, Monviedro and Ordonio.

Alhad. Hah! there he goes! a bitter curse go with him, A scathing curse! (then as if recollecting herself, and with a timid look) You hate him, don't you, lady?

Ter. (perceiving that Alhadra is conscious she has spoken imprudently.) Oh fear not me! my heart is sad for you.

Alhad. These fell inquisitors! these sons of blood! As I came on, his face so madden'd me, That ever and anon I clutch'd my dagger And half unsheath'd it——

Ter. Be more calm, I pray you.

Alhad. And as he walk'd along the narrow path Close by the mountain's edge, my soul grew eager; 'Twas with hard toil I made myself remember That his familiars held my babes and husband. To have leapt upon him with a tyger's plunge, And hurl'd him down the ragged precipice, O, it had been most sweet!

Ter. Hush! hush for shame! Where is your woman's heart?

Alhad. O gentle lady! You have no skill to guess my many wrongs, Many and strange. Besides, (ironically) I am a christian, And christians never pardon—'tis their faith!

Ter. Shame fall on those who so have shown it thee.

Alhad. I know that man; 'tis well he knows not me. Five years ago (and he was the prime agent) Five years ago the holy brethren seized me.

Ter. What might your crime be?

Alhad. I was a Moresco!

They cast me, then a young and nursing mother, Into a dungeon of their prison house, Where was no bed, no fire, no ray of light, No touch, no sound of comfort! The black air, It was a toil to breathe it! when the door, Slow opening at the appointed hour, disclosed One human countenance, the lamp's red flame Cower'd as it enter'd and at once sunk down. Oh miserable! by that lamp to see My infant quarrelling with the coarse hard bread Brought daily: for the little wretch was sickly— My rage had dried away its natural food. In darkness I remain'd, counting the bell, Which haply told me, that the blessed sun Was rising on my garden. When I dozed, My infant's moanings mingled with my slumbers And waked me.—If you were a mother, lady, I should scarce dare to tell you, that it's noises And peevish cries so fretted on my brain That I have struck the innocent babe in anger.

Ter. O Heaven! it is too horrible to hear.

Alhad. What was it then to suffer? 'Tis most right That such as you should hear it.—Know you not, What nature makes you mourn, she bids you heal? Great evils ask great passions to redress them, And whirlwinds fitliest scatter pestilence.

Ter. You were at length released?

Alhad. Yes, at length I saw the blessed arch of the whole heaven! 'Twas the first time my infant smiled. No more— For if I dwell upon that moment, Lady, A trance comes on which makes me o'er again All I then was—my knees hang loose and drag, And my lip falls with such an idiot laugh, That you would start and shudder!

Ter. But your husband——

Alhad. A month's imprisonment would kill him, Lady.

Ter. Alas, poor man!

Alhad. He hath a lion's courage, Fearless in act, but feeble in endurance; Unfit for boisterous times, with gentle heart He worships nature in the hill and valley, Not knowing what he loves, but loves it all—

<>Enter Alvar disguised as a Moresco, and in Moorish garments.

Ter. Know you that stately Moor?

Alhad. I know him not: But doubt not he is some Moresco chieftain, Who hides himself among the Alpuxarras.

Ter. The Alpuxarras? Does he know his danger, So near this seat?

Alhad. He wears the Moorish robes too, As in defiance of the royal edict.

>>>[Alhadra advances to Alvar, who has >>>walked to the back of the stage near the >>>rocks. Teresa drops her veil.]

Alhad. Gallant Moresco! An inquisitor, Monviedro, of known hatred to our race——

Alv. (interrupting her.) You have mistaken me. I am a christian.

Alhad. He deems, that we are plotting to ensnare him: Speak to him, Lady—none can hear you speak, And not believe you innocent of guile.

Ter. If ought enforce you to concealment, Sir—

Alhad. He trembles strangely. >>>[Alvar sinks down and hides his face in his robe.]