C. Ah! said you so?75
Why, that was Pedro Crespo, the alcalde!
Hyp. Indeed! you much astonish me! His air
Was not so full of dignity and grace
As an alcalde's should be. Padre C. That is true.
He's out of humor with some vagrant Gypsies, Who have their camp here in the neighborhood. There's nothing so undignified as anger.
Hyp. The Padre Cura will excuse our boldness, If, from his well-known hospitality,
We crave a lodging for the night. Padre C. I pray you!
You do me honor! I am but too happy
To have such guests beneath my humble roof. It is not often that I have occasion
To speak with scholars; and Emollit mores, Nec sinit esse feros, Cicero says.
Hyp. 'T is Ovid, is it not? Padre C. No, Cicero.
Hyp. Your Grace is right. You are the better scholar. Now what a dunce was I to think it Ovid!
But hang me if it is not! (Aside.)
Padre C. Pass this way.
He was a very great man, was Cicero! Pray you, go in, go in! no ceremony.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III. -- A room in the PADRE CURA'S house. Enter the PADRE and HYPOLITO.
Padre C. So then, Senor, you come from Alcala. I am glad to hear it. It was there I studied.
Hyp. And left behind an honored name, no doubt. How may I call your Grace?
Padre C. Geronimo
De Santillana, at your Honor's service.
Hyp. Descended from the Marquis Santillana? From the distinguished poet?
Padre C. From the Marquis, Not from the poet.
Hyp. Why, they were the same.
Let me embrace you! O some lucky star
Has brought me hither! Yet once more!--once more! Your name is ever green in Alcala,
And our professor, when we are unruly, Will shake his hoary head, and say, "Alas! It was not so in Santillana's time!"
Padre C. I did not think my name remembered there. Hyp. More than remembered; it is idolized.
Padre C. Of what professor speak you? Hyp. Timoneda.
Padre C. I don't remember any Timoneda.
Hyp. A grave and sombre man, whose beetling brow
76
O'erhangs the rushing current of his speech
As rocks o'er rivers hang. Have you forgotten?
Padre C. Indeed, I have. O, those were pleasant days, Those college days! I ne'er shall see the like!
I had not buried then so many hopes!
I had not buried then so many friends!
I've turned my back on what was then before me; And the bright faces of my young companions Are wrinkled like my own, or are no more.
Do you remember Cueva? Hyp. Cueva? Cueva?
Padre C. Fool that I am! He was before your time. You're a mere boy, and I am an old man.
Hyp. I should not like to try my strength with you.
Padre C. Well, well. But I forget; you must be hungry. Martina! ho! Martina! 'T is my niece.
(Enter MARTINA.)
Hyp. You may be proud of such a niece as that. I wish I had a niece. Emollit mores.
(Aside.)
He was a very great man, was Cicero! Your servant, fair Martina.
Mart. Servant, sir.
Padre C. This gentleman is hungry. See thou to it. Let us have supper.
Mart. 'T will be ready soon.
Padre C. And bring a bottle of my Val-de-Penas
Out of the cellar. Stay; I'll go myself. Pray you. Senor, excuse me. [Exit. Hyp. Hist! Martina!
One word with you. Bless me I what handsome eyes! To-day there have been Gypsies in the village.
Is it not so?
Mart. There have been Gypsies here. Hyp. Yes, and have told your fortune. Mart. (embarrassed). Told my fortune?
Hyp. Yes, yes; I know they did. Give me your hand. I'll tell you what they said. They said,--they said,
The shepherd boy that loved you was a clown, And him you should not marry. Was it not? Mart. (surprised). How know you that?
Hyp. O, I know more than that,
What a soft, little hand! And then they said, A cavalier from court, handsome, and tall
And rich, should come one day to marry you, And you should be a lady. Was it not!
He has arrived, the handsome cavalier.
(Tries to kiss her. She runs off. Enter VICTORIAN, with a letter.)
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Vict. The muleteer has come. Hyp. So soon?
Vict. I found him
Sitting at supper by the tavern door, And, from a pitcher that he held aloft
His whole arm's length, drinking the blood-red wine. Hyp. What news from Court?
Vict. He brought this letter only.
(Reads.)
O cursed perfidy! Why did I let
That lying tongue deceive me! Preciosa, Sweet Preciosa! how art thou avenged!
Hyp. What news is this, that makes thy cheek turn pale, And thy hand tremble?
Vict. O, most infamous!
The Count of Lara is a worthless villain! Hyp. That is no news, forsooth.
Vict. He strove in vain
To steal from me the jewel of my soul, The love of Preciosa. Not succeeding,
He swore to be revenged; and set on foot
A plot to ruin her, which has succeeded.
She has been hissed and hooted from the stage, Her reputation stained by slanderous lies
Too foul to speak of; and, once more a beggar, She roams
