Act Second
E LVIRA. To what end, Tello, would you torture me
With such dire cruelty? Do you not know
I prize my honor? Further to persist
But wearies you and wearies me.
Don T ELLO. Enough
Or you will slay me, being so rough and hard.
E LVIRA. Return me to my husband, Tello.
Don T ELLO. No,
For he is not your husband, nor may a clown
Though fortunate, deserve such passing worth;
But were I Sancho, and he in turn were I,
How then, Elvira, could your cruel rage
Treat me thus foully? Cannot your rigor see
That this is love?
E LVIRA. Never, my lord, for love
That is deficient in a true respect
For honor, is but vile desire, not love,
And being evil, love never can be called.
For love is born of loving what one loves
In mad desire,
And love that is not chaste
By no name of love is graced
Nor ever can to love's estate aspire.
Don T ELLO. How so?
E LVIRA. But would you have me make it plain?
Last night you saw me, Tello, for the first;
Why, then, your love was such a sudden thing
That you had scarce a moment to consider
What that thing was which you so much desired;
Yet in that knowledge all true love resides.
For love is born of a great-grown desire,
And love goes mounting then the steps of favor
Even to its own end and exercise.
So this you feel was never love we see
In simple truth—mad lust and longing rather
To snatch from me my whole, my heart of life
By heaven confided to me in pure honor;
But you would seek to load me with dishonor
And I defend my life.
Don T ELLO. But my excuse
Is your intelligence, as in your arms.
Listen to reason.
E LVIRA. There is no argument
Can vanquish my assured intent.
Don T ELLO. But how?
Do you maintain it is impossible
To see, desire and love, all at first sight?
E LVIRA. True.
Don T ELLO. Then answer:
How can the basilisk, ungrateful girl,
Contrive to kill, anDonly with a glance?
E LVIRA. It is an animal.
Don T ELLO. And so your beauty;
It is the basilisk.
E LVIRA. You argue falsely
As prompted by your wit.
Don T ELLO. I argue falsely?
E LVIRA. The mortal basilisk kills with a look,
Because his mind is wholly set to kill.
Which reason is so evident and plain
We could not say that he had power to kill
Did he but look upon us with affection.
Let us have no more arguments, my lord;
I am a woman and I am in love,
Nor have you aught to hope from me.
Don T ELLO. How is it possible a country wench
Should answer in this wise? Confess to me
You are a fool, proving yourself discreet;
Because, when I behold your full perfection,
The more its sum, so much the more my love.
Oh would to God you were my equal now!
But you know well the baseness of your state
Affronts my noble blood. Ill were it done
To join the brocade with the coarse homespun!
God knows what might of love now drives me on,
And turns to evil all my good intent!
The world made these vile laws in ages gone,
And I must yield to them, obedient.
F ELICIANA. Forgive me, brother, that my heart relents
And is more quick to pity than your wish.
But hold! What angers you?
Don T ELLO. You are a fool!
F ELICIANA. I am a fool, but yet a woman, Tello,
Amazed before this terrible desire.
Let some days pass. It was not said of love
“I came, I saw, I conquered,” Cæsar of love
Above a subject world although you be.
Don T ELLO. Can it be possible you are my sister?
F ELICIANA. What? To use force against a poor peasant girl?
E LVIRA. Have pity, Lady.
F ELICIANA. Witholding “yes” to-day,
She may perhaps reserve it for the morrow.
Be patient, Tello; it is unnatural
That neither should have rest. Rest and return
Refreshed to the encounter!
Don T ELLO. Is this your pity,
Depriving me of life?
F ELICIANA. Be still, I say;
You are beside yourself. Did she tempt you?
Elvira has done naught. Blush and for shame!
Detain her here some days in company
With you and me; better we talk the while.
E LVIRA. Would that my tears might move you, noble lady,
To intercede in pity for my honor!
F ELICIANA. Take note beside, my lord, an hour has passed
Since her old father and the groom have stood
Knocking upon the gate. It is but meet
They find it open, whereto you are enforced,
Else they will say, entrance being denied,
You hold Elvira.
Don T ELLO. All things augment my rage.
In, in, Elvira, and conceal yourself.—
Admit these hinds.
E LVIRA. Thank God you let me rest!
Don T ELLO. Of what would you complain? You tie my hands.
F ELICIANA. Hello without!
C ELIO. Señora! …
F ELICIANA. Summon these hinds.
And look you treat them well, nor dare forget
The obligation of your quality.
N UÑO. Kissing the pavement of this noble house
(All too unworthy we to kiss your feet),
Fain would we tell you what the time allows
Of ill-conditioned violence in your seat.
Sancho, Señor, Elvira's promised spouse,
To whom you both stand sponsors as is meet,
Comes to beg justice for the greatest wrong
That mortal tongue can speak through ages long.
Sancho. Magnanimous Señor, whose brow o'ertops
The summits of these mountains capped with snow,
Which thence descending in clear fountains drops
To kiss your feet amid green plains below,
Advised by Nuño and his friends, who stops
Never to doubt the virtue that you show,
I sought your favor, begged your free consent;
And with your presence you honored my content.
Once having entered our poor house, alas,
To vengeance are you bound by dignity,
To right a wrong so bold, atrocious, crass,
As fouls your name and your nobility.
If ever love in you came to such pass
As paid in act desire's expectancy,
One moment had, that moment swept away—
Think on the heart how sore the burden lay!
I, a poor laborer within these fields,
But in the passion of the heart a lord—
One not so dulled to mountain use, but wields
On fit occasion the bright shining sword—
Hearing foul rumor, no addled clown that yields
Was I, nor might be—spineless, dull, untoward.
My honor trembled; by law she was not mine,
But yes once said, that union is divine.
I rushed forth to the fields, and to that light
Which dims the stars, I raised my eyes in vain—
The swiftly gliding moon, drawn by whose might
The tides recede and rise upon the main:
“Ah happy thou!” I cried, “that night by night
No human hand can bar the sun, thy wain
Soft rising to thy throne within the sky
Though clouds may come like masks and veil the eye!”
And then I turned me to the lonely earth,
Seeing Alcides' poplars lulled to sleep
With ivy twined, whose slim embracing girth
Knotted them round, while close the tendrils creep.
“Alas!” I cried, “What? Thrive you in my dearth
Of joy, you vines? Nay, fool, will you not sweep,
You base-born rustic, these rooted loves asunder,
Slashing down boughs and trampling blossoms under?”
All slept secure. But then I knew at last
They rapt, my Lord, my precious bride away;
It sudden seemed the streamlets as they passed
Wept too and murmured a more troubled lay.
Within my hand I bore (how long outcast
From battle!) a sword in sheath of elder day;
I flung me on the tallest tree—amain
With stroke and blow I leveled it like grain.
Elvira had not suffered by the tree;
Ah no! The tree was arrogant and proud,
And looked upon the others pityingly;
With greatness such as this are giants endowed.
But in the town they say—and lie to me,
Since you are what you are—that you avowed
And open lover were of this my wife
And hold her here—you author of this strife.
“Base churls!” I cried, “What? Have you not respect?
Don Tello is my lord, glory and honor
Of all the house of Neira. Stay! Reflect
He is my sponsor, and would my wedding honor!”
Pity this truth, my lord, nor dare reject
My just complaint, to your and my dishonor.
Rather return with flashing eye and brand
Sancho his wife, Nuño his daughter's hand.
Don T ELLO. It grieves me sore, friend Sancho, to the heart,
To learn of such bold knavery, nor here
Shall any rustic dwell and scape the smart
Of vengeance, who takes or holds her, far or near.
Best you inquire and find what mad upstart,
Blinded with passion, by covert force, by fear,
Affronts us both with like contemptuous outrage.
Once he is known, I … I will assuage
Your hurt, and these base churls who flaunt my name
I will have whipped for their effrontery.
And go with God!
Sancho. My jealousy turns flame!
N UÑO. Sancho, hold, in God's name!
Sancho. Death, come set me free!
Don T ELLO. Find out these knaves who boldly smirch my fame
With black dishonor.
Sancho. But can such things be?
Don T ELLO. I know not where she lies. Show me your wife
And she is yours, upon Don Tello's life.
E LVIRA. He knows, my husband; Tello keeps me here
Hidden.
Sancho. My wife, my life, my good, my all!
Don T ELLO. So this is what you would contrive against me?
Sancho. Alas! In what sad state I pined for you!
N UÑO. Alas, my daughter! How you made me tremble!
My reason was clean gone!
Don T ELLO. Hold, rustics! Back!
Sancho. Let me but touch her hands; I am her husband.
Don T ELLO. Celio! Julio! What ho, my men!
Death to these peasants!
F ELICIANA. Brother, have pity; be less rough and hard.
Remember too that they are not to blame.
Don T ELLO. Had they been married, the impertinence were great.
Kill them!
Sancho. Yes, rather let me die than live,
However cruel death be!
E LVIRA. I lose the sense
Of life or death.
Sancho. Elvira and my all,
But listen; better I let myself be slain.
E LVIRA. I too shall know how still to guard my honor,
Although they strike me with a thousand deaths.
Don T ELLO. But is it possible they flaunt their loves
Before my face? Can such hot passion be?
Celio! Julio! What ho!
J ULIO. My lord …
Don T ELLO. Death! Beat them with clubs!
C ELIO. Death! Death! They die!
Don T ELLO. In vain your feeble plaints seek remedy
Against my rage. I had it well in mind
To send you back released, but such my fury
At these your brazen, base solicitations
All shameless shown, perforce you must be mine,
Or I not be the man I was in fine!
F ELICIANA. No, brother! I am here!
Don T ELLO. I'll force or kill her
F ELICIANA. How is it possible to set her free
From one who has outrun self-mastery?
J ULIO. This is the way rascals pay for effrontery.
C ELIO. Out of the palace!
S ERVANTS. Out!
Sancho. Yes, kill me, you squires! I have no sword myself.
N UÑO. My son, my fear is great lest this man will have your life, he is so turbulent and bold.
Sancho. What is left for me in life?
N UÑO. Fortune perchance may relent; she is quick to change so long as life itself endures.
Sancho. In God's name they shall not drive me from this threshold where I stand, although they strike me dead! Without Elvira I do not wish to live.
N UÑO. Live and you may yet find justice. These kingdoms have a king, and there is still a higher court of appeal, for you may petition heaven.
P ELAYO. Oh there you are!
Sancho. Who is here?
P ELAYO. Pelayo, and stuffed full with satisfaction. I come for a reward.
Sancho. Reward? How? At a time like this?
P ELAYO. I said a reward.
Sancho. For what, Pelayo, when I am dead already and Nuño is at the last gasp?
P ELAYO. I want a reward!
N UÑO. You know what this fool is.
P ELAYO. Well, I have found Elvira out …
Sancho. Ah, father! Then they have sent her back?
Speak, my Pelayo! What is it you say?
P ELAYO. The whole village is on tip-toe and everybody tells me that Don Tello has had her with him in his house since twelve o'clock last night.
Sancho. Curses on you and amen!
P ELAYO. They all think now that he will never want to give her up.
N UÑO. My son, we must find some remedy. Alfonso, King of Castile by right and virtue of his mighty deeds, now holds his court at León. He is a just and an upright judge, wherefore go seek him out and lay your wrongs before him, for I verily believe that he will do us justice.
Sancho. Alas! I very well know, Nuño, that Alfonso, King of Castile, is a complete and perfect prince, but how think you shall it be that a rude peasant like myself may enter his presence? What gallery of the palace shall I dare desecrate with my presumption? What turnkey will be found who will suffer my presence, Nuño? The doors are flung wide open there to brocades and rich trappings, to grave and stately retinues, and this is as it should be, as we ourselves must confess. But the doorkeepers, Nuño, permit the poor people only to gaze from without upon the gates and the caparisons and the arms, and even this must be from far off. I will go to León and I will make my way into the palace, and then you will see what marks they will imprint with the flat sides of their swords upon my shoulders. What? Present myself with petitions before the King? I tell you they will drop from his hand into oblivion. I shall come back having had sight of the ladies and of the noble gentlemen, of the church, the palace, the park, the stately buildings, and I fear I shall bring back with me besides a distaste for this dwelling among yew trees and among oak trees and live oaks, where the birds sing and we hear the dogs bark. No, Nuño, you do not advise me well.
N UÑO. I know truly, Sancho, that I do advise you well. Go then and speak with King Alfonso, for if you remain here, I am certain that they will take your life.
Sancho. I desire naught else, Nuño.
N UÑO. I have a chestnut horse which is so swift that he will wager his mane against the wings of the wind and lay his hoofs against the bridle. Take him and begone, and let Pelayo take the little mottled horse which daily goes out with him into the fields.
Sancho. To please you I obey.—Pelayo, will you come with me to court?
P ELAYO. And be so glad of the opportunity to see what I have never seen before, that I would stoop to kiss your feet, Sancho. They tell me that at court all the streets are laid with eggs and paved with rashers of bacon, and they greet strangers with a bounty so hearty that for all the world it is the same as if they had come out of Flanders or Italy or else Morocco. They say the court is one great bag wherein a man may draw naught but prizes and all the counters unite to spell fortune, whether they be black or white. For God's sake then let us go to court!
Sancho. Father, farewell! I go. And give me your blessing.
N UÑO. You have wisdom and discretion, son; that we know. Speak out boldly to the King.
Sancho. You will learn presently how bold I am.
Come.
N UÑO. Good-bye, Sancho.
Sancho. Good-bye, Elvira!
P ELAYO. And good-bye, pigs.
Don T ELLO. What? I shall not possess this woman's beauty?
F ELICIANA. Tello, in vain this passion to persist;
For such her grief, she weeps continually.
While you confine her to this lonely tower
How is it possible you should not see
The part of greater wisdom? Though her love
Were all for you your lot were yet disdain.
If you will treat her with cold cruelty,
How shall she love you well? Pray be advised;
'Tis simple folly to be harsh with those
To whom we turn for pity at the close.
Don T ELLO. Am I to suffer this most dire affront,
Seeing myself despised, when I am he
Who is most powerful in all the land,
Richest in goods and most magnificent?
F ELICIANA. Give it less thought, nor be so much cast down
For a poor peasant.
Don T ELLO. Ah, Feliciana!
You do not know what love is, nor have felt
Its rigor.
F ELICIANA. Patience, I say, until to-morrow;
And I will speak to her, and as I may
Soften this woman.
Don T ELLO. No, she is no woman;
A wild beast rather since she gives such pain.
Promise her silver, gold, and priceless gems,
Or what you will; tell her that I will give
A world of treasure. In presence of rich gifts
Women observe especial courtesy.
Say I will shower her with thank-offerings,
And say I will bestow on her a gown
That shall drain dry the gold from Milan town,
From her proud hair soft falling to her feet.
Tell her if she will remedy my pain
I will endow her with a farm and flocks,
For were she but my equal—
F ELICIANA. Is't possible
You talk like this?
Don T ELLO. Yes, sister, yes! My state,
My fortune ebbs, for either I must die
Or else enjoy her, once therewith for all
Ending my pain so grievous and so long.
F ELICIANA. I go to plead with her, though it be vain.
Don T ELLO. How so?
F ELICIANA. Because at least this much is plain—
There is no interest beneath the sun
By which an honest woman may be won.
Don T ELLO. Go then and quickly bring my hope relief;
For if my steadfast faith shall not achieve
The goal desired, the love and troth I bear
Shall be transformed to vengeance by despair!
K ING. While our decree is published and proclaimed
Unto Toledo, and due response returned
By our just judge and lord of Aragon
In Zaragoza resident, say, O Count,
Whether the soldiers and the suppliants
Be all despatched and learn if any stays
Who yet would speak with me?
C OUNT. None, Sire, remains
To wait your pleasure.
Don E NRIQUE. Propped up against the gate
I saw but now a poor Gallegan peasant,
And passing sad he seemed.
K ING. Now by my hand
Who would resist the poor? Enrique of Lara,
In your own person go bring him to our presence.
C OUNT. O virtue most heroical and rare!
Compassive pity and high clemency!
God-given model to the kings of air,
His laws observing by thy Majesty!
Don E NRIQUE. Put down your spears.
Sancho. Pelayo, place them here
Against the wall.
P ELAYO. You put your best foot first.
Sancho. Which is the King, Señor?
Don E NRIQUE. He lifts his hand
To his breast there.
Sancho. Right well indeed he may,
Content with all his works.—Fear not, Pelayo.
P ELAYO. These kings have in them a full strain of winter;
They make men shiver too all over.
Sancho. Señor
K ING. Speak, and be calm.
Sancho. Who holds within his grasp
The government of Spain …
K ING. Tell me your name
And whence you come.
Sancho. Grant me your hand to kiss,
For I would fain exalt this humble mouth
O Prince and Sovereign! Once let my lips,
Unworthy howsoe'er, approach that hand,
And I am eloquent.
K ING. You bathe it in your tears!
But for what cause?
Sancho. My eyes did wrong, to weep;
Yet since my lips give voice to their complaint
They would enforce it with a weight of woe
That should ensure, your hand set to the task,
The meting out of righteous chastisement
On one both mighty and my enemy.
K ING. Take courage, pray, and do not shed these tears;
Though holy pity most becomes my state
Yet you must know 'tis likewise mine to give
Its attribute to justice. Who does you wrong?
For he who wrongs the poor is never wise.
Sancho. Wrongs are like children, kings are fathers, Sire;
Then marvel not they pucker up their lips
In foolish grimaces, coming before them.
K ING. The man meseems is wise; before he speaks
He wins my sympathy.
Sancho. Sire and Señor,
I am hidalgo born, though humbly poor,
Such is the mutability of fate,
Whose fickle changes sallied hand in hand
Forth with me from the warmth of my first cradle.
The which remembered, I sought an equal mate
In holy wedlock; but since that man errs
Who is forgetful of just obligation,
And ever errs, I made my purpose known
Unto the lord of all that country round,
By name and right Don Tello of Neira,
Less moved by art than frankness in the act,
Seeking his license. Freely he gave it me
And as my sponsor stands before the altar.
But love, which drives the wisest men to folly,
Blinded his sight and fired his heart to lust
Of my belovèd peasant girl, Señor.
He would not have us wed, and that same night
With armèd force he ravished her away,
Nor left thereafter life to me to live
Nor shadow of protection to invoke
This side of you and heaven, to whose bench
And sacred throne of justice I appeal;
For having begged her back with tears, Señor,
Her father and I, so fierce was his response
That to our breasts they bared their naked swords,
And though hidalgos and high born, foul blows
With staves of oak they rained upon our shoulders.
K ING. Count——
C OUNT. Señor——
K ING. Bring pen and paper on the moment.
A chair here where I stand.
C OUNT. All is prepared.
Sancho. His matchless worth amazes and strikes dumb.—
I spoke to the King, Pelayo.
P ELAYO. By my jacket,
A good man!
Sancho. Who would be so hard of heart
As to refuse the poor?
P ELAYO. The Kings of Spain
Must all be angels.
Sancho. Do you not see them dressed
Like ordinary men?
P ELAYO. Another sort
Was one that Tello had in tapestry,
With blotchy face and hair all fallen down
About his knees; a staff he held in hand
And had a helmet like a lantern on
Atop there with his crown, which was all gold,
With a band around his chin like Turk or Moor.
I asked a page to tell me who he was—
He seemed to be a celebrated man—
Because I took a fancy to his clothes.
And he replied that he was called King Ball.
Sancho. You fool! What he said was King Saul.
P ELAYO. No, Ball—
Ball, trying to get rid of Badill.
Sancho. Nonsense!
Badill was David, fool, his son-in-law.
P ELAYO. I know all that. The priest was preaching once
Down in the church, how he had hit him one
Elat on the crown, with one of Moses' tears,
Which was a hard stone, and killed the giant, the liar.
Sancho. Goliath! You are a fool.
P ELAYO. The priest said so.
K ING. Count, seal this letter.—What is your name, good man?
Sancho. My name is Sancho, Sire, who at your feet
Begs justice of your holy clemency
On one, vaunting in power, grown insolent,
Who rapt from me my true and lawful wife,
And would therewith deprive me of my life,
Did I not flee.
K ING. Can such a tyrant breathe
In all Galicia?
Sancho. So famed is he
That from the margin of those river glades
Unto the Roman Tower of Hercules,
He is obeyed. Once let his ire be roused
Against a man, then heaven succor him.
He makes and cancels laws, for such the state
Of haughty noblemen, who dwell in pride
And far removed from Kings.
C OUNT. The letter's sealed.
K ING. Which superscribe to Tello of Neira.
Sancho. O Sire, you have cut down the sword which hung
Even above my neck!
K ING. Give him this letter;
He will return to you forthwith your wife.
Sancho. Can greater favor be, even at your hand?
K ING. You come afoot?
Sancho. No, Sire, upon two horses,
Pelayo and myself.
P ELAYO. We galloped like the wind
Or even faster. The fact is, though, that mine
Has some abominable, beastly tricks;
You scarcely mount him but he down and rolls
Either in sand or else straight in the river,
And runs besides like all profanity
And eats like a student. When he sees an inn
He either goes in or stops still instanter.
K ING. You are a likely knave.
P ELAYO. I am one, Sire,
Who left his native land for sight of you.
K ING. And what is your complaint?
P ELAYO. Sire, of that horse.
K ING. Have you, I say, a present cause of trouble?
P ELAYO. Yes, hunger; if the kitchen's hereabouts …
K ING. But is there nothing of the garniture
Upon these walls, to which you would incline,
Bearing it home?
P ELAYO. I have no place to put it;
Better send it to Don Tello. He, belike,
Has three or four of the same kind already.
K ING. A most amusing knave!—What may you be
In your own country when you are at home?
P ELAYO. I drive, Señor, all over the mountain side;
I am my master's coachman.
K ING. Are there coaches?
What? In that land?
P ELAYO. Indeed not! So I drive
His pigs.
K ING. How curious a pair that land has joined,
One being so wise, the other such a fool!
Accept this gift.
P ELAYO. Oh it is nothing, Sire!
K ING. No take them; they are doubloons.
You take the letter.
And go in happy hour.
Sancho. May heaven guard you.
P ELAYO. Hello! I took them.
Sancho. Money?
P ELAYO. Plenty of it too.
Sancho. Ah, my Elvira! Fortune here is writ
Upon these papers. In my hand I bear,
Prompted by hope, deliverance of thy beauty!
C ELIO. In accordance with your commands I have inquired about the churl, and I had this information under threats, although Nuño himself refused to answer. He is not in the valley; he has been absent some days.
Don T ELLO. Most strange behavior!
C ELIO. They tell me that he has gone to León.
Don T ELLO. To León?
C ELIO. And Pelayo keeps him company.
Don T ELLO. To what end?
C ELIO. To speak with the King.
Don T ELLO. But for what purpose? He is not Elvira's husband, and therefore I have not done him wrong. Had Nuño made the complaint he might well have been excused. But Sancho!
C ELIO. I had it from the shepherds who tend your flocks. As the lad has wit in his head, my Lord, and as he is in love, in truth this daring does not surprise me.
Don T ELLO. Is it no more than daring for him to present himself to speak with the King of Castile?
C ELIO. Alfonso was reared in Galicia at the hands of Count Don Pedro de Andrada, and for that reason they say he will never close his door to any Gallegan, though never so humble his birth.
Don T ELLO. See who knocks, Celio. What? Are there no pages in my hall?
C ELIO. So help me God, my lord, but it is Sancho, the very churl of whom we spoke but now!
Don T ELLO. Can greater presumption be?
C ELIO. May you live many years to learn how much I love you!
Don T ELLO. Bid him come in; I will receive him here.
Sancho. Great my Lord, I cast myself before your feet.
Don T ELLO. Where have you been, Sancho? Some days have passed since last you came into my presence.
Sancho. Rather they seemed years to me. My Lord, when I found how you persisted in the passion where with you were consumed—or call it love for my Elvira—I betook me to appeal to the King of Castile, who is the supreme and highest judge and who has the power to right all wrongs.
Don T ELLO. So? And what, pray, did you tell him of me?
Sancho. I told him that at the moment of my marriage you stole my wife away.
Don T ELLO. Your wife? You lie, base knave! How?
Did the priest come in, who was there that night?
Sancho. No, my Lord, but he was advised that we both had given consent.
Don T ELLO. If he never joined your hands, how then can it be marriage?
Sancho. I have not come to discuss whether or not it be marriage. The King has granted me this letter which is writ in his own hand.
Don T ELLO. I shake with rage.
“Upon receipt of this you will deliver up to this poor peasant the woman whom you have taken from him, without word of reply; remember that the loyal vassal may be known, however distant he may be from his King, and that Kings are never distant when it is their duty to punish evil. The King. ”
Man! What is this that you have done?
Sancho. Señor, I bring this letter, given me by the King.
Don T ELLO. By God, I am astonished at my own for bearance! Do you think, you hind, that by this in solence you shall teach me fear in my own despite? Do you know who I am?
Sancho. I do, my Lord; and because I am assured of your nobility, I have brought this letter, not as you suppose to do you displeasure, but as a right friendly missive from my Lord of Castile, who is our King, that you may restore to me my wife.
Don T ELLO. Then out of respect to this same letter, know that you and this miserable clown who comes with you——
P ELAYO. Saint Blas! Saint Paul!
Don T ELLO. I do not string you up here to the merlons of the battlements.
P ELAYO. This not being my saint's day, by all the saints though altogether it has a devilish bad look for saints!
Don T ELLO. Out of my palace on the instant, and look you linger not within my lands, or I will have you done to death with clubs! You knaves, you hinds, you low, earthy rascals of the clay! What? To come to me!
P ELAYO. He is right too, and we were great fools to put him to this displeasure.
Don T ELLO. If I have taken your wife, you knave, know I am who I am, and I reign here and here I do my will as the King does his in his Castile. My forebears never owed this land to him—they won it from the Moors.
P ELAYO. Yes, they won it from the Moors and from the Christians too, and you don't owe a thing to the King.
Don T ELLO. I am who I am …
P ELAYO. Saint Macarius!
Don T ELLO. That is the reason I do not take vengeance on you by my own hand. What? Give up Elvira! What is he to Elvira? Kill them, I say! But no—let them go! It is an unworthy thing in an hidalgo to stain his sword with peasants' blood!
P ELAYO. No, don't you do it, on your life!
Sancho. Now what do you say?
P ELAYO. I say out of Galicia.
Sancho. My brain whirls round when I consider that this fellow refuses to obey his King because he has three or four henchmen gathered here about him. For so help me God——
P ELAYO. No, contain yourself, Sancho. It is good advice—and always was—never permit yourself a quarrel with a strong man and make no friendships among servants.
Sancho . Let us return to León.
P ELAYO . Well, I have the doubloons yet which the King gave me. So come on then.
Sancho . I shall report to him what has happened. Ah, Elvira! Who now remains to bring you succor? Fly, fly to her, my sighs, and until I come again, tell her I die of love!
P ELAYO. Better hurry, Sancho, for this fellow has not yet possessed Elvira.
Sancho . How do you know, Pelayo?
P ELAYO . Because he would have given her back once he had done his will.
With such dire cruelty? Do you not know
I prize my honor? Further to persist
But wearies you and wearies me.
Don T ELLO. Enough
Or you will slay me, being so rough and hard.
E LVIRA. Return me to my husband, Tello.
Don T ELLO. No,
For he is not your husband, nor may a clown
Though fortunate, deserve such passing worth;
But were I Sancho, and he in turn were I,
How then, Elvira, could your cruel rage
Treat me thus foully? Cannot your rigor see
That this is love?
E LVIRA. Never, my lord, for love
That is deficient in a true respect
For honor, is but vile desire, not love,
And being evil, love never can be called.
For love is born of loving what one loves
In mad desire,
And love that is not chaste
By no name of love is graced
Nor ever can to love's estate aspire.
Don T ELLO. How so?
E LVIRA. But would you have me make it plain?
Last night you saw me, Tello, for the first;
Why, then, your love was such a sudden thing
That you had scarce a moment to consider
What that thing was which you so much desired;
Yet in that knowledge all true love resides.
For love is born of a great-grown desire,
And love goes mounting then the steps of favor
Even to its own end and exercise.
So this you feel was never love we see
In simple truth—mad lust and longing rather
To snatch from me my whole, my heart of life
By heaven confided to me in pure honor;
But you would seek to load me with dishonor
And I defend my life.
Don T ELLO. But my excuse
Is your intelligence, as in your arms.
Listen to reason.
E LVIRA. There is no argument
Can vanquish my assured intent.
Don T ELLO. But how?
Do you maintain it is impossible
To see, desire and love, all at first sight?
E LVIRA. True.
Don T ELLO. Then answer:
How can the basilisk, ungrateful girl,
Contrive to kill, anDonly with a glance?
E LVIRA. It is an animal.
Don T ELLO. And so your beauty;
It is the basilisk.
E LVIRA. You argue falsely
As prompted by your wit.
Don T ELLO. I argue falsely?
E LVIRA. The mortal basilisk kills with a look,
Because his mind is wholly set to kill.
Which reason is so evident and plain
We could not say that he had power to kill
Did he but look upon us with affection.
Let us have no more arguments, my lord;
I am a woman and I am in love,
Nor have you aught to hope from me.
Don T ELLO. How is it possible a country wench
Should answer in this wise? Confess to me
You are a fool, proving yourself discreet;
Because, when I behold your full perfection,
The more its sum, so much the more my love.
Oh would to God you were my equal now!
But you know well the baseness of your state
Affronts my noble blood. Ill were it done
To join the brocade with the coarse homespun!
God knows what might of love now drives me on,
And turns to evil all my good intent!
The world made these vile laws in ages gone,
And I must yield to them, obedient.
F ELICIANA. Forgive me, brother, that my heart relents
And is more quick to pity than your wish.
But hold! What angers you?
Don T ELLO. You are a fool!
F ELICIANA. I am a fool, but yet a woman, Tello,
Amazed before this terrible desire.
Let some days pass. It was not said of love
“I came, I saw, I conquered,” Cæsar of love
Above a subject world although you be.
Don T ELLO. Can it be possible you are my sister?
F ELICIANA. What? To use force against a poor peasant girl?
E LVIRA. Have pity, Lady.
F ELICIANA. Witholding “yes” to-day,
She may perhaps reserve it for the morrow.
Be patient, Tello; it is unnatural
That neither should have rest. Rest and return
Refreshed to the encounter!
Don T ELLO. Is this your pity,
Depriving me of life?
F ELICIANA. Be still, I say;
You are beside yourself. Did she tempt you?
Elvira has done naught. Blush and for shame!
Detain her here some days in company
With you and me; better we talk the while.
E LVIRA. Would that my tears might move you, noble lady,
To intercede in pity for my honor!
F ELICIANA. Take note beside, my lord, an hour has passed
Since her old father and the groom have stood
Knocking upon the gate. It is but meet
They find it open, whereto you are enforced,
Else they will say, entrance being denied,
You hold Elvira.
Don T ELLO. All things augment my rage.
In, in, Elvira, and conceal yourself.—
Admit these hinds.
E LVIRA. Thank God you let me rest!
Don T ELLO. Of what would you complain? You tie my hands.
F ELICIANA. Hello without!
C ELIO. Señora! …
F ELICIANA. Summon these hinds.
And look you treat them well, nor dare forget
The obligation of your quality.
N UÑO. Kissing the pavement of this noble house
(All too unworthy we to kiss your feet),
Fain would we tell you what the time allows
Of ill-conditioned violence in your seat.
Sancho, Señor, Elvira's promised spouse,
To whom you both stand sponsors as is meet,
Comes to beg justice for the greatest wrong
That mortal tongue can speak through ages long.
Sancho. Magnanimous Señor, whose brow o'ertops
The summits of these mountains capped with snow,
Which thence descending in clear fountains drops
To kiss your feet amid green plains below,
Advised by Nuño and his friends, who stops
Never to doubt the virtue that you show,
I sought your favor, begged your free consent;
And with your presence you honored my content.
Once having entered our poor house, alas,
To vengeance are you bound by dignity,
To right a wrong so bold, atrocious, crass,
As fouls your name and your nobility.
If ever love in you came to such pass
As paid in act desire's expectancy,
One moment had, that moment swept away—
Think on the heart how sore the burden lay!
I, a poor laborer within these fields,
But in the passion of the heart a lord—
One not so dulled to mountain use, but wields
On fit occasion the bright shining sword—
Hearing foul rumor, no addled clown that yields
Was I, nor might be—spineless, dull, untoward.
My honor trembled; by law she was not mine,
But yes once said, that union is divine.
I rushed forth to the fields, and to that light
Which dims the stars, I raised my eyes in vain—
The swiftly gliding moon, drawn by whose might
The tides recede and rise upon the main:
“Ah happy thou!” I cried, “that night by night
No human hand can bar the sun, thy wain
Soft rising to thy throne within the sky
Though clouds may come like masks and veil the eye!”
And then I turned me to the lonely earth,
Seeing Alcides' poplars lulled to sleep
With ivy twined, whose slim embracing girth
Knotted them round, while close the tendrils creep.
“Alas!” I cried, “What? Thrive you in my dearth
Of joy, you vines? Nay, fool, will you not sweep,
You base-born rustic, these rooted loves asunder,
Slashing down boughs and trampling blossoms under?”
All slept secure. But then I knew at last
They rapt, my Lord, my precious bride away;
It sudden seemed the streamlets as they passed
Wept too and murmured a more troubled lay.
Within my hand I bore (how long outcast
From battle!) a sword in sheath of elder day;
I flung me on the tallest tree—amain
With stroke and blow I leveled it like grain.
Elvira had not suffered by the tree;
Ah no! The tree was arrogant and proud,
And looked upon the others pityingly;
With greatness such as this are giants endowed.
But in the town they say—and lie to me,
Since you are what you are—that you avowed
And open lover were of this my wife
And hold her here—you author of this strife.
“Base churls!” I cried, “What? Have you not respect?
Don Tello is my lord, glory and honor
Of all the house of Neira. Stay! Reflect
He is my sponsor, and would my wedding honor!”
Pity this truth, my lord, nor dare reject
My just complaint, to your and my dishonor.
Rather return with flashing eye and brand
Sancho his wife, Nuño his daughter's hand.
Don T ELLO. It grieves me sore, friend Sancho, to the heart,
To learn of such bold knavery, nor here
Shall any rustic dwell and scape the smart
Of vengeance, who takes or holds her, far or near.
Best you inquire and find what mad upstart,
Blinded with passion, by covert force, by fear,
Affronts us both with like contemptuous outrage.
Once he is known, I … I will assuage
Your hurt, and these base churls who flaunt my name
I will have whipped for their effrontery.
And go with God!
Sancho. My jealousy turns flame!
N UÑO. Sancho, hold, in God's name!
Sancho. Death, come set me free!
Don T ELLO. Find out these knaves who boldly smirch my fame
With black dishonor.
Sancho. But can such things be?
Don T ELLO. I know not where she lies. Show me your wife
And she is yours, upon Don Tello's life.
E LVIRA. He knows, my husband; Tello keeps me here
Hidden.
Sancho. My wife, my life, my good, my all!
Don T ELLO. So this is what you would contrive against me?
Sancho. Alas! In what sad state I pined for you!
N UÑO. Alas, my daughter! How you made me tremble!
My reason was clean gone!
Don T ELLO. Hold, rustics! Back!
Sancho. Let me but touch her hands; I am her husband.
Don T ELLO. Celio! Julio! What ho, my men!
Death to these peasants!
F ELICIANA. Brother, have pity; be less rough and hard.
Remember too that they are not to blame.
Don T ELLO. Had they been married, the impertinence were great.
Kill them!
Sancho. Yes, rather let me die than live,
However cruel death be!
E LVIRA. I lose the sense
Of life or death.
Sancho. Elvira and my all,
But listen; better I let myself be slain.
E LVIRA. I too shall know how still to guard my honor,
Although they strike me with a thousand deaths.
Don T ELLO. But is it possible they flaunt their loves
Before my face? Can such hot passion be?
Celio! Julio! What ho!
J ULIO. My lord …
Don T ELLO. Death! Beat them with clubs!
C ELIO. Death! Death! They die!
Don T ELLO. In vain your feeble plaints seek remedy
Against my rage. I had it well in mind
To send you back released, but such my fury
At these your brazen, base solicitations
All shameless shown, perforce you must be mine,
Or I not be the man I was in fine!
F ELICIANA. No, brother! I am here!
Don T ELLO. I'll force or kill her
F ELICIANA. How is it possible to set her free
From one who has outrun self-mastery?
J ULIO. This is the way rascals pay for effrontery.
C ELIO. Out of the palace!
S ERVANTS. Out!
Sancho. Yes, kill me, you squires! I have no sword myself.
N UÑO. My son, my fear is great lest this man will have your life, he is so turbulent and bold.
Sancho. What is left for me in life?
N UÑO. Fortune perchance may relent; she is quick to change so long as life itself endures.
Sancho. In God's name they shall not drive me from this threshold where I stand, although they strike me dead! Without Elvira I do not wish to live.
N UÑO. Live and you may yet find justice. These kingdoms have a king, and there is still a higher court of appeal, for you may petition heaven.
P ELAYO. Oh there you are!
Sancho. Who is here?
P ELAYO. Pelayo, and stuffed full with satisfaction. I come for a reward.
Sancho. Reward? How? At a time like this?
P ELAYO. I said a reward.
Sancho. For what, Pelayo, when I am dead already and Nuño is at the last gasp?
P ELAYO. I want a reward!
N UÑO. You know what this fool is.
P ELAYO. Well, I have found Elvira out …
Sancho. Ah, father! Then they have sent her back?
Speak, my Pelayo! What is it you say?
P ELAYO. The whole village is on tip-toe and everybody tells me that Don Tello has had her with him in his house since twelve o'clock last night.
Sancho. Curses on you and amen!
P ELAYO. They all think now that he will never want to give her up.
N UÑO. My son, we must find some remedy. Alfonso, King of Castile by right and virtue of his mighty deeds, now holds his court at León. He is a just and an upright judge, wherefore go seek him out and lay your wrongs before him, for I verily believe that he will do us justice.
Sancho. Alas! I very well know, Nuño, that Alfonso, King of Castile, is a complete and perfect prince, but how think you shall it be that a rude peasant like myself may enter his presence? What gallery of the palace shall I dare desecrate with my presumption? What turnkey will be found who will suffer my presence, Nuño? The doors are flung wide open there to brocades and rich trappings, to grave and stately retinues, and this is as it should be, as we ourselves must confess. But the doorkeepers, Nuño, permit the poor people only to gaze from without upon the gates and the caparisons and the arms, and even this must be from far off. I will go to León and I will make my way into the palace, and then you will see what marks they will imprint with the flat sides of their swords upon my shoulders. What? Present myself with petitions before the King? I tell you they will drop from his hand into oblivion. I shall come back having had sight of the ladies and of the noble gentlemen, of the church, the palace, the park, the stately buildings, and I fear I shall bring back with me besides a distaste for this dwelling among yew trees and among oak trees and live oaks, where the birds sing and we hear the dogs bark. No, Nuño, you do not advise me well.
N UÑO. I know truly, Sancho, that I do advise you well. Go then and speak with King Alfonso, for if you remain here, I am certain that they will take your life.
Sancho. I desire naught else, Nuño.
N UÑO. I have a chestnut horse which is so swift that he will wager his mane against the wings of the wind and lay his hoofs against the bridle. Take him and begone, and let Pelayo take the little mottled horse which daily goes out with him into the fields.
Sancho. To please you I obey.—Pelayo, will you come with me to court?
P ELAYO. And be so glad of the opportunity to see what I have never seen before, that I would stoop to kiss your feet, Sancho. They tell me that at court all the streets are laid with eggs and paved with rashers of bacon, and they greet strangers with a bounty so hearty that for all the world it is the same as if they had come out of Flanders or Italy or else Morocco. They say the court is one great bag wherein a man may draw naught but prizes and all the counters unite to spell fortune, whether they be black or white. For God's sake then let us go to court!
Sancho. Father, farewell! I go. And give me your blessing.
N UÑO. You have wisdom and discretion, son; that we know. Speak out boldly to the King.
Sancho. You will learn presently how bold I am.
Come.
N UÑO. Good-bye, Sancho.
Sancho. Good-bye, Elvira!
P ELAYO. And good-bye, pigs.
Don T ELLO. What? I shall not possess this woman's beauty?
F ELICIANA. Tello, in vain this passion to persist;
For such her grief, she weeps continually.
While you confine her to this lonely tower
How is it possible you should not see
The part of greater wisdom? Though her love
Were all for you your lot were yet disdain.
If you will treat her with cold cruelty,
How shall she love you well? Pray be advised;
'Tis simple folly to be harsh with those
To whom we turn for pity at the close.
Don T ELLO. Am I to suffer this most dire affront,
Seeing myself despised, when I am he
Who is most powerful in all the land,
Richest in goods and most magnificent?
F ELICIANA. Give it less thought, nor be so much cast down
For a poor peasant.
Don T ELLO. Ah, Feliciana!
You do not know what love is, nor have felt
Its rigor.
F ELICIANA. Patience, I say, until to-morrow;
And I will speak to her, and as I may
Soften this woman.
Don T ELLO. No, she is no woman;
A wild beast rather since she gives such pain.
Promise her silver, gold, and priceless gems,
Or what you will; tell her that I will give
A world of treasure. In presence of rich gifts
Women observe especial courtesy.
Say I will shower her with thank-offerings,
And say I will bestow on her a gown
That shall drain dry the gold from Milan town,
From her proud hair soft falling to her feet.
Tell her if she will remedy my pain
I will endow her with a farm and flocks,
For were she but my equal—
F ELICIANA. Is't possible
You talk like this?
Don T ELLO. Yes, sister, yes! My state,
My fortune ebbs, for either I must die
Or else enjoy her, once therewith for all
Ending my pain so grievous and so long.
F ELICIANA. I go to plead with her, though it be vain.
Don T ELLO. How so?
F ELICIANA. Because at least this much is plain—
There is no interest beneath the sun
By which an honest woman may be won.
Don T ELLO. Go then and quickly bring my hope relief;
For if my steadfast faith shall not achieve
The goal desired, the love and troth I bear
Shall be transformed to vengeance by despair!
K ING. While our decree is published and proclaimed
Unto Toledo, and due response returned
By our just judge and lord of Aragon
In Zaragoza resident, say, O Count,
Whether the soldiers and the suppliants
Be all despatched and learn if any stays
Who yet would speak with me?
C OUNT. None, Sire, remains
To wait your pleasure.
Don E NRIQUE. Propped up against the gate
I saw but now a poor Gallegan peasant,
And passing sad he seemed.
K ING. Now by my hand
Who would resist the poor? Enrique of Lara,
In your own person go bring him to our presence.
C OUNT. O virtue most heroical and rare!
Compassive pity and high clemency!
God-given model to the kings of air,
His laws observing by thy Majesty!
Don E NRIQUE. Put down your spears.
Sancho. Pelayo, place them here
Against the wall.
P ELAYO. You put your best foot first.
Sancho. Which is the King, Señor?
Don E NRIQUE. He lifts his hand
To his breast there.
Sancho. Right well indeed he may,
Content with all his works.—Fear not, Pelayo.
P ELAYO. These kings have in them a full strain of winter;
They make men shiver too all over.
Sancho. Señor
K ING. Speak, and be calm.
Sancho. Who holds within his grasp
The government of Spain …
K ING. Tell me your name
And whence you come.
Sancho. Grant me your hand to kiss,
For I would fain exalt this humble mouth
O Prince and Sovereign! Once let my lips,
Unworthy howsoe'er, approach that hand,
And I am eloquent.
K ING. You bathe it in your tears!
But for what cause?
Sancho. My eyes did wrong, to weep;
Yet since my lips give voice to their complaint
They would enforce it with a weight of woe
That should ensure, your hand set to the task,
The meting out of righteous chastisement
On one both mighty and my enemy.
K ING. Take courage, pray, and do not shed these tears;
Though holy pity most becomes my state
Yet you must know 'tis likewise mine to give
Its attribute to justice. Who does you wrong?
For he who wrongs the poor is never wise.
Sancho. Wrongs are like children, kings are fathers, Sire;
Then marvel not they pucker up their lips
In foolish grimaces, coming before them.
K ING. The man meseems is wise; before he speaks
He wins my sympathy.
Sancho. Sire and Señor,
I am hidalgo born, though humbly poor,
Such is the mutability of fate,
Whose fickle changes sallied hand in hand
Forth with me from the warmth of my first cradle.
The which remembered, I sought an equal mate
In holy wedlock; but since that man errs
Who is forgetful of just obligation,
And ever errs, I made my purpose known
Unto the lord of all that country round,
By name and right Don Tello of Neira,
Less moved by art than frankness in the act,
Seeking his license. Freely he gave it me
And as my sponsor stands before the altar.
But love, which drives the wisest men to folly,
Blinded his sight and fired his heart to lust
Of my belovèd peasant girl, Señor.
He would not have us wed, and that same night
With armèd force he ravished her away,
Nor left thereafter life to me to live
Nor shadow of protection to invoke
This side of you and heaven, to whose bench
And sacred throne of justice I appeal;
For having begged her back with tears, Señor,
Her father and I, so fierce was his response
That to our breasts they bared their naked swords,
And though hidalgos and high born, foul blows
With staves of oak they rained upon our shoulders.
K ING. Count——
C OUNT. Señor——
K ING. Bring pen and paper on the moment.
A chair here where I stand.
C OUNT. All is prepared.
Sancho. His matchless worth amazes and strikes dumb.—
I spoke to the King, Pelayo.
P ELAYO. By my jacket,
A good man!
Sancho. Who would be so hard of heart
As to refuse the poor?
P ELAYO. The Kings of Spain
Must all be angels.
Sancho. Do you not see them dressed
Like ordinary men?
P ELAYO. Another sort
Was one that Tello had in tapestry,
With blotchy face and hair all fallen down
About his knees; a staff he held in hand
And had a helmet like a lantern on
Atop there with his crown, which was all gold,
With a band around his chin like Turk or Moor.
I asked a page to tell me who he was—
He seemed to be a celebrated man—
Because I took a fancy to his clothes.
And he replied that he was called King Ball.
Sancho. You fool! What he said was King Saul.
P ELAYO. No, Ball—
Ball, trying to get rid of Badill.
Sancho. Nonsense!
Badill was David, fool, his son-in-law.
P ELAYO. I know all that. The priest was preaching once
Down in the church, how he had hit him one
Elat on the crown, with one of Moses' tears,
Which was a hard stone, and killed the giant, the liar.
Sancho. Goliath! You are a fool.
P ELAYO. The priest said so.
K ING. Count, seal this letter.—What is your name, good man?
Sancho. My name is Sancho, Sire, who at your feet
Begs justice of your holy clemency
On one, vaunting in power, grown insolent,
Who rapt from me my true and lawful wife,
And would therewith deprive me of my life,
Did I not flee.
K ING. Can such a tyrant breathe
In all Galicia?
Sancho. So famed is he
That from the margin of those river glades
Unto the Roman Tower of Hercules,
He is obeyed. Once let his ire be roused
Against a man, then heaven succor him.
He makes and cancels laws, for such the state
Of haughty noblemen, who dwell in pride
And far removed from Kings.
C OUNT. The letter's sealed.
K ING. Which superscribe to Tello of Neira.
Sancho. O Sire, you have cut down the sword which hung
Even above my neck!
K ING. Give him this letter;
He will return to you forthwith your wife.
Sancho. Can greater favor be, even at your hand?
K ING. You come afoot?
Sancho. No, Sire, upon two horses,
Pelayo and myself.
P ELAYO. We galloped like the wind
Or even faster. The fact is, though, that mine
Has some abominable, beastly tricks;
You scarcely mount him but he down and rolls
Either in sand or else straight in the river,
And runs besides like all profanity
And eats like a student. When he sees an inn
He either goes in or stops still instanter.
K ING. You are a likely knave.
P ELAYO. I am one, Sire,
Who left his native land for sight of you.
K ING. And what is your complaint?
P ELAYO. Sire, of that horse.
K ING. Have you, I say, a present cause of trouble?
P ELAYO. Yes, hunger; if the kitchen's hereabouts …
K ING. But is there nothing of the garniture
Upon these walls, to which you would incline,
Bearing it home?
P ELAYO. I have no place to put it;
Better send it to Don Tello. He, belike,
Has three or four of the same kind already.
K ING. A most amusing knave!—What may you be
In your own country when you are at home?
P ELAYO. I drive, Señor, all over the mountain side;
I am my master's coachman.
K ING. Are there coaches?
What? In that land?
P ELAYO. Indeed not! So I drive
His pigs.
K ING. How curious a pair that land has joined,
One being so wise, the other such a fool!
Accept this gift.
P ELAYO. Oh it is nothing, Sire!
K ING. No take them; they are doubloons.
You take the letter.
And go in happy hour.
Sancho. May heaven guard you.
P ELAYO. Hello! I took them.
Sancho. Money?
P ELAYO. Plenty of it too.
Sancho. Ah, my Elvira! Fortune here is writ
Upon these papers. In my hand I bear,
Prompted by hope, deliverance of thy beauty!
C ELIO. In accordance with your commands I have inquired about the churl, and I had this information under threats, although Nuño himself refused to answer. He is not in the valley; he has been absent some days.
Don T ELLO. Most strange behavior!
C ELIO. They tell me that he has gone to León.
Don T ELLO. To León?
C ELIO. And Pelayo keeps him company.
Don T ELLO. To what end?
C ELIO. To speak with the King.
Don T ELLO. But for what purpose? He is not Elvira's husband, and therefore I have not done him wrong. Had Nuño made the complaint he might well have been excused. But Sancho!
C ELIO. I had it from the shepherds who tend your flocks. As the lad has wit in his head, my Lord, and as he is in love, in truth this daring does not surprise me.
Don T ELLO. Is it no more than daring for him to present himself to speak with the King of Castile?
C ELIO. Alfonso was reared in Galicia at the hands of Count Don Pedro de Andrada, and for that reason they say he will never close his door to any Gallegan, though never so humble his birth.
Don T ELLO. See who knocks, Celio. What? Are there no pages in my hall?
C ELIO. So help me God, my lord, but it is Sancho, the very churl of whom we spoke but now!
Don T ELLO. Can greater presumption be?
C ELIO. May you live many years to learn how much I love you!
Don T ELLO. Bid him come in; I will receive him here.
Sancho. Great my Lord, I cast myself before your feet.
Don T ELLO. Where have you been, Sancho? Some days have passed since last you came into my presence.
Sancho. Rather they seemed years to me. My Lord, when I found how you persisted in the passion where with you were consumed—or call it love for my Elvira—I betook me to appeal to the King of Castile, who is the supreme and highest judge and who has the power to right all wrongs.
Don T ELLO. So? And what, pray, did you tell him of me?
Sancho. I told him that at the moment of my marriage you stole my wife away.
Don T ELLO. Your wife? You lie, base knave! How?
Did the priest come in, who was there that night?
Sancho. No, my Lord, but he was advised that we both had given consent.
Don T ELLO. If he never joined your hands, how then can it be marriage?
Sancho. I have not come to discuss whether or not it be marriage. The King has granted me this letter which is writ in his own hand.
Don T ELLO. I shake with rage.
“Upon receipt of this you will deliver up to this poor peasant the woman whom you have taken from him, without word of reply; remember that the loyal vassal may be known, however distant he may be from his King, and that Kings are never distant when it is their duty to punish evil. The King. ”
Man! What is this that you have done?
Sancho. Señor, I bring this letter, given me by the King.
Don T ELLO. By God, I am astonished at my own for bearance! Do you think, you hind, that by this in solence you shall teach me fear in my own despite? Do you know who I am?
Sancho. I do, my Lord; and because I am assured of your nobility, I have brought this letter, not as you suppose to do you displeasure, but as a right friendly missive from my Lord of Castile, who is our King, that you may restore to me my wife.
Don T ELLO. Then out of respect to this same letter, know that you and this miserable clown who comes with you——
P ELAYO. Saint Blas! Saint Paul!
Don T ELLO. I do not string you up here to the merlons of the battlements.
P ELAYO. This not being my saint's day, by all the saints though altogether it has a devilish bad look for saints!
Don T ELLO. Out of my palace on the instant, and look you linger not within my lands, or I will have you done to death with clubs! You knaves, you hinds, you low, earthy rascals of the clay! What? To come to me!
P ELAYO. He is right too, and we were great fools to put him to this displeasure.
Don T ELLO. If I have taken your wife, you knave, know I am who I am, and I reign here and here I do my will as the King does his in his Castile. My forebears never owed this land to him—they won it from the Moors.
P ELAYO. Yes, they won it from the Moors and from the Christians too, and you don't owe a thing to the King.
Don T ELLO. I am who I am …
P ELAYO. Saint Macarius!
Don T ELLO. That is the reason I do not take vengeance on you by my own hand. What? Give up Elvira! What is he to Elvira? Kill them, I say! But no—let them go! It is an unworthy thing in an hidalgo to stain his sword with peasants' blood!
P ELAYO. No, don't you do it, on your life!
Sancho. Now what do you say?
P ELAYO. I say out of Galicia.
Sancho. My brain whirls round when I consider that this fellow refuses to obey his King because he has three or four henchmen gathered here about him. For so help me God——
P ELAYO. No, contain yourself, Sancho. It is good advice—and always was—never permit yourself a quarrel with a strong man and make no friendships among servants.
Sancho . Let us return to León.
P ELAYO . Well, I have the doubloons yet which the King gave me. So come on then.
Sancho . I shall report to him what has happened. Ah, Elvira! Who now remains to bring you succor? Fly, fly to her, my sighs, and until I come again, tell her I die of love!
P ELAYO. Better hurry, Sancho, for this fellow has not yet possessed Elvira.
Sancho . How do you know, Pelayo?
P ELAYO . Because he would have given her back once he had done his will.
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