FEDALMA.

                                  No! 

It shall not be that you did aught alone. 
For when we loved I willed to reign in you,
And I was jealous even of the day
If it could gladden you apart from me.

And so, it must be that I shared each deed
Our love was root of.

DON SILVA.

Dear! you share the woe—­
Nay, the worst part of vengeance fell on you.

FEDALMA.

Vengeance!  She does but sweep us with her skirts. 
She takes large space, and lies a baleful light
Revolving with long years—­sees children’s children,
Blights them in their prime.  Oh, if two lovers leane
To breathe one air and spread a pestilence,
They would but lie two livid victims dead
Amid the city of the dying.  We
With our poor petty lives have strangled one
That ages watch for vainly.

DON SILVA.

                               Deep despair

Fills all your tones as with slow agony. 
Speak words that narrow anguish to some shape: 
Tell me what dread is close before you?

FEDALMA.

        
                               None. 

No dread, but clear assurance of the end. 
My father held within his mighty frame
A people’s life:  great futures died with him
Never to rise, until the time shall ripe
Some other hero with the will to save
The outcast Zincali.

DON SILVA.

                        And yet their shout—­

I heard it—­sounded as the plenteous rush
Of full-fed sources, shaking their wild souls
With power that promised sway.

FEDALMA.

                                Ah yes, that shout

Came from full hearts:  they meant obedience. 
But they are orphaned:  their poor childish feet
Are vagabond in spite of love, and stray
Forgetful after little lures.  For me—­
I am but as the funeral urn that bears
The ashes of a leader.

DON SILVA.

                           O great God! 

What am I but a miserable brand
Lit by mysterious wrath?  I lie cast down
A blackened branch upon the desolate ground. 
Where once I kindled ruin.  I shall drink
No cup of purest water but will taste
Bitter with thy lone hopelessness, Fedalma.

FEDALMA.

Nay, Silva, think of me as one who sees
A light serene and strong on one sole path
Which she will tread till death... 
He trusted me, and I will keep his trust: 
My life shall be its temple.  I will plant
His sacred hope within the sanctuary
And die its priestess—­though I die alone,
A hoary woman on the altar-step,
Cold ’mid cold ashes.  That is my chief good. 
The deepest hunger of a faithful heart
Is faithfulness.  Wish me naught else.  And you—­
You too will live....