Macias was the central figure of the second act.  In the great scene of explanation between himself and Elvira, after he had forced his way into her apartment, his fury of jealous sarcasm, broken by flashes of the old absolute trust, of the old tender worship, had been finely conceived, and was well rendered by the promising young actor, whom Wallace had himself chosen for the part, Elvira, overwhelmed by the scorn and despair of her lover, and, conscious of the treachery which has separated them, is yet full of a blind resolve to play the part she has assumed to the bitter end, to save her own name and her father’s from dishonour, and to interpose the irrevocable barrier of her marriage vow between herself and Macias.  Suddenly they are interrupted by the approach of the Duke and of Fernan Perez.  Elvira throws herself between her husband and her lover, and, having captured the sword of Macias, hands it to the Duke.  Macias is arrested after a tumultuous scene, and is led away, shaking off Elvira’s efforts to save him with bitter contempt, and breaking loose from her with the prophecy that in every joy of the future and every incident of her wedded life, the spectre of his murdered love will rise before her, and ‘every echo and every breeze repeat the fatal name, Macias.’

During the rapid give and take of this trying scene Kendal saw with a kind of incredulous admiration that Isabel Bretherton never once lost herself, that every gesture was true, every word struck home.  Her extraordinary grace, her marvellous beauty were all subordinated to, forgotten almost in the supreme human passion speaking through her.  Macias, in the height of his despair while he was still alone with her, had flung her his sword, declaring that he would go forth and seek his death an unarmed and defenceless man.  Then, when he becomes conscious of the approach of his rival, the soldier’s instinct revives in him; he calls for his sword; she refuses it, and he makes a threatening step towards her.

’Mac.  My sword, Elvira.

Elvira.  Never!

Beatriz.  Ah! they are here.  It is too late!

Elvira.  Go!  No blood shall flow for me.  Come no nearer—­or I sheathe it in this breast.’

All the desperate energy of a loving woman driven to bay was in her attitude as she repelled Macias, whereas in the agony of her last clinging appeal to him, as his guards lead him off, every trace of her momentary heroism had died away.  Faint and trembling, recoiling from every harsh word of his as from a blow, she had followed him towards the door, and in her straining eyes and seeking, outstretched hands as she watched him disappear, there was a pathos so true, so poignant, that it laid a spell upon the audience, and the curtain fell amid a breathless silence, which made the roar that almost instantly followed doubly noticeable.