Vict.  Marry, is that all? 
Farewell; I am in haste.  Farewell, Don Carlos. 
Thou sayest I should be jealous?

Hyp.  Ay, in truth
I fear there is reason.  Be upon thy guard. 
I hear it whispered that the Count of Lara
Lays siege to the same citadel.

Vict.  Indeed! 
Then he will have his labor for his pains.

Hyp.  He does not think so, and Don Carlos tells me
He boasts of his success.

  Vict.  How’s this, Don Carlos?

Don.  C. Some hints of it I heard from his own lips. 
He spoke but lightly of the lady’s virtue,
As a gay man might speak.

  Vict.  Death and damnation! 

I’ll cut his lying tongue out of his mouth, And throw it to my dog!  But no, no, no!  This cannot be.  You jest, indeed you jest.  Trifle with me no more.  For otherwise We are no longer friends.  And so, fare well!
                   [Exit.

  Hyp.  Now what a coil is here!  The Avenging Child

Hunting the traitor Quadros to his death, And the Moor Calaynos, when he rode
To Paris for the ears of Oliver,
Were nothing to him!  O hot-headed youth! 
But come; we will not follow.  Let us join
The crowd that pours into the Prado.  There We shall find merrier company; I see The Marialonzos and the Almavivas,
And fifty fans, that beckon me already.
                    [Exeunt.

Scene IV. —­ Preciosa’s chamber.  She is sitting, with a book in her hand, near a table, on which are flowers.  A bird singing in its cage.  The count of Lara enters behind unperceived.

  Prec. (reads). 
     All are sleeping, weary heart! 
     Thou, thou only sleepless art!

Heigho!  I wish Victorian were here. 
I know not what it is makes me so restless!

(The bird sings.)

Thou little prisoner with thy motley coat,
That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon singest,
Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee,
I have a gentle jailer.  Lack-a-day!

     All are sleeping, weary heart! 
     Thou, thou only sleepless art! 
     All this throbbing, all this aching,
     Evermore shall keep thee waking,
     For a heart in sorrow breaking
     Thinketh ever of its smart!

Thou speakest truly, poet! and methinks
More hearts are breaking in this world of ours
Than one would say.  In distant villages
And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted
The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage
Scattered them in their flight, do they take root,
And grow in silence, and in silence perish. 
Who hears the falling of the forest leaf? 
Or who takes note of every flower that dies? 
Heigho!  I wish Victorian would come. 
Dolores!

(Turns to lay down her boot and perceives the count.)