Ha!

  Lara.  Senora, pardon me.

  Prec.  How’s this?  Dolores!

  Lara.  Pardon me—­

  Prec.  Dolores!

Lara.  Be not alarmed; I found no one in waiting. 
If I have been too bold—­

Prec. (turning her back upon him).  You are too bold! 
Retire! retire, and leave me!

Lara.  My dear lady,
First hear me!  I beseech you, let me speak! 
’T is for your good I come.

Prec. (turning toward him with indignation).  Begone! begone! 
You are the Count of Lara, but your deeds
Would make the statues of your ancestors
Blush on their tombs!  Is it Castilian honor,
Is it Castilian pride, to steal in here
Upon a friendless girl, to do her wrong? 
O shame! shame! shame! that you, a nobleman,
Should be so little noble in your thoughts
As to send jewels here to win my love,
And think to buy my honor with your gold! 
I have no words to tell you how I scorn you! 
Begone!  The sight of you is hateful to me! 
Begone, I say!

  Lara.  Be calm; I will not harm you.

  Prec.  Because you dare not.

Lara.  I dare anything! 
Therefore beware!  You are deceived in me. 
In this false world, we do not always know
Who are our friends and who our enemies. 
We all have enemies, and all need friends. 
Even you, fair Preciosa, here at court
Have foes, who seek to wrong you.

Prec.  If to this
I owe the honor of the present visit,
You might have spared the coming.  Raving spoken,
Once more I beg you, leave me to myself.

Lara.  I thought it but a friendly part to tell you
What strange reports are current here in town. 
For my own self, I do not credit them;
But there are many who, not knowing you,
Will lend a readier ear.

Prec.  There was no need
That you should take upon yourself the duty
Of telling me these tales.

Lara.  Malicious tongues
Are ever busy with your name.

Prec.  Alas! 
I’ve no protectors.  I am a poor girl,
Exposed to insults and unfeeling jests. 
They wound me, yet I cannot shield myself. 
I give no cause for these reports.  I live
Retired; am visited by none.

Lara.  By none? 
O, then, indeed, you are much wronged!

  Prec.  How mean you?

Lara.  Nay, nay; I will not wound your gentle soul
By the report of idle tales.

Prec.  Speak out! 
What are these idle tales?  You need not spare me.

Lara.  I will deal frankly with you.  Pardon me
This window, as I think, looks toward the street,
And this into the Prado, does it not? 
In yon high house, beyond the garden wall,—­
You see the roof there just above the trees,—­
There lives a friend, who told me yesterday,
That on a certain night,—­be not offended
If I too plainly speak,—­he saw a man
Climb to your chamber window.  You are silent! 
I would not blame you, being young and fair—­