(Signal from the garden.)

  Dol. (from the window).  Who’s there?

  Voice (from below).  A friend.

  Dol.  I will undo the door.  Wait till I come.

Prec.  I must go hence.  I pray you do not harm me! 
Shame! shame! to treat a feeble woman thus! 
Be you but kind, I will do all things for you. 
I’m ready now,—­give me my castanets. 
Where is Victorian?  Oh, those hateful lamps! 
They glare upon me like an evil eye. 
I cannot stay.  Hark! how they mock at me! 
They hiss at me like serpents!  Save me! save me!

(She wakes.)

How late is it, Dolores?

  Dol.  It is midnight.

  Prec.  We must be patient.  Smooth this pillow for me.

(She sleeps again.  Noise from the garden, and voices.)

  Voice.  Muera!

  Another Voice.  O villains! villains!

  Lara.  So! have at you!

  Voice.  Take that!

  Lara.  O, I am wounded!

  Dol. (shutting the window).  Jesu Maria!

ACT III.

Scene I. —­ A cross-road through a wood.  In the background a distant village spire.  Victorian and Hypolito, as travelling students, with guitars, sitting under the trees.  Hypolito plays and sings.

Song.

     Ah, Love! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love! 
     Enemy
Of all that mankind may not rue! 
     Most untrue
To him who keeps most faith with thee. 
     Woe is me! 
The falcon has the eyes of the dove. 
     Ah, Love! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love!

Vict.  Yes, Love is ever busy with his shuttle,
Is ever weaving into life’s dull warp
Bright, gorgeous flowers and scenes Arcadian;
Hanging our gloomy prison-house about
With tapestries, that make its walls dilate
In never-ending vistas of delight.

Hyp.  Thinking to walk in those Arcadian pastures,
Thou hast run thy noble head against the wall.

Song (continued).

     Thy deceits
Give us clearly to comprehend,
     Whither tend
All thy pleasures, all thy sweets! 
     They are cheats,
Thorns below and flowers above. 
     Ah, Love! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love!

  Vict.  A very pretty song.  I thank thee for it.

  Hyp.  It suits thy case.

Vict.  Indeed, I think it does. 
What wise man wrote it?

  Hyp.  Lopez Maldonado.

  Vict.  In truth, a pretty song.

Hyp.  With much truth in it. 
I hope thou wilt profit by it; and in earnest
Try to forget this lady of thy love.