Prec.  No; never from my hand
Shall that be taken!

Vict.  Why, ’t is but a ring. 
I’ll give it back to you; or, if I keep it,
Will give you gold to buy you twenty such.

  Prec.  Why would you have this ring?

Vict.  A traveller’s fancy,
A whim, and nothing more.  I would fain keep it
As a memento of the Gypsy camp
In Guadarrama, and the fortune-teller
Who sent me back to wed a widowed maid. 
Pray, let me have the ring.

Prec.  No, never! never! 
I will not part with it, even when I die;
But bid my nurse fold my pale fingers thus,
That it may not fall from them.  ’T is a token
Of a beloved friend, who is no more.

  Vict.  How? dead?

Prec.  Yes; dead to me; and worse than dead. 
He is estranged!  And yet I keep this ring. 
I will rise with it from my grave hereafter,
To prove to him that I was never false.

Vict. (aside).  Be still, my swelling heart! one moment, still! 
Why, ’t is the folly of a love-sick girl. 
Come, give it me, or I will say ’t is mine,
And that you stole it.

Prec.  O, you will not dare
To utter such a falsehood!

Vict.  I not dare? 
Look in my face, and say if there is aught
I have not dared, I would not dare for thee!

(She rushes into his arms.)

Prec.  ’T is thou! ’t is thou!  Yes; yes; my heart’s elected! 
My dearest-dear Victorian! my soul’s heaven! 
Where hast thou been so long?  Why didst thou leave me?

Vict.  Ask me not now, my dearest Preciosa. 
Let me forget we ever have been parted!

  Prec.  Hadst thou not come—­

  Vict.  I pray thee, do not chide me!

  Prec.  I should have perished here among these Gypsies.

Vict.  Forgive me, sweet! for what I made thee suffer. 
Think’st thou this heart could feel a moment’s joy,
Thou being absent?  O, believe it not! 
Indeed, since that sad hour I have not slept,
For thinking of the wrong I did to thee
Dost thou forgive me?  Say, wilt thou forgive me?

Prec.  I have forgiven thee.  Ere those words of anger
Were in the book of Heaven writ down against thee,
I had forgiven thee.

Vict.  I’m the veriest fool
That walks the earth, to have believed thee false. 
It was the Count of Lara—­

Prec.  That bad man
Has worked me harm enough.  Hast thou not heard—­

Vict.  I have heard all.  And yet speak on, speak on! 
Let me but hear thy voice, and I am happy;
For every tone, like some sweet incantation,
Calls up the buried past to plead for me. 
Speak, my beloved, speak into my heart,
Whatever fills and agitates thine own.

(They walk aside.)

Hyp.  All gentle quarrels in the pastoral poets,
All passionate love scenes in the best romances,
All chaste embraces on the public stage,
All soft adventures, which the liberal stars
Have winked at, as the natural course of things,
Have been surpassed here by my friend, the student,
And this sweet Gypsy lass, fair Preciosa!