Chimene. My honor is at stake; I must avenge myself; and, however the desires of love may beguile us, all excuse [for not doing one’s duty] is disgraceful to [i.e. in the estimation of] noble-minded souls.

Elvira. But you love Rodrigo—­he cannot offend you.

Chimene. I confess it.

Elvira. After all, what then do you intend to do?

Chimene. To preserve my honor and to end my sorrow; to pursue him, to destroy him, and to die after him.

Scene IV.—­DON RODRIGO, CHIMENE, and ELVIRA.

Don Rodrigo. Well then, without giving you the trouble of pursuing me, secure for yourself the honor of preventing me from living.

Chimene. Elvira, where are we, and what do I see?  Rodrigo in my house!  Rodrigo before me!

Don Rodrigo. Spare not my blood; enjoy [lit. taste], without resistance, the pleasure of my destruction and of your vengeance.

Chimene. Alas!

Don Rodrigo. Listen to me.

Chimene. I am dying.

Don Rodrigo. One moment.

Chimene. Go, let me die!

Don Rodrigo. Four words only; afterwards reply to me only with this sword!

Chimene. What! still imbrued with the blood of my father!

Don Rodrigo. My Chimene.

Chimene. Remove from my sight this hateful object, which brings as a reproach before mine eyes thy crime and thy existence.

Don Rodrigo. Look on it rather to excite thy hatred, to increase thy wrath and to hasten my doom.

Chimene. It is dyed with my [father’s] blood!

Don Rodrigo. Plunge it in mine, and cause it thus to lose the death-stain of thine own.

Chimene. Ah! what cruelty, which all in one day slays the father by the sword [itself], and the daughter by the sight of it!  Remove this object, I cannot endure it; thou wished me to listen to thee, and thou causest me to die!

Don Rodrigo. I do what thou wishest, but without abandoning the desire of ending by thy hands my lamentable life; for, in fine, do not expect [even] from my affection a dastardly repentance of a justifiable [lit. good] action.  The irreparable effect of a too hasty excitement dishonored my father and covered me with shame.  Thou knowest how a blow affects a man of courage.  I shared in the insult, I sought out its author, I saw him, I avenged my honor and my father; I would do it again if I had it to do.  Not that, indeed, my passion did not long struggle for thee against my father and myself; judge of its power—­under such an insult, I was able to deliberate whether I should take vengeance for it!  Compelled to displease thee or to endure an affront, I thought that in its turn my arm was too prompt [to strike]; I accused myself of too much impetuosity, and thy loveliness, without doubt, would have turned