appears, as the stage-direction says, “like a phantom.”  In a helmet, with a horsehair tail, and a large white cloak, he does look extremely like the Ghost in Hamlet, and which is, perhaps, why the Count, under the impression that he is an apparition from some other Opera, allows him to Walk off with Leonora under his very nose.  Swords are drawn—­with the usual result of bringing down the Curtain.

[Illustration:  “Azucena,” or, “My pretty Chain!”]

ACT III.  SCENE 1.—­Soldiers discovered carousing, as wildly as is possible on four gilded cruets, and a dozen goblets. Azucena is brought before the Count, and manacled.  Operatic handcuffs—­a most humane contrivance—­with long links, to permit of the freest facilities for entreaty and imprecation.  Soldiers, who have been called to arms, but stayed, from a natural curiosity to hear what the Conte di Luna had to say to the Gipsy, go off, as she is led away to prison, with a sense that they have seen all there is to be seen, and a vague recollection that there is some fighting to be done somewhere.

SCENE 2.—­Leonora, and Manrico are about to be married; everything prepared—­four apathetic bridesmaids, and the four acolytes in tights—­who have possibly been kindly lent by the Convent for the occasion—­in a vacuous row at the back of the scene.  Fancy Manrico has forgotten to give them the usual initial brooches, and they feel the wedding is a poky affair, and take no interest in it. Leonora herself is in low spirits—­seems to miss the confidant, and to be oppressed with a misgiving that the wedding is not destined to come off.  Misgivings on the stage are never thrown away—­the wedding is interrupted immediately by a crowd of men, in small sugar-loaf caps, who carry the bridegroom off to fight—­whereupon, of course, the Curtain falls.

[Illustration:  Luna and the Star of the Evening.]

ACT IV.  SCENE 1.—­Leonora listening outside the tower in which Manrico is being tortured, after having been taken prisoner in a combat during the entr’acte.  Here a confidant might have comforted her considerably by representing that they couldn’t be torturing the poor Troubadour so very seriously so long as he is able to take part in a duet—­but unfortunately Leonora seems to have discharged the confidant after the Second Act—­an error of judgment on her part, for she is certainly incapable of taking care of herself.  A cool-headed, sensible confidant, for instance, would have taken care that the bargain with the Conte di Luna was conceived and carried out in a more business-like spirit.

“Now do be careful,” she would have said.  “Make sure that the Count keeps his word before you break yours.  Don’t go and see Manrico yourself—­it can do no good, and will only harrow you!  If you really must go, don’t take a quick poison first—­or you’ll die in his dungeon, and spoil the whole thing!” Which is just what Leonora—­like the impulsive operatic heroine she is—­proceeds to do, and is cruelly misunderstood by Manrico, in consequence, besides hastening his doom by disappointing the Count, whose irritation was only natural, and pardonable, under the circumstances.