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Thy sire and I will crush the snake !
He kiss'd her forehead as he spake,
And Geraldine in maiden wise,
Casting down her large bright eyes,
With blushing cheek and courtesy fine
She turn'd her from Sir Leoline;
Softly gathering up her train,
That o'er her right arm fell again;
And folded her arms across her chest,
And couch'd her head upon her breast,
And look'd askance at Christabel--
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!

A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy,
And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head,
Each slırunk up to a serpent's eye,

And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread,
At Christabel she look'd askance:-
One moment-and the sight was fled!
But Christabel, in dizzy trance
Stumbling on the unsteady ground,
Shudder'd aloud, with a hissing sound;
And Geraldine again turn'd round,
And like a thing, that sought relief,
Full of wonder and full of grief,
She roll'd her large bright eyes divine
Wildly on Sir Leoline.

The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone,
She nothing sees-no sight but one!
The maid, devoid of guile and sin,
I know not how, in fearful wise
So deeply had she drunken in
That look, those shrunken serpent eyes,
That all her features were resigned
To this sole image in her mind:

And passively did imitate

That look of dull and treacherous hate!
And thus she stood, in dizzy trance,

Still picturing that look askance
With forced unconscious sympathy

Full before her father's view-

As far as such a look could be,
In eyes so innocent and blue.
And when the trance was o'er, the maid
Paused awhile, and inly pray'd:
Then falling at the Baron's feet,
• By my mother's soul do I entreat
That thou this woman send away!»
She said: and more she could not say;
For what she knew she could not tell,
O'er-master'd by the mighty spell.

Why is thy cheek so wan and wild,
Sir Leoline? Thy only child
Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride,
So fair, so innocent, so mild;

The same, for whom thy lady died.
O by the pangs of her dear mother,
Think thou no evil of thy child!
For her, and thee, and for no other,
She pray'd the moment ere she died;
Pray'd that the babe for whom she died
Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride!
That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled,

Sir Leoline!

And wouldst thou wrong thy only child, Her child and thine?

Within the Baron's heart and brain
If thoughts like these had any share,
They only swell'd his rage and pain,
And did but work confusion there.
Ilis heart was cleft with pain and rage,
His cheeks they quiver'd, his eyes were wild,
Dishonour'd thus in his old age;
Dishonour'd by his only child,
And all his hospitality

To the insulted daughter of his friend
By more than woman's jealousy
Brought thus to a disgraceful end-
He roll'd his eye with stern regard
Upon the gentle minstrel bard,
And said in tones abrupt, austere,
Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here?
I bade thee hence! The bard obey'd;
And, turning from his own sweet maid,
The aged knight, Sir Leoline,
Led forth the lady Geraldine!

THE CONCLUSION TO PART II.

A LITTLE child, a limber elf,
Singing, dancing to itself,

A fairy thing with red round cheeks
That always finds, and never seeks,
Makes such a vision to the sight
As fills a father's eyes with light;
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast
Upon his heart, that he at last

Must needs express his love's excess
With words of unmeant bitterness,
Perhaps 't is pretty to force together
Thoughts so all unlike each other;
To mutter and mock a broken charm,
To dally with wrong that does no harm.
Perhaps 't is tender too and pretty
At each wild word to feel within
A sweet recoil of love and pity.
And what, if in a world of sin
(O sorrow and shame should this be true)!
Such giddiness of heart and brain
Comes seldom save from rage and pain,
So talks as it 's most used to do.

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ALVAR.

A portrait which she had procured by stealth
(For even then it seems her heart foreboded
Or knew Ordonio's moody rivalry),

A portrait of herself with thrilling hand
She tied around my neck, conjuring me
With earnest prayers, that I would keep it sacred
To my own knowledge: nor did she desist,
Till she had won a solemn promise from me,
That (save my own) no eye should e'er behold it
Till my return. Yet this the assassin knew,
Knew that which none but she could have disclosed.

ZULIMEZ.

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A damning proof!

ALVAR.

My own life wearied me!

And but for the imperative Voice within,

With mine own hand I had thrown off the burthen.

That Voice, which quell'd me, calm'd me and I sought
The Belgic states: there join'd the better cause;
And there too fought as one that courted death!
Wounded, I fell among the dead and dying,
In death-like trance: a long imprisonment follow'd.
The fulness of my anguish by degrees
Waned to a meditative melancholy;

And still, the more I mused, my soul became
More doubtful, more perplex'd; and still Teresa,
Night after night, she visited my sleep,
Now as a saintly sufferer, wan and tearful,
Now as a saint in glory beckoning to me!
Yes, still, as in contempt of proof and reason,
I cherish the fond faith that she is guiltless!
Hear then my fix'd resolve: I'll linger here
In the disguise of a Moresco chieftain.-
The Moorish robes?-

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Enter TERESA and VALDEZ.

TERESA.

I hold Ordonio dear; he is your son And Alvar's brother.

VALDEZ.

Love him for himself,

Nor make the living wretched for the dead.

TERESA.

I mourn that you should plead in vain, Lord Valdez; But heaven hath heard my vow, and I remain Faithful to Alvar, be he dead or living.

VALDEZ.

Heaven knows with what delight I saw your loves,
And could my heart's blood give him back to thee
I would die smiling. But these are idle thoughts!
Thy dying father comes upon my soul

With that same look, with which he gave thee to me;
I held thee in my arms a powerless babe,
While thy poor mother with a mute entreaty
Fix'd her faint eyes on mine. Ah not for this,
That I should let thee feed thy soul with gloom,
And with slow anguish wear away thy life,

The victim of a useless constancy.

I must not see thee wretched.

TERESA.

There are woes

Ill barter'd for the garishness of joy!

If it be wretched with an untired eye

To watch those skiey tints, and this green ocean;

Or in the sultry hour beneath some rock,

My hair dishevell'd by the pleasant sea-breeze,

To shape sweet visions, and live o'er again

All past hours of delight! If it be wretched

To watch some bark, and fancy Alvar there,
To go through each minutest circumstance
Of the blest meeting, and to frame adventures
Most terrible and strange, and hear him tell them;
(As once I knew a crazy Moorish maid
Who drest her in her buried lover's clothes,
And o'er the smooth spring in the mountain cleft
Hung with her lute, and play'd the self-same tune
He used to play, and listen'd to the shadow
Herself had made) - if this be wretchedness,
And if indeed it be a wretched thing

To trick out mine own death-bed, and imagine
That I had died, died just ere his return!
Then see him listening to my constancy,
Or hover round, as he at midnight oft

Here Valdez bends back, and smiles at her wildness, which Teresa noticing, checks her enthusiasm, and in a soothing halfplayful tone and manner, apologizes for her fancy, by the little tale in the parenthesis.

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My lord, on strong suspicion of relapse
To his false creed, so recently abjured,
The secret servants of the inquisition

Have seized her husband, and at my command
To the supreme tribunal would have led him,
But that he made appeal to you, my lord,
As surety for his soundness in the faith.
Though lessen'd by experience what small trust
The asseverations of these Moors deserve,
Yet still the deference to Ordonio's name,

Nor less the wish to prove, with what high honour
The Holy Church regards her faithful soldiers,
Thus far prevail'd with me that--

ORDONIO.

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Three years ago, three years this very week, You left him at Almeria.

MONVIEDRO.

Palpably false!
This very week, three years ago, my lord
(You needs must recollect it by your wound),
You were at sea, and there engaged the pirates,
The murderers doubtless of your brother Alvar!

[TERESA looks at MONVIEDRO with disgust and
horror. ORDONIO's appearance to be collected
from what follows.

MONVIEDRO (to VALDEZ, and pointing at ORDONIO). What! is he ill, my lord? how strange he looks! VALDEZ (angrily).

You press'd upon him too abruptly, father,
The fate of one, on whom, you know, he doted.
ORDONIO (starting as in sudden agitation).
O Heavens! I1-I doted? (then recovering himself).
Yes! I doted on him.
[ORDONIO walks to the end of the stage,
VALDEZ follows, soothing him.

TERESA (her eye following ORDONIO).
I do not, can not, love him. Is my heart hard?
Is my heart hard? that even now the thought
Should force itself upon me?-Yet I feel it!

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ALHADRA.

Not till my husband 's free! I may not do it. I will stay here.

TERESA (aside).

Who is this Isidore?

VALDEZ.

Daughter!

TERESA.

With your permission, my dear lord,
I'll loiter yet awhile t' enjoy the sea breeze.

[Exeunt VALDEZ, MONVIEDRO, and ORDONΙΟ.

ALHADRA.

Hah! there he goes! a bitter curse go with him,
A scathing curse!

(Then as if recollecting herself, and with a timid look.)
You hate him, don't you, lady?
TERESA (perceiving that ALHADRA is conscious she has
spoken imprudently).
Oh fear not me! my heart is sad for you.

ALHADRA.

These fell inquisitors! these sons of blood! As I came on, his face so madden'd me, That ever and anon I clutch'd my dagger And half unsheathed it-

TERESA.

Be more calm, I pray you.

ALHADRA.

And as he walk'd along the narrow path
Close by the mountain's edge, my soul grew eager;
'T was with hard toil I made myself remember
That his Familiars held my babes and husband.
To have leapt upon him with a tiger's plunge,
And hurl'd him down the rugged precipice,
O, it had been most sweet!

TERESA.

Hush! hush for shame!

Where is your woman's heart?

ALHADRA.

O gentle lady! You have no skill to guess my many wrongs, Many and strange! Besides (ironically), I am a Chris

tian,

And Christians never pardon-'t is their faith!

TERESA.

Shame fall on those who so have shown it to thee!

ALHADRA.

I know that man; 't is well he knows not me. Five years ago (and he was the prime agent), Five years age the holy brethren seized me.

TERESA.

What might your crime be?

ALHADRA.

I was a Moresco!

They cast me, then a young and nursing mother,
Into a dungeon of their prison-house.
Where was no bed, no fire, no ray of light,
No touch, no sound of comfort! The black air,
It was a toil to breathe it! when the door,
Slow opening at the appointed hour, disclosed
One human countenance, the lamp's red flame
Cower'd as it enter'd, and at once sunk down.
Oh miserable! by that lamp to see
My infant quarrelling with the coarse hard bread
Brought daily: for the little wretch was sickly-
My rage had dried away its natural food.
In darkness I remain'd-the dull bell counting,

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