Vict. And in the vale below, Where yonder steeples flash like lifted halberds, Sends up a salutation to the morn, As if an army smote their brazen shields, Pre. Segovia? And which way lies Vict. At a great distance yonder. Dost thou not see it? Pre. No. I do not see it. Vict. The merest flaw that dents the horizon's edge. There, yonder! Hyp. "T is a notable old town, Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct, And an Alcázar, builded by the Moors, Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Blas Was fed on Pan del Rey. O, many a time Out of its grated windows have I looked 'Hundreds of feet plumb down to the Eresma, That, like a serpent through the valley creeping, Glides at its foot. Pre. O, yes! I see it now, Yet rather with my heart, than with mine eyes, So faint it is. And, all my thoughts sail thither, Freighted with prayers and hopes, and forward urged Against all stress of accident, as, in The Eastern Tale, against the wind and tide, Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic Mountains, And there were wrecked, and perished in the sea! [She weeps.] Vict. O gentle spirit! Thou didst bear unmoved Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate! But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee Nor thirst, nor hunger; but be comforted Pre. Stay no longer! My father waits. Methinks I see him there, Now looking from the window, and now watching Each sound of wheels or foot-fall in the street, And saying," Hark! she comes!" O father! father! [They descend the pass. CHISPA remains behind.] Chis. I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. Alas and alack-a-day! Poor was I born, and poor do I remain. I neither win nor lose. Thus I wag through the world, half the time on foot, and the other half walking; and always as merry as a thunder-storm in the night. And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox. Who knows what may happen? Patience, and shuffle the cards! I am not yet so bald, that you can see my brains; and perhaps, after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and come back Saint Peter. Benedicite! [Exit. Then enter BARTOLOME wildly, as if in pursuit, with a carbine in his hand.] [A pause. Bart. They passed this way! I hear their horses hoofs ! Yonder I see them! Come, sweet caramillo, Ha ha! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo! Well whistled!—I have missed her!—O, my God [The shot is returned. BARTOLOMÉ falls.] |