Mercedes. She is upstairs. She wanted to come down—and cried—like a Magdalen.
Pepito. Already! Repentant or erring?
Mercedes. Don't speak so. Unhappy girl, she is but a child.
Pepito. Who, innocent and candid, sweet and pure and meek, kills Don Julian. So that, if I am to accept your word, and regard her as a child, and such is her work on the edge of infancy, we may pray God in his mercy to guard us from her when she shall have put on years.
Mercedes. She is hardly to be blamed. The infamy lies with your fine friend—he of the dramas, the poet and dreamer. He it is who is the culprit.
Pepito. I don't deny it.
Mercedes. Where is he?
Pepito. Where is he? At this moment racing about the streets and public places, flying from his conscience, and unable to get away from it.
Mercedes. He has a conscience?
Pepito. So it would seem.
Mercedes. Oh, what a tragedy!
Pepito. A misfortune!
Mercedes. Such a deception!
Pepito. A cruel one.
Mercedes. What shocking treason!
Pepito. Unparalleled.
Mercedes. Poor Julian!
Pepito. Melancholy fate! [Enter servant.]
69
