of space, engendered by temptation. Leave me, leave me—in God's name. If you are strong enough to wring my heart, at least you are not strong enough to bend my will.
Juana. His voice! Lorenzo, Lorenzo! [Comes over to embrace him.]
Don Lorenzo. Mother! [Embraces her.]
Inés. [Taking refuge behind Doña Ángela.] Whose voice is that? Who is that woman? What shade is that which has come out of the darkness and encircles my father with its arms? I'm afraid.
Don Lorenzo. Juana! my mother!
Inés. His mother! Why does he call her mother?
Don Lorenzo. Because she's my mother, and because I should call her so.
Juana. I? his mother? Good gracious, what an idea! How I wish it were so!
Duchess. Do you hear—do you hear what she says?
Doña Ángela. She denies it.
Don Lorenzo. [Violently.] You are my mother.
Juana. Ah, my poor Lorenzo. [Laughs with an effort, embraces him, and whispers.] Child of my heart!
Don Lorenzo. On your life, repeat aloud what you have just whispered to me.
Juana. I whispered! Well, what did I say? To be his mother! Could I wish for a greater blessing?
Don Lorenzo. [Furiously.] Ah, you deny it.
Doña Ángela. Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. [With increasing fury.] Do you deny that you are my mother?
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