Edward. But what is the matter with you, dearest? Why do your eyes seem to shun me? Is it from me that you are running away? Inés, have you wearied of my love?
Inés. [Coming down the stage.] Wearied of your love? You must know that it is my life. But oh, Edward, to what a frightful ordeal fate has subjected us! You do not understand it. For me supreme bliss lies in your love, and the hope I place in your love is a still greater bliss—a far, far greater. The one is our present, the other contains all our future. And yet, Edward, dearest, that same hope has now become a crime for your Inés, yes, a crime. Can a cruelty more exquisite be conceived? That which destiny denies no other living being it denies me. Yesterday I was but a child. My thoughts floated upon laughter in a sphere of white transparency, like a vapoury mist in moonlight. Today they are as heavy as lead, as burning as lava. Could you but hear their horrible whispers in the silence of night. And these thoughts are not mine. It is not my will that gives them birth. They come I know not whence. I cast them from me, and still they return. They vex me with chiding complaints: 'your poor father,' one moment, and then assail me with tempting voices, murmuring: 'Inés, Inés, who knows?—you may yet be happy—love may yet smile upon you—hope, hope, poor little thing.' Can you think of anything more horrible—surely it must be my bad angel—than to hear within oneself the voice of Satan whispering of hope to one bidden to say farewell to it?
Edward. You are not yourself, my dear Inés.
Inés. [Approaching Edward.] I am filled with remorse.
Edward. For what?
Inés. I don't know. I have done nothing wrong. My father! My poor father!
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