Edward. You angel of my life, my heart's desire, be calm, be calm. I beg of you to spare yourself.
Inés. Whisper, Edward. I could almost wish I were dead.
SCENE VIII
Don Lorenzo, Inés, and Edward. Don Lorenzo enters C., and stands listening to Inés.
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Dead, she said?
Edward. You dead! No, Inés, don't say such a thing.
Inés. Why not? If I do not die of sorrow—should fortune ever again smile upon me, then must I die of remorse.
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Of remorse! She! Should fortune ever again smile upon her! What worse fate floats in the air and hangs threateningly above my head? Remorse!—I have again caught another passing word. I traverse rooms and galleries, and wander from one place to another, pricked by insufferable anguish. I hear talk that I do not understand, and meet glances still further from my comprehension. I see tears here, smiles there, and nobody opposes me,—all either fly from me or watch me. [Aloud.] What is this? What is this?
Inés. [Rushing to his arms.] Oh, father!
Don Lorenzo. Inés, how white you are? Whence this dolorous constriction of your lips? Why do you essay a smile only to end in sobbing? How lovely she is in her sorrow! And it is all my fault.
Inés. No, father.
Don Lorenzo. I am cruel. Oh, if you do not say it, you think it.
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