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IV:4:16 ALAR.
Nay, for one glance!
In truth you paint her bright.
IV:4:17 SOL.
E'en now she sleeps.
Tread lightly, love; I'll lead you.
[SOLISA cautiously leads ALARCOS to the couch; as they approach it, the COUNTESS opens her eyes and shrieks.]
IV:4:18 COUN.
Ah! 'tis true, Alarcos [relapses into a swoon.]
IV:4:19 ALAR.
Florimonde!
IV:4:20 SOL.
Who is this lady?
IV:4:21 ALAR.
It is my wife.
IV:4:22 SOL.
[flings away his arms and rushes forward.]
--Not mad!
Virgin and Saints be merciful; not mad!
O spare my brain one moment; 'tis his wife.
I'm lost: she is too fair. The secret's out Of sick delays. He's feigned; he has but feigned.
[Rushing to Alarcos.]
Is that thy wife? and I? and what am I?
A trifled toy, a humoured instrument?
To guide with glozing words, vilely cajole With petty perjuries? Is that thy wife?
Thou said'st she was not fair, thou did'st not love her: Thou lied'st. O, anguish, anguish!
IV:4:23 ALAR.
By the cross, My soul is pure to thee. I'm wildered quite.
How came she here
IV:4:24 SOL.
As she shall ne'er return.
Now, Count Alarcos, by the cross thou swearest Thy faith is true to me.
IV:4:25 ALAR.
Ay, by the cross,
IV:4:26 SOL.
Give me thy dagger.
IV:4:27 ALAR.
Not that hand or mine.
IV:4:28 SOL.
Is this thy pa.s.sion!
[Takes his dagger.]
Thus I gain the heart I should despise.
[Rushes to the couch.]
IV:4:29 COUN.
What's this I see?
IV:4:30 ALAR.
[seizing the Infanta's upraised arm]
A dream A horrid dream, yet but a dream.
THE END OF THE FOURTH ACT.
ACT V
SCENE 1
Exterior of the Castle of Alarcos in the valley of Arlanzon.
[Enter the COUNTESS.]
V:1:1 COUN.
I would recall the days gone by, and live A moment in the past; if but to fly The dreary present pressing on my brain, Woe's omened harbinger. In exiled love The scene he drew so fair! Ye castled crags, The sunbeam plays on your embattled cliffs, And softens your stern visage, as his love Softened our early sorrows. But my sun Has set for ever! Once we talked of cares And deemed that we were sad. Men fancy sorrows Until time brings the substance of despair, And then their griefs are shadows. Give me exile!
It brought me love. Ah! days of gentle joy, When pastime only parted us, and he Returned with tales to make our children stare; Or called my lute, while, round my waist entwined, His hand kept chorus to my lay. No more!
O, we were happier than the happy birds; And sweeter were our lives than the sweet flowers; The stars were not more tranquil in their course, Yet not more bright! The fountains in their play Did most resemble us, that as they flow Still sparkle!
[Enter ORAN.]
Oran, I am very sad.
V:1:2 ORAN.
