Enter ZORAYDA, R.

Zoray. I am here, father; would you aught with me? Bulca. Come hither, wench-I must to the Alhambra : Should Giafar arrive ere my return,

There is a writing sealed up in my cabinet,
(This is the key,) you must deliver to him.

-Why dost not take it, dreamer? My Zorayda!
Art thou not well? my child! why dost thou tremble?
Zoray. 'Tis that your sternness terrifies me, father.

My heart's brimful when you are kind to me—
And my eyes, too:-no wonder, then, I tremble,
When you speak angrily.

Bulca. My dear, dear daughter!

Cheer thee, my child :-the duties which of late
Do throng upon me, may go nigh, belike,

To make me somewhat fretful.

These vile Christians

Vex thy poor father sore, Zorayda :

Would it not glad thee, wench, to see these dogs
Dragged through our town in chains?

Zoray. No, trust me, father;

For when the captives pass, that dig our garden,
Pining in wretchedness, and spirit-broken,
Poor hearts! I turn my head aside, and

weep

To see a sight so piteous. Surely, father,
When heav'n made man, it never was ordained
That he should make his fellow-creatures slaves,
And gall them with such cruelty.

Bulca. How now!

This wretched corner

Dost lean to them? observe me well, Zorayda-
I do misdoubt thee heavily; yea, heavily.
These Christians, on whose miseries your eye,
Lavish in baby bounty, drops a tear,
Have been our nation's scourge.
This Moorish kingdom of Granada, here,
A very patch on Spain's broad territory,
Which all was ours, is all that they have left us.
Therefore take heed. I could more readily
Suck poison from a cold and speckled toad,
And, as I drained his venom, think the bees
Distilled their mountain honey on my lip,
Than smother in my breast that rooted hate

I bear a loathsome Christian. Mark me, girl!
Thou art my heart's dear love: do not prove changeling.
Should'st mingle with my heart's antipathy,

Unmoved I'd see thee drooping on a death-bed,

And let my curse fall bitter on thee. Think cn't;
And so farewell.

Zoray. Alas, the day, my father!

[Exit, R.

Could'st use thy daughter thus! and stab thine enemies
Through thy poor child! those enemies could teach thee
A heaven-born duty in their holy writ,

Unpractised here, called Christian charity,
Worth all the Koran. How now, Agnes?

Enter AGNEs, l.

Agnes. Haste you, madam-Count Virolet is uneasy at your stay. He is stalking to and fro your chamber, to give his patience exercise.

Zoray. Softly, beseech you. Why, he knew my father, Who is but now gone forth to the Alhambra, Sent for me on the sudden. Tell me, Agnes, Are Christian lovers ever thus impetuous? Trust me, I fear them rash and sudden, Agnes. Will they not tarry?

I! my

Agnes. Truly, madam, I'm little skilled in 'em. father kept me close at home, in Andalusia, till I should go as a lay-sister to the Ursulines; and, on that day, as we journeyed thither, the Moors, as you know, madam, pursued my poor father, and made me a slave. None have discoursed to me tenderly but Sadi. I have seen little of Christian love :-but I have often heard say 'tis not of the waiting sort.-Will it please you go, madam?

Zoray. Ay, wench; and further, too, than it may please

me.

Girl, here has been my father, loud in anger :
He has so wrung me with unkindly words!
And all about these Christians. Wert thou me,

What course wouldst thou follow, Agnes?

Agnes. I have but a shallow wit to advise, madam; but I would, for my own part, do like other Spanish girls when they have opportunity.

Zoray. And what do they, when fathers are unkind? Agnes. They run away, madam.

Zoray. Beshrew me, now, my heart does sink within

me

Yet I can ne'er forget my mother's counsel,
As I watched by her on the night she died.
And there is something here that whispers me,
I shall not be at peace till I am Christian.
Should Virolet's entreaty, and the harshness
I meet with here at home, hasten my flight,
Wouldst follow with me, Agnes?

Agnes. Follow you! Oh, the Virgin! it shows little love to follow you into liberty. Would I had the means to show more!

Zoray. Wherefore, good Agnes?

Agnes. Because you have been kind to me: I was brought here a slave; torn from my poor old father. My heart had broke with sorrow, but for you, lady. You took me to you, and dried the tears that ran trickling down my face, with words of comfort and compassion. My fortunes have been always humble, lady; but I can be grateful and trusty; and I should be a-weary of my life, if I forgot to love those whose charity and goodness had preserved it. I would follow you through the world, lady.

Zora. Sweet heart, I thank thee! listen to me, Agnes; My father will return anon: meanwhile, (A chance which never may befal again,) Ì have his cabinet in charge-he keeps The key in't of the little western gate, Through which in private he is wont to pass Forth from the city. Virolet has moved me With reasons strong, and honey-sweet persuasion. "If zeal and earnest movements of the soul, "Which bid me shun the path of unbelievers, 'May plead a maid's excuse for leaping thus "Beyond the pale of seeming, surely, Agnes, "[ may be bold to venture." Oh, my father! We must away to-night.

Agnes. To-night, lady?
Zoray. Or never, girl.

Agnes. What-and unprotected, madam?

Zoray. No, Agnes; Virolet will guard us.

Agnes. True, madam; yet he is but one-and in the

night I am apt to feel disheartened. I could wish, now

Zoray. What, girl?

Agnes. Why, of a truth, then, madam, if Sadi went with us, methinks I should feel more valiant.

Zoray. Take heed, good Agnes;-search thy bosom well:

Nor draw this half-converted Moor along,

To swell thy giddy pride, and woman's lightness.
My purposes are pure and solemn, Agnes;
Did not a holy light direct my course,

Not all the love which I do bear to Virolet
Could tear me from a father:-therefore, Agnes,
Probe to thy heart; if thou dost find it steady
Unto this Moor, bring him away with thee;
Else sully not my sacred enterprise,
With ill-beseeming levity. Anon
Thou'lt find me in my chamber.

[Exit, R.

Agnes. What a world of pains it saves, to have one s mind ready made up to be married at short notice! I had lost, else, the time for my journey, in debating on the fitness of my company. Heigho! I would my Sadi were a shade lighter. No slave-driver in all Granada has a sweeter disposition. Father Sebastian, a captive here, good soul, says that when a Moor turns Christian, faith will work anything. I wonder if it ever whitens the skin? 'bating his complexion, Sadi is a proper man, with the best curled hair of any in Spain. Would the evening muster were over, and the guard placed for the night.

Sadi. Hist, hist, Agnes! whither away ?

Agnes. Sadi,-I was going to the lady Zorayda.

Thou

art come to my very wish.

Sadi. To see what luck is that the appearance of a man Moor should tickle thus the inclination of a little she Christian!-did'st really wish to see me, Agnes?

Agnes. You have been always welcome to me, Sadi, ever since you brought me the little purse of piastres to send to my father, who is in want, though the lady Zorayda's bounty prevented my taking it. I love thee for thy neart, dearly, Sadi.

Sadi. I doubt, now, whether that be not the best thing about a man that a wench can take a fancy to, after all.— Should a knave, that could be flinty-hearted to a poor girl in distress, fall in my way, and propose to chop natures with me, I would not change with him, though his face were as white as a cauliflower. Kiss me, Agnes. [Kisses her.] 'Tis thus I have been converted.

Agnes. Nay, now—

Sadi. By the mass, 'tis true.

Had forty fat monks failed in preaching Mahomet out of me, thy lips, Agnes, would convince me.

Agnes. Prithee, listen.-The lady Zorayda will away tonight.

Sadi. I guessed as much.

Agnes. Ay, marry, why so?

Sadı. There is a captive waits now for Count Virolethis sworn friend-who is to be partner in the flight. He seems well fitted for danger and secrecy. He is both brawny and faithful. I had brought him hither, but I was told you were here, Agnes.

Agnes. Well, Sadi, thou know'st I am trusted with all. Sadi. True, but, to be plain, he is of the Irish nation.