SCENE FOURTH. [Zara's _chamber_. _Enter_ Bernardo.] Ber. [_unfolding a scroll_]. At length 't is done, and here I hold the doom of those proud lords who have so scorned my race. The hour has come, and Bernardo is revenged. What, ho! Zara, where art thou? [_Enter_ Zara. Zara. Dear father, what hath troubled thee, and how can Zara cheer and comfort thee? Ber. 'Tis joy, not sorrow, Zara, gives this fierce light to mine eye. I have hated, and am avenged. This one frail scroll is dearer far to me than all the wealth of Spain, for 'tis the death-knell of the English lords. Zara. Must they all die, my father? Ber. Ay, Zara,--all; ere to-morrow's sun shall set they will sleep forever, and a good deed will be well done. I hate them, and their paltry lives can ill repay the sorrow they have wrought. Zara. Let me see the fatal paper. [_Takes the scroll; aside._] Yes, _his_ name is here. Ah, how strange that these few lines can doom brave hearts to such a death! [_Aloud._] Father, 'tis a fearful thing to hold such power over human life. Ah, bid me tear the scroll, and win for thee the thanks of those thy generous pity saves. Ber. [_seizing the paper_]. Not for thy life, child! Revenge is sweet, and I have waited long for mine. The king hath granted this; were it destroyed, the captives might escape ere I could win another. Nay, Zara, this is dearer to me than thy most priceless gems. To-night it shall be well guarded 'neath my pillow. Go to thy flowers, child. These things are not for thee,--thou art growing pale and sad. Remember, Zara, thou art nobly born, and let no foolish pity win thee to forget it. [_Exit_ Bernardo. Zara. Oh, Father, Father, whom I have so loved and honored, now so cold, so pitiless. The spirit of revenge hath entered thy kind heart, and spread an evil blight o'er all the flowers that blossomed there. I cannot win him back to tenderness, and Ernest, thou must perish. I cannot save thee,--perhaps 'tis better so; but oh, 'twill be a bitter parting! [_Weeps._] Nay, nay, it shall _not_ be! When this wild hate hath passed, my father will repent. Alas! 't will be too late. _I_ will save him from that sorrow when he shall find he hath wronged a noble heart, and slain the friend he should have saved. But stay! how shall I best weave my plot? That fatal paper, once destroyed, I will implore and plead so tenderly, my father will repent; and ere another scroll can reach his hands, I will have won thy freedom, Ernest! This night beneath his pillow it will be; and I, like a midnight thief, must steal to that couch, and take it hence. Yet, it shall be done, for it will save thee, Father, from a cruel deed, and gain a brave heart's freedom. Ernest, 'tis for thee! for thee! CURTAIN.