_Cov._ My mother will at last return to thee. Might I, once more, but—could I now! behold her. Tell her—ah me! what was my rash desire? No, never tell her these inhuman things, For they would waste her tender heart away As they waste mine; or tell where I have died, Only to show her that her every care Could not have saved, could not have comforted; That she herself, clasping me once again To her sad breast, had said, Covilla! go, Go, hide them in the bosom of thy God. Sweet mother! that far-distant voice I hear, And, passing out of youth and out of life, I would not turn at last, and disobey. ACT II. SCENE 2. SISABERT _enters_. _Sis._ Uncle, and is it true, say, can it be, That thou art leader of these faithless Moors? That thou impeachest thy own daughter’s fame Thro’ the whole land, to seize upon the throne By the permission of these recreant slaves? What shall I call thee? art thou, speak Count Julian, A father, or a soldier, or a man? _Jul._ All—or this day had never seen me here. _Sis._ O falsehood! worse than woman’s! _Cov._ Once, my cousin, Far gentler words were uttered from your lips; If you loved me, you loved my father first, More justly and more steddily, ere love Was passion and illusion and deceit. _Sis._ I boast not that I never was deceived, Covilla, which beyond all boasts were base, Nor that I never loved; let this be thine. Illusions! just to stop us, not delay, Amuse, not occupy!—too true! when love Scatters its brilliant foam, and passes on To some fresh object in its natural course, Widely and openly and wanderingly, ’Tis better! narrow it, and it pours its gloom In one fierce cataract that stuns the soul. Ye hate the wretch ye make so, while ye choose Whoever knows you best and shuns you most. _Cov._ Shun me then: be beloved, more and more. Honour the hand that showed you honour first, Love—O my father! speak, proceed, persuade, Thy voice alone can utter it—another. _Sis._ Ah lost Covilla! can a thirst of power Alter thy heart, thus, to abandon mine, And change my very nature at one blow. _Cov._ I told you, dearest Sisabert, ’twas vain To urge me more, to question, or confute. _Sis._ I know it—for another wears the crown Of Witiza my father; who succeeds To king Roderigo will succeed to me. Yet thy cold perfidy still calls me dear, And o’er my aching temples breathes one gale Of days departed to return no more. _Jul._ Young man, avenge our cause. _Sis._ What cause avenge? _Cov._ If I was ever dear to you, hear me. Not vengeance; Heaven will give that signal soon. O Sisabert, the pangs I have endured On your long absence—