_Hyp._ I must have been asleep! aye, sound asleep! And it was all a dream. O sleep, sweet sleep! Whatever form thou takest, thou art fair, Holding unto our lips thy goblet filled Out of Oblivion’s well, a healing draught! The candles have burned low; it must be late. Where can Victorian be? Like Fray Carillo, The only place in which one cannot find him Is his own cell. Here’s his guitar, that seldom Feels the caresses of its master’s hand. Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument! And make dull midnight merry with a song. (_He plays and sings._) Padre Francisco! Padre Francisco! What do you want of Padre Francisco? Here is a pretty young maiden Who wants to confess her sins! Open the door and let her come in, I will shrive her from every sin. _Enter Victorian._ _Vic._ Padre Hypolito! Padre Hypolito! _Hyp._ What do you want of Padre Hypolito? _Vic._ Come, shrive me straight; for if love be a sin I am the greatest sinner that doth live. I will confess the sweetest of all crimes, A maiden wooed and won. _Hyp._ The same old tale Of the old woman in the chimney corner, Who, while her pot boils, says—_Come here my child_; _I’ll tell thee a story of my wedding-day!_ _Vic._ Nay, listen, for my heart is full; so full That I must speak. _Hyp._ Alas! that heart of thine Is like a scene in the old play—the curtain Rises to solemn music, and, lo! enter The eleven thousand Virgins of Cologne! _Vic._ Nay, like the Sibyl’s volumes, thou shouldst say; Those that remained, after the six were burned, Being held as precious as the nine together. But listen to my tale. Dost thou remember The gipsy girl we saw at Cordova Dance the Romalis in the market-place? _Hyp._ Thou meanest Preciosa. _Vic._ Aye, the same. Thou knowest how her image haunted me Long after we returned to Alcalá. _Hyp._ Thou even thought’st thyself in love with her. _Vic._ I was; and, to be frank with thee, I am! She’s in Madrid. O pardon me, my friend, If I so long have kept this secret from thee; But silence is the charm that guards such treasures, And if a word be spoken ere the time, They sink again, they were not meant for us. _Hyp._ Alas! alas! I see thou art in love. How speeds thy wooing? Is the maiden coy? Write her a song, beginning with an Ave; Sing as the monk sang to the Virgin Mary, _Ave! cujus calcem clarè_ _Nec centenni commendare_ _Sciret Seraph studio!_ _Vic._ Pray do not jest! This is no time to jest! I am in earnest! _Hyp._ Seriously enamor’d? What, ho! The Primus of great Alcalá Enamor’d of a gipsy? Tell me frankly, How meanest thou? _Vic._ I mean it honestly. The angels sang in heaven when she was born!