Indeed since that sad hour I have not slept For thinking of the wrong I did to thee! Dost thou forgive me? Say, wilt thou forgive me! _Pre._ I have forgiven thee. Ere those words of anger Were in the book of Heaven writ down against thee I had forgiven thee. _Vic._ I’m the veriest fool That walks the earth, to have believed thee false. It was the Count of Lara— _Pre._ That bad man Has worked me harm enough. Hast thou not heard— _Vic._ I have heard all. _Pre._ May Heaven forgive him for it! _Hyp._ (_coming forward._) All gentle quarrels in the pastoral poets; All passionate love scenes in the best romances; All chaste embraces on the public stage; All soft adventures, which the liberal stars Have wink’d at, as the natural course of things, Have been surpass’d here by my friend the student And this sweet gipsy lass, fair Preciosa! _Pre._ Señor Hypolito! I kiss your hand. Pray shall I tell your fortune? _Hyp._ Not to-night; For should you treat me as you did Victorian, And send me back to marry forlorn damsels, My wedding day would last from now till Christmas. _Chis._ (_within._) What ho! the gipsies, ho! Beltran Cruzado! Halloo! halloo! halloo! halloo! (_Enter booted, with a whip and lantern._) _Vic._ What now? Why such a fearful din? Hast thou been robbed? _Chis._ Ay, robbed and murdered; and good evening to you, My worthy masters. _Vic._ Speak; what brings thee here? _Chis._ Good news from court; good news! Fair Preciosa, These letters are for you. Beltran Cruzado, The Count of the Calés, is not your father, But your true father has returned to Spain Laden with wealth. You are no more a gipsy. _Vic._ Strange as a Moorish tale! _Chis._ And we have all Been drinking at the tavern to your health, As wells drink in November, when it rains. _Pre._ (_having read the letters._) Is this a dream? O, if it be a dream Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet! Repeat thy story! Say I’m not deceived! Say that I do not dream! I am awake; This is the gipsy camp; this is Victorian, And this his friend, Hypolito! Speak—speak! Let me not wake and find it all a dream! _Vic._ It is a dream, sweet child! a waking dream, A blissful certainty—a vision bright Of that rare happiness, which even on earth Heaven gives to those it loves. Now art thou rich As thou wert ever beautiful and good; And I am the poor beggar. _Pre._ (_giving him her hand._) I have still A hand to give. _Chis._ (_aside._) And I have two to take. I’ve heard my grandmother say, that Heaven gives almonds To those who have no teeth. That’s nuts to crack. I’ve teeth to spare, but where shall I find almonds?— Your friend Don Carlos is now at the village Showing to Pedro Crespo, the alcalde,