_Zara._ One lost to thee in infancy, when Hiaya stormed Alhama. If thou wouldst once again embrace her, take in thine arms thy dying child. _Marchioness de Moya_ (unsteadily). Thy hatred to our race is not unknown. Thou sayest this, seeking to torture me. But know, 'twere not torture, 'twere happiness, to believe thy words were words of truth. _Zara._ I would not make a Christian happy. But the words are spoken, and cannot be withdrawn. For the rest, Hiaya, whose degenerate wife reared as her own the captive child, will not dispute its truth, now that she is passing equally away from him and thee. _Spanish Lady._ Oh! hapless mother! _Marchioness de Moya_ (proudly). Hapless! I would not change my dying child for any living one in Christendom. And now, alas! that I must tell it, came the burning humiliation of my childhood. Until this moment, as the reader may have noticed, no one had offered to arrest Zara, nor staunch Ayesha's wound, nor call for aid, nor do any of the things that would naturally have been done off the stage. The necessity of explaining the situation had overridden--as it always does in the drama--every other consideration. But now, while the queen was busy embracing the marchioness, and while the Spanish ladies were bending over Ayesha's body, it was my part to pluck Zara's robe, and whisper: "Quick, quick, let us be gone! To linger here is death." To which she scornfully retorts: "They have no thought of thee, slave; and, as for me, I go to meet what fate Allah ordains:" and slowly leaves the stage. But where _was_ I? Not in our convent schoolroom, not on our convent stage; but in the queen's pavilion, witness to a tragedy which rent my soul in twain. Ayesha (I had a passionate admiration for Julia Reynolds), lying dead and lovely at my feet; Marie's pitiful cry vibrating in my ears; and Zara's splendid scorn and hatred overriding all pity and compunction. Wrapped in the contemplation of these things, I stood speechless and motionless, oblivious of cues, unaware of Zara's meaning glance, unconscious of the long, strained pause, or of Madame Rayburn's loud prompting from behind the scenes. At last, hopeless of any help in my direction, Zara bethought herself to say: "As for me, I go to meet what fate Allah ordains:" and stalked off,--which independent action brought me to my senses with a start. I opened my mouth to speak, but it was too late; and, realizing the horror of my position, I turned and fled,--fled to meet the flood-tide of Mary Orr's reproaches. "Every one will think that I forgot my lines," she stormed. "Didn't you see me looking straight at you, and waiting for my cue? The whole scene was spoiled by your stupidity."