_Gasp._ One hour of misery, like hers, exceeds An age of common earthly suffering; And when at last she hears the unvarnish'd truth, 'Twill but perplex her more. Oh destiny! Why am I thus a blood-stain'd guilty man In early years? still yearning towards virtue, Yet ever falling in the snares of vice! Now do I loathe the amorous Serafina, Who sacrifices all--her fame--her honour, At Passion's shrine. How do I adore The chaste, the innocent, sweet Isidora! Yet in my love, so ardent and so pure, There's guilt--deep damning guilt--and more, There's cruelty and baseness! I plant a dagger In the fond breast that cherishes the wound; Nor will she feel the pain until withdrawn, And happiness--nay, life--will issue with it. How inconsistent, selfish, treacherous! Heav'n pardon me--how can I pardon ask For that I never can forgive myself! [_Exit Gaspar._ _Act IV. Scene I._ _Street before Anselmo's lodgings._ _Enter Antonio._ _Ant._ At last I have his secret, and one of moment too. A monk, and yet a cavalier! A friar's gown and a gala suit! vowing to heaven and vowing to the ladies! Abjuring the world, and roaming through it with a vengeance! Telling his beads, and telling me lies! But I am not so easily to be deceived. I thought very often that there was a similarity of voice between his and my confessor's, but when I saw the friar's gown, and he accused me of having two wives, it all flashed upon me at once. A pretty fool has he made of me! No wonder that he knew my rogueries when I confessed them to him. What's the having two wives to this? Mine is a paltry secret of a poor lacquey, but his is one which will obtain a price, and it is well to be first in the market. Whom shall I sell it to? let me see--Don Felix----? _Enter Beppa._ _Bep._ What of Don Felix, husband? Do you wish to serve him? _Ant._ Yes, if he'll pay me well. _Bep._ I presume Don Gaspar has not paid you: then must you help yourself. _Ant._ Why so I do, whenever I can. But he takes care of that. _Bep._ He might have done, but hardly will do so now. _Ant._ Why not? _Bep._ Because he's dead. _Ant._ Dead! Are you sure of that? _Bep._ Quite sure, for I myself beheld the contest. Such fierce exchange of hate I ne'er imagined, or that you men were such incarnate devils. _Ant._ Pray tell me where this happened. _Bep._ 'Twas in the garden near our house, under the chestnut trees, deep in the shade. The full moon could not pierce the closely woven foliage. All her beams were caught on the topmost boughs which waved in silver. A lovely night to stain with murder! Oh me! I see them now. _Ant._ Proceed, good Beppa, I'm eager to know all. _Bep._ Their forms were not distinct, yet could we perceive their gleaming swords darting like fiery serpents; 'twas horrible. At last one fell; it proved to be Don Gaspar. _Ant._ Indeed! you're sure there's no mistake?