_Isidore._ 'Twas my intention, Having first traced him homeward to his haunt. But lo! the stern Dominican, whose spies Lurk everywhere, already (as it seemed) Had given commission to his apt familiar To seek and sound the Moor; who now returning, Was by this trusty agent stopped midway. I, dreading fresh suspicion if found near him In that lone place, again concealed myself; Yet within hearing. So the Moor was question'd, And in your name, as lord of this domain, Proudly he answered, 'Say to the Lord Ordonio, Remorse. [143] robe] robes Remorse. [144] Stage-direction, _a_] _the_ Remorse. [147] You cannot err. It is a small green dell Remorse. [Between 158 and 205:] _Ordonio (in retiring stops suddenly at the edge of the scene, and then turning round to ISIDORE)._ Ha! Who lurks there! Have we been overheard? There where the smooth high wall of slate-rock glitters---- _Isidore._ 'Neath those tall stones, which propping each the other, Form a mock portal with their pointed arch? Pardon my smiles! 'Tis a poor idiot boy, Who sits in the sun, and twirls a bough about, His weak eyes seeth'd in most unmeaning tears. And so he sits, swaying his cone-like head, And, staring at his bough from morn to sun-set, See-saws his voice in inarticulate noises. _Ordonio._ 'Tis well! and now for this same wizard's lair. _Isidore._ Some three strides up the hill, a mountain ash Stretches its lower boughs and scarlet clusters O'er the old thatch. _Ordonio._ I shall not fail to find it. [_Exeunt ORDONIO and ISIDORE._ SCENE II. _The inside of a Cottage, around which flowers and plants of various kinds are seen. Discovers ALVAR, ZULIMEZ and ALHADRA, as on the point of leaving._ _Alhadra (addressing ALVAR)._ Farewell then! and though many thoughts perplex me, Aught evil or ignoble never can I Suspect of thee! If what thou seem'st thou art, The oppressed brethren of thy blood have need Of such a leader. _Alvar._ Nobly minded woman! Long time against oppression have I fought, And for the native liberty of faith Have bled and suffered bonds. Of this be certain: Time, as he courses onward, still unrolls The volume of concealment. In the future, As in the optician's glassy cylinder, The indistinguishable blots and colours Of the dim past collect and shape themselves, Upstarting in their own completed image To scare or to reward. I sought the guilty, And what I sought I found: but ere the spear Flew from my hand, there rose an angel form Betwixt me and my aim. With baffled purpose To the Avenger I leave Vengeance, and depart!