_Juan._ Away with that menacing countenance, it ill accords with your situation. A man should not dare to assume the privilege of growing angry, unless his conscience be pure.—You will perhaps wonder at the jocund Velasquez becoming on a sudden a preacher of morality—but Velasquez was only jocund and light-hearted, because he was an honest man—let him therefore preach on, since he has entered upon the subject. You, by whom formerly every article of popular faith, even to the most minute, was held inviolate, because you considered that to every one was attached, in a considerable degree, the peace of mind of some weak, but honest man—you now rashly bid defiance to one of the most sacred tenets of a whole nation that has received you hospitably into their bosom, and seduce a chaste virgin devoted to their gods.—The conflicts of nature herself, are made subservient to your desires; and while a dreadful earthquake shakes these inaccessible walls even to their foundation, the bold intruder takes advantage of the passage thus opened to him to rush into Cora’s arms, and amidst this elemental warfare to murder innocence. _Alonzo._ Forbear, Velasquez!—have you no compassion for me?—believe me, my conscience does not slumber. _Juan._ Well then, if it slumber not, it is at least deaf, and the malady must be removed.—Ataliba is thy benefactor,—this amiable people have received thee as a brother,—and thou, assassin-like, art stabbing them in the dark. _Alonzo._ Oh Velasquez, once more I entreat you to forbear!—I acknowledge, with gratitude, the voice of friendship,—but what wouldst thou require of me? _Juan._ Heaven be thanked that I have succeeded at last in awakening you to some degree of reflection!—I require of you instantly to renounce this dangerous and criminal intercourse. _Alonzo._ Well, I will consult with Cora. _Juan._ Most admirable!—Cora is indeed the proper person to decide upon this matter. I perceive that you are seriously impressed with my lecture. _Alonzo._ Rely upon me!—I will represent to her all that anxious love can suggest—the anger of the king—the indignation of the people—my danger— _Juan._ Your danger!—Pardon the interruption, my friend, but you speak here without much reflection!—Your danger put in the balance against hers, is as a handful of down weighed against a bar of gold. You hazard only your life— _Diego._ What the devil, and is not that enough? _Juan._ She, on the contrary, hazards her fame, her repose, her father’s blessing, the love of her family, her prospect of salvation—and, to sum up all—she must encounter the most horrible of all deaths, supposing that this intercourse should give existence to a being who would prove the betrayer of your loves. _Alonzo._ Oh talk not of it!—No, no, Velasquez, thank heaven I am not so deeply involved in guilt!