_Rolla._ Would you seduce me to be a boaster?—As Inca, and as leader of the armies of my country, I have fulfilled my duty through wounds and victories!—Have I not at various times proved myself deserving of her confidence!—Was not this more particularly proved on that awful day when Ataliba’s throne was shaken by Huascar’s power, and Rolla’s sword dyed the fields of Tumibamba with the blood of his sovereign’s enemies. Know you not the history of that day?—One arrow was lodged in my left arm, another pierced my breast; I received a large gash in my cheek from a sword, and was stunned by the stroke of a club upon my forehead. Look at the scars of those wounds, here, and here, and here!—Yet I never stirred from the field of battle.—Tell me now, have I given my country cause to repent her confidence? _High-Priest._ (_Much affected_) Brave youth!—But were the blessings of thy native-country, the friendship of thy sovereign, and the love and shouts of thy army, no recompense to thy heart? _Rolla._ (_With a sigh_) They were! _High-Priest._ But are so no longer? _Rolla._ No! _High-Priest._ Oh ye gods! ’tis thus by annihilating the former man, that you chastise this unworthy love which blights every noble germ implanted in the heart! _Rolla._ Judge not so harshly!—Love, like honour, is the parent of great actions!—But I—for whom should I fight?—Is there on earth a heart to which I should communicate joy, were I longer to pursue the road to fame?—Cora does not love me!—I have neither father nor mother, neither brother nor sister!—I am alone in the world. _High-Priest._ (_Clasping him in his arms_) My son!—my son! _Rolla._ Leave me, leave me, uncle!—I cannot return this love. You, with those grey hairs, clothed in those priestly garments, bearing an appearance so solemn, so entitled to respect, can never become the confident of my bosom. In you I cannot separate the man from the dignity of the priesthood.—Ah that I had a mother!—God created woman to be the confident of man!—Canst thou not share thy sorrows with her who loves thee? then fly to thy mother!—But I—I enjoy not the love of any one!—I have no mother! _High-Priest._ Fly then to the gods! _Rolla._ The gods hate me, because I love a maiden who is devoted to their service—because I love this maiden more than I love the gods themselves?—Whether I behold the sun rise, or see Cora appear, a like impression is made upon my senses, upon my heart!—Ah no!—Cora makes the strongest impression on both. _High-Priest._ May the gods pardon this enthusiasm!—Ah, Rolla! it is thus that the children of mortality always desire most eagerly, what is impossible to be attained. Cora, the maiden, had only pleased your fancy—Cora, the Virgin of the Sun, you love with unbounded passion. _Rolla._ (_With rising warmth_) What!—(_he restrains himself; but casts a look of indignation upon the High-Priest_) Good night, uncle. (_He is going into his cave._)