revenge; if this be so, and even now thy detected conscience in that look avows it, profane not the name of justice or thy country’s cause, but let him arm, and bid him to the field on equal terms.

Piz. Officious advocate for treason—peace! Bear him hence; he knows his sentence.

[Retires back.

Alon. Thy revenge is eager, and I’m thankful for it—to me thy haste is mercy.—[To Elvira.] For thee, sweet pleader in misfortune’s cause, accept my parting thanks. This camp is not thy proper sphere. Wert thou among yon savages, as they are called, thou’dst find companions more congenial to thy heart.

Piz. Yes; she shall bear the tidings of thy death to Cora.

Alon. Inhuman man! that pang, at least, might have been spared me; but thy malice shall not shake my constancy. I go to death—many shall bless, and none will curse, my memory. Thou wilt still live, and still wilt be—Pizarro.

[Exit, guarded.

Elv. Now, by the indignant scorn that burns upon my cheek, my soul is shamed and sickened at the meanness of thy vengeance!

Piz. What has thy romantic folly aimed at? He is mine enemy, and in my power.

Elv. He is in your power, and therefore is no more an enemy. Pizarro, I demand not of thee virtue, I ask not from thee nobleness of mind, I require only just dealing to the fame thou hast acquired: be not the assassin of thine own renown. How often have you sworn, that the sacrifice which thy wondrous valour’s high report had won you from subdued Elvira, was the proudest triumph of your fame! Thou knowest I bear a mind not cast in the common mould, not formed for tame sequestered love, content mid house-hold cares to prattle to an idle offspring, and wait the dull delight of an obscure lover’s kindness: no, my heart was framed to look up with awe and homage to the object it adored; my ears to own no music but the thrilling records of his praise; my lips to scorn all babbling but the tales of his achievements; my brain to turn giddy with delight, reading the applauding tributes of his monarch’s and his country’s gratitude; my every faculty to throb with transport while I heard the shouts of acclamation which announced the coming of my hero; my whole soul to love him with devotion! with enthusiasm! to see no other object—to own no other tie—but to make him my world! Thus to love is at least no common weakness. Pizarro! was not such my love for thee?

Piz. It was, Elvira!

Elv. Then do not make me hateful to myself, by tearing off the mask at once, baring the hideous imposture that has undone me! Do not an act which, howe’er thy present power may gloss it to the world, will make thee hateful to all future ages—accursed and scorned by posterity.

Piz. And, should posterity applaud my deeds, thinkest thou my mouldering bones would rattle then with transport in my tomb! This is renown for visionary boys to dream of; I understand it not. The fame I value shall uplift my living estimation, o’erbear with popular support the envy of my foes, advance my purposes, and aid my power.

Elv. Each word thou speakest, each moment that I hear thee, dispels the fatal mist through which I’ve judged thee. Thou man of mighty name but little soul, I see thou wert not born to feel what genuine fame and glory are. Go! prefer the flattery of thy own fleeting day to the bright circle of a deathless name—go! prefer to stare upon the grain of sand on which you trample, to musing on the starred canopy above thee. Fame, the sovereign deity of proud ambition, is not to be worshipped so! who seeks alone for living homage stands a mean canvasser in her temple’s porch, wooing promiscuously, from the fickle