breath of every wretch that passes, the brittle tribute of his praise. He dares not approach the sacred altar—no noble sacrifice of his is placed there, nor ever shall his worshipped image, fixed above, claim for his memory a glorious immortality.

Piz. Elvira, leave me!

Elv. Pizarro, you no longer love me.

Piz. It is not so, Elvira. But what might I not suspect—this wondrous interest for a stranger! Take back thy reproach.

Elv. No, Pizarro; as yet I am not lost to you; one string still remains, and binds me to your fate. Do not, I conjure you—do not, for mine own sake, tear it asunder—shed not Alonzo’s blood!

Piz. My resolution’s fixed.

Elv. Even though that moment lost you Elvira for ever?

Piz. Even so.

Elv. Pizarro, if not to honour, if not to humanity, yet listen to affection; bear some memory of the sacrifices I have made for thy sake. Have I not for thee quitted my parents, my friends, my fame, my native land? When escaping, did I not risk, in rushing to thy arms, to bury myself in the bosom of the deep? Have I not shared all thy perils—heavy storms at sea, and frightful ’scapes on shore? Even on this dreadful day, amid the rout of battle, who remained firm and constant at Pizarro’s side? Who presented her bosom as his shield to the assailing foe?

Piz. ’Tis truly spoken all. In love thou art thy sex’s miracle, in war the soldier’s pattern; and therefore my whole heart and half my acquisitions are thy right.

Elv. Convince me I possess the first: I exchange all title to the latter for—mercy to Alonzo.

Piz. No more! Had I intended to prolong his doom, each word thou utterest now would hasten on his fate.

Elv. Alonzo then at morn will die?

Piz. Thinkest thou yon sun will set! As surely at his rising shall Alonzo die.

Elv. Then be it done—the string is cracked—sundered for ever. But mark me—thou hast heretofore had cause, ’tis true, to doubt my resolution, howe’er offended; but mark me now—the lips which, cold and jeering, barbing revenge with rancorous mockery, can insult a fallen enemy, shall never more receive the pledge of love: the arm which, unshaken by its bloody purpose, shall assign to needless torture the victim who avows his heart, never more shall press the hand of faith! Pizarro, scorn not my words; beware you slight them not! I feel how noble are the motives which now animate my thoughts. Who could not feel as I do, I condemn: who, feeling so, yet would not act as I shall, I despise!

Piz. I have heard thee, Elvira, and know well the noble motives which inspire thee—fit advocate in virtue’s cause! Believe me, I pity thy tender feelings for the youth Alonzo! He dies at sunrise!

[Exit.

Elv. ’Tis well! ’tis just I should be humbled—I had forgot myself, and in the cause of innocence assumed the tone of virtue. ’Twas fit I should be rebuked—and by Pizarro. Fall, fall, ye few reluctant drops of weakness—the last these eyes shall ever shed. How a woman can love, Pizarro, thou hast known too well—how she can hate, thou hast yet to learn. Yes, thou undaunted!—thou, whom yet no mortal hazard