SCENE FIRST.

FORGIVE the power of your charms.

Who has permitted thee to break in upon my slumbers? Is it not enough that the tumults of the camp destroy my nightly rest?—But leave me, and I forgive thee—I would rather have my sense of hearing tortured, than my sight. Leave me, or I inform Pizarro of your insolence.

Inform Pizarro!—Nay, lady, rather in­form me through what magic this Pizarro has en­chained thee? Wild and unseemly in his looks, a hypocrite in friendship, in love a tyrant—

Hold! Your funeral oration comes too soon; Pizarro is not dead.

A swineherd in his youth, he now in man­hood treats mankind as swine. Illiterate as an Andalusian muleteer, he cannot even read or write!

Love only reads in the eyes, and knows but to write on the heart. I saw in Pizarro a hero, a leader of men—in thee I see not man.

Indulge your sportive mockery, while the sun of our prosperity yet shines. When the thun­der rolls, tremble—The tempest is not far distant.

Valverde a prophet!

Are we not in a strange country, where death lies in wait in every plant, in every fruit we pluck to satisfy our hunger? Those whom the sword of the enemy spares, an unwonted climate destroys. Daily the number of our foes encreases, while every sun lights a Spaniard to his grave.

And does that grieve Valverde? Are not the survivors the heirs of the dead?

And can you think, lady, that the sordid thirst for gold—

Away, away! Think you I cannot discern the wolf, although the garment of the lamb adorns him? I know ye all. There's not a man in all the camp that speaks his thoughts except the good Las Casas.

Name not the dreamer!

O, had I known this venerable man in early life, how different might have been my lot!

Pizarro then, perhaps, had found more ob­stacles to fair Elvira's love—

How now! presumptuous priest!

Pardon me, lady, but it moves my won­der still, that such a man could ever gain your love. You say you saw a hero. What has Pi­zarro done to gain the title?

Ask Spain, ask Europe, ask both hemis­pheres that question. When with a pigmy vessel and one hundred men he quitted Panama, to con­quer an unknown world, my heart whispered, "This is a brave man." But when upon the lit­tle island Gallo, he drew a line with his sword in the sand, and permitted all to abandon him who chose to pass that line; when only thirteen trusty men swore to follow, and he at their head dedicat­ed himself to death, my heart cried aloud, "A hero!"

Were fame herself enamoured of Pizarro, she could not sound his praises in loftier key than does Elvira. But believe me, lady, Pizarro's brilliant actions belong only to the past. As long as Alonzo de Molina instructs and leads the ene­my, Pizarro's heart will not be gladdened by the shouts of victory.

He comes.

Look not confounded. Put on an honest face, man, if thou canst.

Secure him—I will examine him myself.

Why dost thou smile, Elvira?

To laugh and weep, without being obliged to give a reason, are among the few privileges we women enjoy.

I will know the cause.

"I will, I will!" But, unfortunately for your curiosity, I will not.

Donna Elvira laughed at my fears.

Fears! What fears?

That the enemy, through superior num­bers and the instructions of Alonzo de Molina—

Alonzo! Only women, and men more weak than women, could think of danger from a source so mean. The ungrateful traitor! How I once loved that man! His noble mother en­trusted him a boy to my protection. He feasted at my table—he slept in my tent. I saw the spark of heroism in his soul, and hoped to fan it to a flame.—Oft when I recounted our first adventures—what toils we struggled with—what perils we surmounted—how, landed on an un­known coast, famine, fatigue, discord within and thronging foes without, thinned our scanty ranks, while still I stood undaunted and main­tained my purpose and my power, in spite of growling mutiny and bold revolt, till with my faithful few I stood victorious!—Then would the youth Alonzo, with tears of wonder and delight, fall on my neck, and swear his soul's ambition knew no other leader.

And whose rude foot destroyed the hope­ful seed?

Smooth-tongued Las Casas. He it was, with fascinating craft and canting precepts of hu­manity, raised in Alonzo's mind a visionary en­thusiasm, which forced him, as the stripling term­ed it, to forego his country's claims for those of human nature.

And so become thy enemy and Spain's.

But first, with weariless remonstrance, he strove to win me from my purpose, and wrest the [Page 13] sword from my determined grasp, calling the Pe­ruvians our brethren.

Heathens our brethren! In that I see Las Casas.

But when he found that his tears fell on marble, he flew and joined the foe: then, profit­ing by the lessons he had gained in wronged Pi­zarro's school, the youth so disciplined and led his new allies, that soon he forced me—Ha! I burn with shame and fury while I own it!—in base discomfiture to quit the shore.

But the hour of revenge is come.

It is!—With mightier power, a second time I tread Peruvia's strand. Soon shall Alonzo know Pizarro lives.

It is yet a question, whether Alonzo lives.

Even now, one of his armour-bearers is made prisoner. He says the foe is full twelve thousand strong, led by Alonzo and a chief called Rolla. This day they sacrifice unto their God. We must profit by their security; attack them un­prepared, and make their altars reek with human blood.

Right! The lead­ers obey my summons to counsel—and then—to battle! Elvira, retire!

Why?

Men are to meet here.

O, men! men! ungrateful and perverse. O, woman! still affectionate, though wronged. Those beings to whom in prosperity you look for added rapture, and on whose bosoms you seek for rest in adversity, when the pompous follies of your mean ambition is the question, you treat as play-things or as slaves. I shall remain.

Remain, then, and be silent if thou canst.

I shall think—and the thoughtful are al­ways silent.

There's somewhat in her manner lately—

Pizarro, we attend your summons.

Venerable father, welcome! Welcome, friends and fellow-soldiers! The moment has ar­rived which, to Pizarro's hopes, presents the full reward of our undaunted enterprize and long en­during toils. The enemy to-day, sunk in securi­ty, devote themselves to solemn sacrifice. Let us surprize them. Death to the armed—to the de­fenceless, chains!

Death to the whole unbelieving race.

For the honor of our faith.

Blaspheme not! The basis of the Christian faith is love!

We suffer famine, and the soldiers mur­mur.

Whilst Alonzo, basking at his ease, mocks at our sufferings.

You do him wrong. My heart tells me, that the struggles in Alonzo's bosom, between benevolence and patriotism, have left him little ease.

'Tis fit Las Casas should defend his pupil.

He is my pupil, and I glory in him.

Name not the traitor! Are we agreed for battle?

All! lead us to battle, Pizarro!

Battle!

What a frightful echo! Battle! Gra­cious heavens! against whom? Against a king who but yet a few days past stretched out to you the hand of friendship and of peace. Against a people who never wronged the living being their creator formed. A people, who, children of in­nocence! received you with hospitality and kind­ness. Generously and freely did they share with you their comforts, their treasures and their homes: you repaid them by fraud, oppression and dis­honor. These eyes have witnessed all I speak— as gods you were received; as fiends have you acted.

They are heathens.

They are men. Hear me Pizarro! Hear me ye chieftains! And thou all-powerful! whose thunders can rive the adamantive rock, and whose light and warmth can melt the icy moun­tain into refreshing rivulets—Oh! let thy power give effect to thy servant's words, as the conscious­ness of right gives courage to his will! Do not, I implore you, countrymen—do not renew the foul barbarities which your insatiate avarice has inflicted on this wretched, unoffending race. The scenes which I have seen and could describe, would force tears from the eyes of tygers.—Hush my sighs —drops of bitterness! choak not my utterance!—

You exaggerate, Las Casas.

O, would to God I had already said the half of what I know! Donna Elvira—you weep! —Alas! does the woe of this people move no other hearts than thine and mine?

There are no other women here but she and thou.

Close this idle war of words. Time flies, and our opportunity will be lost. Comrades, are you for battle?

We are!

O! send me once more to those you call your enemies. O! let me bear the words of penitence and peace, and preach our blessed reli­gion uninterrupted by the cries of blood!

The sword of your hero shall prepare your way.

God! thou hast anointed me thy servant, not to curse, but to bless. But blessings on these men were blasphemy. No! I curse your pur­pose, fratricides. I curse the bond of blood by which you are united. May fell division, infamy, and rout, defeat your purpose and rebuke your hopes. I leave you, and forever! No longer will I be the witness of these horrors. In caves and forests will I hide myself. With tygers and with savage beasts commune. And, when we meet before him whose mild doctrines you have this day renounced, tremble at the sight of your ac­cuser!

Las Casas! O, take me with thee, Las Casas!

Nay, stay! Be thou the guardian of the innocent. Perhaps thy loveliness may move to pity, where reason and religion plead in vain. Per­haps thou art marked by heaven as the protecting angel of suffering Peru!

Elvira! wouldst thou leave me?

I am bewildered. I am awaking from a dream. Las Casas has aroused me. O! to my fancy, he appeared, but now, a being supernatural; and you—a herd beneath humanity.

Compassion sometimes becomes a woman.

Humanity alway becomes a conqueror.

Now to prepare our muster and our march. At mid day is the hour of sacrifice. Then, Alma­gro, march you with the left division through the wood. You, Gonzalo, climb the hills with the right. I push straight forward. If we surprize, we conquer; and if we conquer, the gates of Qui­to will be open to us.

Then shall we hail thee monarch of Peru!

Not so fast. Ataliba still must retain the shadow of power; Pizarro still appear dependent upon Spain. While the pledge of future peace, his daughter's hand, secures my succession to the throne.

Pizarro is both hero and statesman.

You mark, Elvira.

'Tis excellent.

Elvira—you seem offended.

Offended?—No!—Thou knowest thy glo­ry is my idol; and this is most glorious, most just and honorable.

What mean you?

Oh! nothing—mere woman's prattle. Let it not impede the royal hero's course.

The call of arms invites you. Away! away! ye valiant warriors.

And go you not with me?

Undoubtedly! I must be the first to hail the future monarch of Peru.

What bringest thou, Davilla?

A prisoner. The guards on yonder hill, among the palms, have surprized an old cacique. [Page 18] He resisted not; but every word he utters is fraught with bitterness and scorn.

Lead him hither.

Who art thou?

Where is the leader of this band of rob­bers?

Ha!

Madman! Tear out his tongue!

Or else you'll hear the truth.

Shall I not plunge this to his heart?

Does your army boast many such heroes as this?

Grey-headed ruffian, thou shalt die.

That have I known since first I knew to live.

Less insolence perhaps had saved thy life.

My life is a withered tree—it is not worth preserving.

Purchase our friendship, and our swords shall place thee at the head of thy people.

That was ever my station in the hour of danger.

We now march against your army. Be our guide through the wood, and we will load you with treasure.

Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Dost thou despise my offer?

Compared to mine, thy wealth is beggary. My treasures are so great, I cannot ask the boun­teous gods for more.

Indeed! In what do they consist?

First of my wealth, I count two valiant sons, armed for their country. The rest consists [Page 19] of eighty active years spent in that country's ser­vice; these are the treasures Orozimbo counts— for every day a deed of righteousness.

'Tis not such wealth we seek, or question of.

No. Else had you never vexed the trou­bled seas, or stained these shores with blood. The treasures of the soul are found at home.

How numerous is your army?

Count the trees of the forest.

Which is the weakest part of your camp?

It has no weak part—on every side 'tis fortified by justice.

At what hour do you offer sacrifice to your God?

The sacrifice of thankful hearts, every hour of the day.

Where have you concealed your wives and children?

In the hearts of their husbands and fathers.

Knowest thou Alonzo?

Know him! The benefactor of our nation!

By what has he merited that title?

By being the reverse of thee.

Who is this Rolla, joined in command with Alonzo?

The first of heroes, and the best of men! The kinsman of the king, the idol of the army, the friend of Alonzo, the lover of Cora; a lover who gave his beloved to the man she loved, and loved that man for her sake.

Romantic savage!—I shall meet this Rolla soon.

Thou hadst better not! Thou art not fit for death.

Silence, old savage.

Why silence? When I address my God, I speak the truth; and shall I fear to speak the truth to man?

Silence, or tremble.

Beardless robber! I never yet have trem­bled before God—why should I tremble before man? before thee, thou less than man?

Another word thou heathen dog, and I strike thee to the earth.

Strike, Christian! Then boast among your fellows—"I too have murdered a Peruvian!"

To hell with thee!

Hold!

Could'st thou longer have endured his in­sults?

And therefore should he die untortured?

Young man, you have lost a useful lesson; you might have seen with what cruelty vengeance inflicts torments, and with what patience virtue bears them.

O, you are monsters all! Look up thou martyred innocent—look up once more, and bless me ere thou diest. God! how I pity thee!

Pity me! me! so near my happiness.— My wife beckons me to the land of our fathers!— The sun smiles!—Spaniards—heaven turn your hearts and bless you!—

Valverde—Is not that the death of a chris­tian?

Follow me, friends! Each to his post; and, ere Peruvia's god shall sink beneath the main, the Spanish banners, bathed in blood, shall float above the walls of Quito.

Is it presumption, that my hopes gain strength as Pizarro's overbearing cruelty encreases?

I am mad with terror and remorse! Would I could fly these dreadful scenes!

Might not Valverde's true attachment be thy refuge?

What would'st thou do to deserve me?

One well aimed blow might save Peru— avenge Elvira's injuries!

Save this innocent people? Restore a na­tion's happiness?—Go—go—leave me alone.

One word, and he lies bleeding at thy feet.

No!—Shall murder also stand upon my soul? No!—Fie, Elvira! even for a moment to counsel with this unworthy traitor! Pizarro will abandon me!—me, who for his sake have sacri­ficed —Oh, God! what have I not sacrificed to him?—Abandon me? No! I abandon him! —I loved the hero; but despise the robber! My love is past—but hold—try him once more, Elvi­ra. And if he is lost to reason and humanity— abandon his unhallowed camp; nay, cast him to the dust from which he sprung.

SCENE FIRST.

Now confess, does he resemble thee or not?

He looks like thee much more.

No, no—his hair—the colour of his eyes! O! my lord's image, and my heart's adored!

The little urchin robs me of thy love.

O no, Alonzo!

At least he steals caresses which once were mine—and mine alone.

When the mother caresses her child, she never forgets the father. I live but in him and thee. Look, Alonzo! I am sure he will speak soon; then will be the last of the three great holi­days allowed by nature's sanction to the fond mo­ther's heart.

What are these three?

When first the white blossoms of his teeth appear, breaking the crimson buds that did encase them, that is a day of joy; next, when from his father's arms he runs without support, and clings, laughing and delighted, to his mother's knee, that is the mother's heart's next holliday. And sweeter still the third, whene'er his little stammering tongue shall utter the grateful sound of father! mother! O! that is the dearest joy of all!

Beloved Cora!

O, my Alonzo! daily will we pour our thanks to heaven!

To heaven, and Rolla!

Art thou not happy?

Can Cora ask that question?

Why then of late so restless on thy couch? Why do thy sighs torture thy Cora's car?

Must not I fight with my brethren?

With those who would destroy us. All men are brethren.

Should they prove victorious?

I will fly and meet thee on the mountains.

Fly!—with thy infant in thy arms?

Why not? Think you a mother, when she flies from danger, can feel the weight of her child?

Willingly would I share with you the precious burthen.—Cora—dear Cora—wouldst thou set my heart at rest?

Oh yes! yes! yes!

Fly then, now, even to-day, to the moun­tains, to thy aged father, there thou art safe. Then go it as it will, I feel secure. I either bring thee tidings of victory, or come to end my life, with thee, with innocence and nature.

And to rear up our son to be the deliverer of his country.

That will we!

Yes, but I cannot leave you, Alonzo. The thought of your danger will chain my feet. The thought of you wounded—alone—abandoned.— No, no, I cannot leave you.

Rolla will be with me.

Yes, where the battle rages. Rolla knows to deal wounds, but it is Cora's part to bind them. [Page 24] He will avenge, not save thee. No, where the husband is, there must the wife be also. I swear, not to leave thee until death!

Remain, then, soul of truth! And may God give us the victory!

Is not our cause just? The protection of heaven is with us.

If not—I shall die in thy arms.

O, speak not of death.—Since I have had thee and this little one—I cannot think of death.

O, excellence in all that's great and love­ly, in courage, gentleness and truth: my pride, content, my all! Can there on earth be fools who seek for happiness, and pass by love in the pur­suit?

Alonzo, I cannot thank you—silence is the language of love and gratitude.

Does the king approach?

No, 'tis Rolla, placing the guard which will surround the temple during the sacrifice. The first of heroes, and the best of friends.

Then place them on the hill fronting the Spanish camp.

Rolla! our brother.

Our more than brother—friend!

Right! A friend who shares your happi­ness.

Look on this child. If ever he does less for thee than for his father—his mother's hate be on him!

Enough, enough! the object of my love was Cora's happiness. I see her happy, and I am [Page 25] rewarded. Now, Cora, listen to a friend's advice. Fly with thy child, deep in the forest, or to the mountains; here thou art not safe.

Not safe with thee and Alonzo?

Pizarro's plan is to surprize us. Your presence will impede our efforts.

Impede?

Thou knowest how tenderly we love. If thou art near, our thoughts, our valor will not be our own. No advantage will be pursued that leads us from the spot where you are placed; no succour will be given but for your protection.

Rolla is right. How should I dare to pierce the Spanish ranks, if but one Spaniard should remain behind me, who might cut his way to the spot where my Cora remained defence­less. You must be safe, or Alonzo is no gene­ral!

This is flattering to the vanity of the woman, but the wife hears it not.

And is the mother also deaf?

My confidence in thee, and in the gods, would have supported me. But for thy peace, my husband, I obey thee.

Thank thee, my Cora.

Hark! the king approaches to sacrifice. Rol­la, is every post prepared against surprize?

All is prepared.

Then shall Cora, upon the rocky altar of the mountain, in the temple of nature, implore a blessing on the efforts of the husband and the friend.

Yes, Cora, the pious supplications of the trembling wife and mother's heart, rise to the throne of mercy, the most resistless prayer of hu­man homage.

SCENE SECOND.

Welcome, Alonzo! Rolla! my kinsman, thy hand.

Heaven bless thee, joyful mother!

May the sun bless the father of his people!

The children's welfare is the father's joy.

Friends, what is the temper of our soldiers?

Their joyful shout is, "The father of his people is with us!"

"He shares in our dangers and our toils!"

"God and the king!"

"Victory or death!"

I know my people! When this shield is pierced, not a man but will lend me his breast! But, tell me, where are our enemies?

In their camp; motionless, but portending mischief. Like the thunder-cloud on the brow of the distant mountain.

Tranquil courage be our safeguard.

They fight for gold, we for our country.

A robber leads them to battle, but with us is the beloved of his people.

And the god of our fathers! Come, friends, prepare for the sacrifice.

The enemy!

How near?

As I approached their camp from the brow of the hill, I beheld them suddenly rush out.

We know enough.

Lead the women and children to the place of safety.

Oh, Alonzo!

We shall meet again.

Bless thy son.

The blessing of heaven be on him and thee.

Haste, haste—the moments are precious.

Farewell, Alonzo. Remember, thy life is mine.

Sayest thou not a word to me, Cora.

Bring me back Alonzo.

Now, my brethren, my sons, my friends, I know your valor. Should ill success assail us, be despair the last feeling of your hearts. If successful, let mercy be the first. Alonzo, to you I give to defend the narrow pas­sage of the mountains. On the right of the wood be Rolla's station. For me, straight forward will I march to meet them, and fight until I see my peo­ple saved, or they behold their monarch fall. Be the word of battle—God and our native land.

SCENE THIRD.

Here, my friend, we separate.—Soon, I trust, to meet again in triumph.

Or, perhaps, we part to meet no more. Rolla, a moment's pause; we are yet before our army's strength; one earnest word at parting.

There is in language now no word but battle.

Yes, one word more—Cora!

Cora!—Speak!

The next hour brings us—

Death or victory!

It may be victory to one—death to the other.

Or both may fall.

If so, my wife and child I bequeath to the protection of heaven and the king. But should I only fall, Rolla, be thou my heir.

How?

Be Cora thy wife—be thou a father to my child.

Rouse thee, Alonzo! Banish these timid fancies.

Rolla! I have tried in vain, and cannot fly from the foreboding which oppresses me. Thou knowest it will not shake me in the fight: but give me thy promise.

If it be Cora's will.—Yes—I promise.—

Tell her it was my last wish! And bear to her and to my son, my last blessing.

I will.—Now then to our posts, and let our swords speak for us.

Yet one moment. Let my body be bu­ried under the palm-tree, where we are wont in the evening to sit, and desert not the place after my death, but do thou and Cora, each evening visit the palm and sit on the grave of your friend.— And when my boy breaks a flower from the swerd of the grave, or the wind rustles among the palm-leaves —then think of Alonzo.

Away with these fancies.

Then think on me.

That will we.

Now, then, away to the fight!

Thee left, I right.

For the king and Cora!

For Cora and the king!

SCENE FOURTH.

Hark! I hear the din of battle! Oh, my sight! had I retained my sight, I might now have grasped a sword, and died the death of a sol­dier.

Shall I lead you back to your hut?

No. Are we quite alone?

Yes. My father is with the army, and my mother I know not where.

I am anxious for you, poor boy.

I can stay with you, dear grandfather.

But should the enemy come, they will drag thee from me, dear boy.

Impossible, grandfather! for they will see at once that you are old and blind, and cannot do without me.

Poor child—you little know these men.

Hark! can you see nothing, boy?

We are too low.

Is there no hill near us?

I can climb this rock, and the tree above it.

Haste.

This is the first fight without me. The day was, when I could bend as stout a bow as that which Rolla bears. But now, now must I hear only how the swords glitter and the shields clash—and, at the sound of the war-horn, I strike my hand upon my thigh, but no longer find a sword.—Now, boy, what seest thou?

Dust and smoke. Now the smoke is blown off—I see our people.

Marching forwards?

They stand.

Do you see the standard of the Incas?

It waves in the midst.

Thanks to the gods—the king lives!

Now I see the enemy.—Now they mix with our people.

And fall?—

It thunders and lightens!—The standard of the Inca falls.

Come down!—Come down!—See no more!

Our army retreats.

My sword! My sword! O glorious sun! Only one hour let thy light reach my eyes!

A small troop comes this way—

Spaniards?

The heads of their lances glitter—

Fly, boy—fly to the mountains.

Will you seek my mother?

My grave, boy—my open grave!

My wound is bound; the hurt is nothing. I may return to the field.

Pardon your servant; but the allotted priest, who attends the sacred banner, has pro­nounced, that the Inca's blood once shed, no blessing can await the day until he leave the field.

Hard restraint! O, my brave soldiers! Hard, that I may no longer be a witness of their valor. But haste your return to your comrades; I will not keep one soldier from his post. Go, and avenge your fallen brethren.

I will not repine; my own fate is the least anxiety of my heart. It is for you, my people, that I feel and fear.

I hear an unfortunate. Who is the moaner?

A wretch abandoned—almost by hope.

Lives the king still?

He lives.

Then are you not abandoned. Ataliba protects the meanest of his children.

And who shall protect Ataliba?

The gods.

Their anger is upon him.

That cannot be. He hath never with­held justice or oppressed the weak; he hath never fattened his courtiers with the sweat of the pea­sants. He hath never shut his hand to the poor, or his car to the unfortunate.

God! thou hast thrown into this bitter hour the sweetest moment of my life!

O, father! stranger! see these hideous men that rush upon us yonder.

Ha! Spaniards! And I—Ataliba—ill-fated fugitive, without a sword to try the ransom of a monarch's life.

'Tis he—our hopes are answered—I know him well—it is the king!

Away! follow with your royal prize.— Avoid those Peruvians though in flight. This way we may regain our line.

The king! Wretched old man, that could not see his gracious form!—Boy, would thou hadst led me to the reach of those ruffian's swords.

Father! all our countrymen are flying here for refuge.

No!—to the rescue of their king—they will never desert him.

Hold, I charge you! Rolla calls you.

We cannot combat with their dreadful engines.

Hold, recreants! cowards! What, fear ye death? and fear not shame? By my soul's fu­ry, I cleave to the earth the first of you that stirs [Page 35] —or plunge your dastard swords into your leader's heart, that he no more may witness your disgrace. Where is the king?

From this old man and boy I learn, that the detachment of the enemy, which you observ­ed so suddenly to quit the field, have succeeded in surprizing him; they are yet in sight.

And bear the Inca off a prisoner? Hear this, ye base, disloyal rout! Look there! The dust you see hangs on the bloody Spaniards track, dragging with ruffian taunts your king, your fa­ther!—Ataliba in bondage. Now fly, and seek your own vile safety, if you can.

Bless the voice of Rolla!—and bless the stroke I once lamented, but which now spares these extinguished eyes the shame of seeing the pale trembling wretches, who dare not follow Rolla, though to save the king!

Shrink ye from the thunder of the foe— and fall ye not at this rebuke? Oh! had ye each but one drop of the loyal blood, which gushes to waste through the brave heart of this sightless vete­ran! Eternal shame pursue you, if you desert me now! But do—alone I go—alone—to die with glory by my monarch's side!

Rolla! We'll follow thee.

God and our native land.

O, godlike Rolla!—And thou sun, send from thy clouds avenging lightning to his aid!— Haste, my boy; ascend some height, and tell to my impatient terror what thou seest.

O—now I see them—now—yes—and the Spaniards turning by the steep.

Rolla follows them?

He does—he does—he moves like an ar­row!—now he waves his arm to our soldiers.—

Now there is fire and smoke.

Yes, fire is the weapon of those fiends.

The wind blows off the smoke; they are all mixed together.

Seest thou the king?

Yes—Rolla is near him! his sword sheds fire as he strikes!

Bless thee, Rolla! Spare not the mon­sters.

Father! father! The Spaniards fly—O— now I see the king embracing Rolla.

Fountain of life! how can my exhausted breath bear to thee thanks for this one moment of my life! My boy, come down, and let me kiss thee.—My strength is gone!

Let me help you, father—you tremble so—

'Tis with transport, boy! It is with transport!—

In the name of my people, the saviour of whose sovereign you have this day been, accept this emblem of his gratitude.

The tear that falls upon it may for a moment dim its lustre, yet does it not impair the value of the gift.

It was the hand of heaven, not mine, that saved the king.

Now, soldier, what news from Alonzo?

Alonzo's genius soon repaid the panic which broke our ranks; but I fear we have to mourn Alonzo's loss; his eager spirit urged him too far in the pursuit.

How! Alonzo slain?

I saw him fall.

Trust me, I beheld him up again and fight­ing—he was then surrounded and disarmed.

O! victory, dearly purchased!

O, Cora! Who shall tell thee this?

Rolla, our friend is lost—our native coun­try saved! Our private sorrows must yield to the public claim for triumph. Now go we to fulfil the first, the most sacred duty which belongs to victory—to dry the widowed and the orphaned tear of those whose brave protectors have perished in their country's cause.

SCENE FIRST.

Zuluga, seest thou nothing yet?

Yes, two Peruvian soldiers; one on the hill, the other entering a thicket in the vale.

One more has passed.—He comes —but pale and terrified.

My heart will start from my bosom.

Well! joy or death?

The battle is against us. The king is wounded and a prisoner.

Despair and misery!

And Alonzo?

I saw him not.

O, whither must we fly?

Deeper into the forest.

I shall not move.

Still there is hope—the battle turns.

Hope?

Rolla has rallied the troops.—They rush upon the enemy—

And Alonzo?

I saw him not.

Victory! victory!

Does the king live?

He lives—Rolla has saved him—saved his country!

And Alonzo?

I saw him not.

Thanks, thanks, my children! I am well; believe it; the blood once stopped, my wound was nothing.

Where is Alonzo?

Give me my husband; give this child his father.

I grieve that Alonzo is not here.

Hoped you to find him?

Most anxiously.

Ataliba, is he not dead?

No! the gods will have heard our prayers.

Is he not dead, Ataliba?

He lives—in my heart.

O, king! torture me not thus! Speak out, is this child fatherless?

Dearest Cora! do not thus dash aside the little hope that still remains.

The little hope! Yet still there is hope! Speak to me, Rolla, you are the friend of truth.

Alonzo has not been found.

Not found! What mean you? Will not you, Rolla, tell me the truth? Oh! let not the lightning linger in its course—Straight to my heart let it pierce. Say not that he is not found; say, at once, that he is dead.

Then should I say false.

False! Blessings on thee for that word! But snatch me from this terrible suspense. Lift up thy little hands, my child; perhaps thy inno­cence may plead better than thy mother's agony.

Alonzo is taken prisoner.

Prisoner! And by the Spaniards? Pizar­ro's prisoner? Then is he dead.

Hope better—the richest ransom which our realm can yield, a herald shall this instant bear.

Oh! for Alonzo's ransom—our gold, our gems!—all! all!—Here, dear Cora— here! here!

Yes, for Alonzo's ransom they would give all!—I thank thee, Father, who hast given me such hearts to rule over!

Now, one boon more, beloved monarch. Let me go with the herald.

Remember, Cora, thou art not a wife on­ly, but a mother too. Hazard not your own ho­nor, and the safety of your infant. Among these barbarians, the sight of thy youth, thy loveliness and innocence would but rivet faster your Alon­zo's chains, and rack his heart with added fears for thee. Wait, Cora, the return of the herald.

Teach me how to live till then.

Now we go to offer to the gods, thanks for our victory, and prayers for our Alonzo's safety.

SCENE SECOND.

What will become of thee—precious trea­sure—the fountain of thy life is dried up.

Cora, I attend your summons.

O, my child, my boy! hast thou still a father?

Cora, can thy child be fatherless, while Rolla lives?

Will he not soon want a mother too?—Or thinkest thou I can survive Alonzo's loss?

Yes! for his child's sake.

Poor child! shall it be nourished by the tears of its mother?

Listen to Alonzo's friend—

Alonzo's friend! Who was not the friend of Alonzo?

His last words before the battle—

His last words—speak!

He consigned to me, two precious trusts— his blessing for his son, and his last request to thee.

His last request! His last!—O, name it.

"If I fall" said he, and grasped my hand, "be Cora thy wife."

Thy wife!

I gave my word, and we pa [...]d.

What a horrid light rushes on me! O, Alonzo! thou hast fallen a victim to thy heart's confidence! Hadst thou been silent—hadst thou not made these fatal charms a legacy to—

What a frightful image has seized thy soul!—

'Tis clear—his spirit was ensnared; he was led to the fatal spot where mortal valor could not front a host of murderers. He fell—in vain did he exclaim for help to Rolla. At a distance you looked on and smiled. You could have saved him—could—but did not.

O, glorious sun! Can I have deserved this? Cora, rather bid me strike this sword into my heart.

No! live! live for love! for that love thou seekest; whose blossoms are to shoot from the bleeding grave of thy betrayed and slaughtered friend!—But thou hast borne to me the last words of my Alonzo! Now hear mine. Sooner shall [Page 43] this boy draw poison from this tortured breast— sooner would I link me to the pallid corse of the meanest wretch that perished with Alonzo, than he call Rolla father—than I call Rolla husband!

Yet call me what I am—thy friend, thy protector!

Away! I have no protec­tor but my God!—With this child in my arms, will I hasten to the field of slaughter. There, with these hands, will I turn up to the light every man­gled body. Seeking, however by death disfigured, the sweet smile of my Alonzo.—With fearful cries will I shriek out his name, till my veins snap! If the smallest spark of life remains, he will know the voice of his Cora, open for a moment his unshrouded eyes, and bless me with a last look; but if we find him not—Oh! then, my boy, we will to the Spanish camp.—That look of thine, will win me passage through a thousand swords— they too are men. Is there a heart that could drive back a wife that seeks her bleeding husband; or the innocent babe that cries for his imprisoned father? No, no, my child, every where we shall be safe. A wretched mother, bearing a poor or­phan in her arms, has nature's passport through the world. Yes, yes, my son, we'll go and seek thy father.

Could I have merited one breath of thy reproaches, Cora, I should be the wretch—I think I was not formed to be. Her safety must be my present purpose— then to convince her she has wronged me!

SCENE THIRD.

Well, capricious idol, fortune, be my ruin thy work and boast. To myself I will still be true. Yet ere I fall, grant me thy smile to prosper in one act of vengeance, and be that smile Alonzo's death.

Who's there? Who dares intrude? Why do my guards neglect their duty?

Your guards did what they could; but they knew their duty better, than to enforce authority when I refused obedience.

And what is your desire?

To see how a hero bears misfortunes.

Why didst thou not see me in the midst of my flying army, when, with this arm, I struck the fugitives to the earth? Thou shouldst have seen me amidst my o'erpowered soldiers, when the heads of thousands sunk low—Then stood Pizar­ro like a rock amidst the waters, nor bowed his head even to destiny.

I doubt not thy greatness in the roar of bat­tle or the tumult of defeat. But to know a hero thoroughly, I must see him in his tent, and alone.

Here seest thou me. Am I humbled by defeat? Do you hear a fruitless complaint from my lips?

Fie! Complaint! None but priests and women complain.—But thy brow is dark. Thou art not collected and serene.

Shall I rejoice that the bravest hearts of my followers have been pierced by the spears of the foe?

Cold and silent shouldst thou be, as the night that follows the storm. The morning breaks, and, with strength renewed, reanimated by the beams of the new sun, the hero walks forth, and is again himself.

Woman!—Why on this day were not all my men like thee?

Then had my hand this day placed the crown of Quito on thy head.

Oh, Elvira! the flame of my hope glim­mers weakly, while the scourge of my life, Alonzo de Molina, directs the power of Peru.

Pizarro, I am come to probe the hero far­ther; not now his courage, but his magnanimity —Alonzo is your prisoner.

How?

Valverde saw him, even now, brought in chains to the camp.

Alonzo in my power!—Oh, then, I am the conqueror! The power of Peru is over­thrown!

Believe me, you raise my impatience to see the man before whom Pizarro trembles without hope.

Guards!

Bring hither the Spanish prisoner.

What shall be his fate?

Death!

Shame on thee! Shall the world say, that Pizarro could not conquer, until he had murdered Alonzo?

Be it said—I care not. His fate is sealed.

Follow then thy will; but, mark me, if basely thou dost shed the blood of this brave youth, Elvira's lost to thee forever.

Why this interest for a stranger? What is Alonzo's fate to thee?

His fate—nothing! Thy glory—every thing! Thinkest thou I could love thee, stript of fame, of honor, and a just renown? Know me better.

Thou shouldst have known me better. Thou shouldst have known, that, once provoked to hate, I am forever fixed in vengeance.

Welcome, Don Alonzo de Molina; it is long since we saw each other.

And yet we [...] too soon, Pizarro.

Thy looks are mended since our parting.

Yet have I not fattened on the blood and spoil of the unoffending.

What is thy secret, midst the toils of war, still to preserve the bloom of careless ease?

Thou wilt not profit by it. Whatever the hardships or the cares of war, peace reigns un­shaken here.

Sarcastic boy!

Thou art answered rightly. Why sport with the unfortunate.

We will no longer sport then. Alonzo, to-morrow thou diest.

Pizarro—no!

Hence!—or dread my anger.

I will not hence, nor do I dread thy anger.

Generous lady! Spare thy unavailing pity. Seek not to thwart the tyger with his prey beneath his fangs.

Audacious rebel! Thou, a renegado from thy monarch and thy God!

'Tis false.

Art thou not, tell me, a deserter from thy country's legions—and, with vile heathens leagued, hast thou not warred against thy native land?

No! Deserter I am none! I was not born among robbers! pirates! murderers!— When those legions, lured by the abhorred lust of gold, and by thy foul ambition urged, forgot the honor of Castilians, and forsook the duties of humanity, they forsook me. I have not war­red against my native land, but against those who have usurped its power. The banners of my country, when first I followed arms beneath them, were Justice, Faith and Mercy. If these are beaten down and trampled under foot—I have no country, nor exists the power entitled to reproach me with revolt.

The power to judge and punish thee, at least, exists.

Where are my judges?

Thou wouldst appeal to the war council?

If the good Las Casas have yet a seat there, yes; if not, I appeal to heaven!

And to impose upon the folly of Las Casas, what would be the excuses of thy treason?

The folly of Las Casas!—Such, doubtless, his mild precepts seem to thy hard-hearted wisdom! O! would I might have lived as I will die, a sha­rer in the follies of Las Casas!

With him I should not need to urge the foul barbarities which drove me from your side; but I would gently lead him by the hand through all the lovely fields of Quito; there, in many a spot where late was barrenness and waste, I would show him how now the opening blossom, blade, or perfumed bud, sweet bashful pledges of deli­cious harvest, wafting their incense to the ripen­ing sun, give cheerful promise to the hope of in­dustry. This, I would say, is my work! Next I should tell how hurtful customs, and supersti­tions strange and sullen, would often scatter and dismay the credulous minds of these deluded in­nocents; and then would I point out to him, where now, in clustered villages, they live like brethren, social and confiding, while through the burning day content sits basking on the cheek of toil, till laughing pastime leads them to the hour of rest—this too is mine!—And prouder yet—at that still pause between exertion and repose, be­longing not to pastime, labor, or to rest, but un­to him who sanctions and ordains them all, I would show him many an eye, and many a hand, by gentleness from error won, raised in pure de­votion to the true and only God!—this too, I could tell him is Alonzo's work!—Then would Las Casas clasp me in his aged arms; from his [Page 49] uplifted eyes a tear of gracious thankfulness would fall upon my head, and that one blessed drop would be to me at once this world's best proof, that I had acted rightly here, and surest hope of my creator's mercy and reward hereafter.

Thou art what thou ever wast—an enthu­siast.

When this enthusiasm abandons me, I shall become worthy—of Pizarro's friendship.

Proud boy. Away and prepare for death.

I am always prepared.

The first beams of to-morrow's sun shall see thee die.

Thy [...]geance is hasty. I thank thee for it.

Hold Alonzo!—Pizarro, this man shall not die.

Art thou mad?

If not justly, at least, act greatly. Name not thy country's wrongs—'tis plain they have no share in thy resentment. Thy fury against this man is private hate, and deadly personal 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.

What! arm his hand again to shed the blood of his brethren?

Robbers were never my brethren.

Away! Thou knowest thy sentence.

I do. For thee, lady, accept my thanks. This camp is not thy proper sphere. Wert thou among yon savages, as they are called, thou wouldst find companions more congenial to thy heart. For there reigns nature and humanity.

How I admire this man!

Soon mayest thou say, I did admire him.

Meanest thou he will be dead?

As surely as the sun shall rise.

Pizarro—spare him.

Again Elvira?

Yes, and a thousand times again. Let me be the instrument of his salvation, and a thousand times will you bless me for sparing you the curses of a world. Think, Pizarro, think of the fame you have gained. All Europe, resounds with thy deeds. "He landed," they cry, "with a hand­ful of men in a strange land: after having con­quered dangers innumerable of unknown seas, he rendered the arms of Spain victorious over a mighty kingdom.—He is a hero!"

And if I crush the only obstacle to my complete success, what will they say?

They will say, "Pizarro trembled before Alonzo de Molina; chance gave him Alonzo in chains, and he meanly murdered, like a cowardly assassin, the man he could not conquer."

Elvira, no more! Leave me.

Pizarro, you no longer love me.

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

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 thine own sake, tear it asunder—shed not Alonzo's blood!

My resolution is fixed.

Even though that moment lost you Elvira forever?

Even so.

Pizarro, remember the sacrifices I have made for thy sake. 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?

'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.

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

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

Alonzo then at morn will die?

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

Then be it done—the string is cracked— sundered forever. But mark me—thou hast here­tofore had cause, 'tis true, to doubt my resolu­tion, however 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 unshaken by its bloody purpose, which 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!

I have heard thee, Elvira, and I 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 sun-rise!

'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 has appalled! Thou, who on Panama's brow didst make alliance with the raging elements, that tore the silence of that horrid night—when thou didst follow, as thy pioneer, the crashing thunder's drift, and stalking o'er the trembling earth, didst plant thy banner by the red volcano's mouth! Thou, who, when battling on the sea, and thy brave ship was blown to splinters, wast seen—as thou didst bestride a fragment of the smoking wreck—to wave thy glittering sword above thy head—as thou wouldst defy the world in that ex­tremity!—Come fearless man—now meet the last and fellest peril of thy life—meet! and survive— an injured woman's fury, if thou canst.

SCENE FIRST.

For the last time, through the cleft dun­geon's roof, I now behold the quivering lustre of the stars. Despise death. So spoke the enlight­ened among the Greeks and Romans—heathens confident in wisdom. And shall a christian trem­ble?—The vigorous youth struggles against a pre­mature death—a death in the morning of life. No, Alonzo, date not thy life, which thou hast run, by the mean reckoning of the hours and days which thou hast breathed: a life spent worthily, should be measured by a nobler line—by deeds of usefulness and hours of bliss.—Deeds which have made a nation happy, and hours enriched by Co­ra's love—Cora!—Ah, there I draw upon the cord that binds me to the world!—My wife! my child! —Here the tears of love hold me, and there the smiles of innocence. Yes, Cassius, thou wast not a husband! Seneca, thou wast not a father! Loud cries the voice of nature, "Live"—and my heart re-echoes the tone.—Yes!—Lord of my destiny! I wish to live!

Don Alonzo de Molina, here are refresh­ments for you.

Who sends you?

I am here on guard.

Am I to thank you for this kindness?

No. Your fate makes my heart ach when I remember your former goodness to the soldiery —but I cannot help you. I am poor. Donna Elvira sends this refreshment.

Return it with my thanks.

Will you not taste the wine?

I only drink water.

But in your situation—it will give you courage to meet your fate.

My friend, I pity the wretch who has no other source from whence to draw courage. Take the wine—the night is cold—it may do thee good.

You are a noble gentleman Don Alonzo. I could lament your fate, but that it is a sin to pity a heathen.

Poor fellow—he knows not what he says! Father of the afflicted! thy refreshing streams quicken the flowers at the foot of the Pyrennees as well as at the base of the Cordilleras. Thou hast placed the cross upon our altars as the token of mercy, but thou smilest on the sun, which adorns the bosom of the Incas.

Don Alonzo.

Donna Elvira! Such a visit—at this hour?

When we hasten to relieve the oppressed we count not the hours.

It is the last of my life.

I say to thee, "No."

Pizarro has sworn my death.

And I, thy life.

I thank thee, but I know to die.

Dost thou suffer willingly?

If I answered in the affirmative, I should deceive both myself and thee.

Thou art married. Wouldst thou make thy wife a widow?

My destiny is in the hand of my God.

Such are the words of those who dare not govern their own fortunes. Hast thou children?

One pledge of the purest love.

Wouldst thou make thy child an orphan?

O, my Fernando!

Alonzo, thou art a true hero, thou art the benefactor of thy fellow-men. Thou hast been the guardian angel of Peru and hast added the blessings of science to the blessings which nature and innocence had already bestowed on that re­gion: and wilt, thou now without a struggle quit thy post, when one manly exertion could save an unoffending people from destruction?

What meanest thou?

The destroyer of Peru will to-morrow be the murderer of Alonzo. Take this dagger and follow me. Pizarro now sleeps in his tent. His death will spread confusion through the camp, aided by which we may escape to the Peruvians. There shall I feel the joyful tears of thy wife upon my cheek, and hear thy child lisp the name of his father. Alonzo, follow me.

Murder a sleeping man?

Thy bitterest enemy.

Over my bitterest enemy would I cast my shield, to protect him from harm while he slept.

Not thy foe alone, but the foe of mankind. Determine.

I am resolved.

Then follow me.

To the rack sooner than to dishonor.— There was a time when this Pizarro loved me: when each danger of the field, and each pleasure of the board were shared with Alonzo. A hundred times have I slept by his side—and shall I, sleeping, kill him?

He has torn asunder every band which uni­ted you.

Except the remembrance of past kindness.

Enthusiast! I abandon thee. Yet bethink thee—the morning's grey already appears in the east—its red is the signal of death. I will leave thee for a few minutes and return, if Pizarro wakes not, to learn thy last resolve.

Alonzo's resolves are ever the same, un­changeable as the nature of virtue. God be with my wife!—God and Rolla!

I must speak with him.

You must not, father.

He is my friend.

Not if he were your brother.

What is to be his fate?

He dies at sunrise.

Ha!—Then I am come in time.

Just—to witness his death.

Soldier—I must speak with him.

Back—back. It is impossible!—

I do intreat you, but for one moment!

You intreat in vain—my orders are most strict.

Look on this wedge of massive gold—look on these precious gems. In thy own land, they will be wealth for thee and thine, beyond thy hope or wish. Take them—they are thine—let me pass one minute with Alonzo.

Away!—wouldst thou corrupt me?—Me! —an old Castilian!—I know my duty better.

Soldier!—hast thou a wife?

I have.

Hast thou children?

Four—honest, lively boys.

Where didst thou leave them?

In my native village—even in the cot where myself was born.

Dost thou love thy children and thy wife?

Do I love them? God knows my heart— I do.

Soldier! imagine thou wert doomed to die a cruel death in this strange land: what would be thy last request?

That some of my comrades should carry my dying blessing to my wife and children.

Oh! but if that comrade was at thy prison gate—and should there be told—thy fellow-soldier dies at sun-rise—yet thou shalt not for a moment see him—nor shalt thou bear his dying blessing to his poor children, or his wretched wife. What wouldst thou think of him, who thus could drive thy comrade from thy door?

How!

Alonzo has a wife and a child—I am come but to receive for her, and for her babe, the last blessing of my friend.

Go in—

Oh! holy nature! thou dost never plead in vain. There is not, of our earth, a creature bearing form, and life, human or savage—native of the forest wild, or giddy air—around whose parent bosom, thou hast not a cord entwined of power to tie them to their offspring's claims, and at thy will to draw them back to thee. On iron pinion's borne—the blood-stained vulture cleaves the storm. Yet, is the plumage closest to her heart, soft as the cygnet's down, and o'er her un­shelled brood, the murmuring ring-dove sits not more gentle!—Yes!—now he is beyond the porch, barring the outer gate!—Alonzo!—Alonzo!— my friend! Ha!—in gentle sleep!—Alonzo— rise!—

How!—Is my hour elapsed?—Well,

I am ready.

Alonzo—know me.

What voice is that?

'Tis Rolla's.

Rolla!—my friend!—

Heavens! how couldst thou pass the guard? Did this habit—

There is not a moment to be lost in words: —this disguise I tore from the dead body of a friar, as I passed our field of battle—it has gained me entrance to thy dungeon; now take it thou, and fly.

And Rolla—

Will remain here in thy place.

And die for me!—No!—Rather eternal tortures rack me.

I shall not die, Alonzo. It is thy life Pizarro seeks, not Rolla's—and from my prison soon will thy arm deliver me;—or, should it be [Page 59] otherwise—I am as a blighted plantain standing alone amid the sandy desert. Nothing seeks or lives beneath my shelter. Thou art a husband and a father—the being of a lovely wife and help­less infant hang upon thy life.

Wouldst thou make me the cowardly murderer of my friend? Wouldst thou give me a life embittered by torments inexpressible?

No—I give you to joy and Cora. You shall shed a tear at the remembrance of Rolla, but it will be as one drop of bitterness in the cup of your overflowing bliss.

Can a friend thus torture me?

I could not bring thee a word of greeting from Cora. She knew no one around her. Thy return alone can preserve her life.

O, God!—Cora!—

If thou art yet irresolute, Alonzo—now heed me well—I think thou hast not known that Rolla ever pledged his word, and shrunk from its fulfilment. And, by the heart of truth I swear, if thou art proudly obstinate to deny thy friend the transport of preserving Cora's life, in thee— no power that sways the will of man shall stir me hence;—and thou wilt but have the desperate tri­umph, of seeing Rolla perish by thy side—with the assured conviction, that Cora, and thy child, are lost forever.

Oh! Rolla!—You distract me!

A moment's further pause, and all is lost —the dawn approaches—fear not for me—I will treat with Pizarro, as for surrender and submis­sion;—I shall gain time, doubt not—while thou, with a chosen band, passing the secret way, mayest at night return—release thy friend, and bear him [Page 60] back in triumph. Yes—hasten—dear Alonzo! —Even now I hear the frantic Cora call thee!— Haste! haste! haste!

Rolla, I fear your friendship drives me from honor, and from right.

Did Rolla ever counsel dishonor to his feiend?

Oh! my preserver!

I feel thy warm tears dropping on my cheek. Go!—I am rewarded.

There! conceal thy face; and that they may not clank, hold fast thy chains. Now—God be with thee!

At night we meet again. Then—so aid me heaven! I return to save—or—perish with thee.

He has passed the outer porch. He is safe! He will soon embrace his wife and child! Now, Cora, didst thou not wrong me? This is the first time throughout my life I ever deceived man—Forgive me, God of truth! if I am wrong.—Alonzo flatters himself that we shall meet again—Yes—there!

—assuredly we shall meet again: there possess in peace, the joys of everlasting love, and friendship—on earth, imperfect and embittered.

Now, Alonzo—ha!—Who art thou?— Where is Alonzo?

Alonzo's fled.

Fled!

Yes—and he must not be pursued. Par­don this roughness,

—but a moment's precious to Alonzo's flight.

What if I call the guard?

Do so—Alonzo still gains time.

What if thus I free myself?

Strike it to my heart. Still, with the con­vulsive grasp of death, I'll hold thee fast.

Release me. I give my faith, I neither will alarm the guard, nor cause pursuit.

At once, I trust thy word.—A feeling boldness in those eyes assures me that thy soul is noble.

What is thy name? Speak freely. By my order the guard is removed beyond the outer porch.

My name is Rolla.

The Peruvian leader?

I was so yesterday—to-day, the Spa­niard's captive.

And friendship for Alonzo moved to this act?

Alonzo is my friend.—I am prepared to die for him. Yet is the cause a motive stronger far than friendship.

One only passion else could urge such generous rashness.

And that is—

Love.

True!

Gallant! ingenuous Rolla!—Know that my purpose here was thine; and were I to save thy friend—

How! a woman blessed with gentleness and courage, and yet not Cora!

Does Rolla think so meanly of all female hearts?

Not so—you are better and worse than we are.

To save thee, Rolla, from the tyrant's ven­geance—restore thee to thy native land—and thy native land to peace—wouldst thou not rank El­vira with the good?

To judge the action I must know the means.

Take this dagger.

How to be used?

I will conduct thee to the tent where fell Pizarro sleeps—the scourge of innocence—the terror of thy race—the fiend that desolates thy afflicted country.

Have you not been injured by Pizarro?

Deeply as scorn and insult can infuse their deadly venom.

And you ask that I should murder him in his sleep?

Would he not have murdered Alonzo in his chains? He that sleeps and he that's bound are equally defenceless. Hear me, Rolla—So may I prosper in this perilous act, as, searching my full heart, I have put by all rancorous motive of private vengeance there, and feel that I advance to my dread purpose in the cause of human nature, and at the call of sacred justice.

The God of justice sanctifies no evil as a step towards good. Great actions cannot be atchieved by wicked means.

Then, Peruvian! Since thou dost feel so coldly for thy country's wrongs, this hand, though it revolt my soul, shall strike the blow.

Then is thy destruction certain, and for Peru, thou a stranger, perishest!—Give me the dagger!

Now follow me;—but first—and dreadful is the hard necessity—you must strike down the guard.

The soldier who was on duty here?

Yes, him—else, seeing thee, the alarm will be instant.

And I must stab that soldier as I pass? Take back thy dagger.

Rolla!

That soldier, mark me, is a man. All are not men that bear the human form. He re­fused my prayers—refused my gold—denying to admit me—till his own feelings bribed him. For my nation's safety, I would not harm that man!

Then he must be with us—I will answer for his safety.

Be that plainly understood between us;— for whatever betide our enterprize, I will not risk a hair of that man's head—he is my brother.

SCENE SECOND.

No mercy, traitor.—Now at his heart!—Stand off there, you.—Let me see him bleed!—Ha! ha! ha!—Let me hear that groan again.

There!—Now, lose not a moment.

You must leave me now. This scene of blood fits not a woman's presence.

But a moment's pause may—

Go!—Retire to your own tent—and re­turn not here—I will come to you.—Be you not known in this business, I implore you!

I will withdraw the guard that waits.

Now have I in my power, the accursed destroyer of my country's peace; yet tranquilly he rests. God!—Can this man sleep?

Away! away!—Hideous fiends!—Tear not my bosom thus!

No:—I was in error—the balm of sweet repose he never more can know. Look here, am­bitious fools!—Ye, by whose inhuman pride, the bleeding sacrifice of nations is held as nothing— behold the repose of the guilty! He is at my mercy—and one blow!—No!—my heart and hand refuse to act; Rolla cannot be an assassin!— Yet Elvira must be saved!

Pizarro! awake!

Who?—Guards!—

Speak not—another word is thy death.— Call not for aid!—this arm will be swifter than thy guards.

Who art thou? and what is thy will?

I am thine enemy! Peruvian Rolla! Thy death is not my will, or I could have slain thee sleeping.

Speak, what else?

Now thou art at my mercy—answer me! Did a Peruvian ever yet wrong or injure thee, or any of thy nation? Didst thou, or any of thy nation, ever yet show mercy to a Peruvian in your power? Now shalt thou feel—and, if thou hast a heart, thou'lt feel it keenly!—a Peruvian's ven­geance!

There!

Is it possible?

Can Pizarro wonder at this? I thought forgiveness of injuries had been the Christian's pre­cept. Thou seest, at least, it is the Peruvian's practice.

Rolla, thou hast, indeed, surprized, sub­dued me.

Is it done? Is he dead?

[...]—still living! Then I am lost! and for you, wretched Peruvians! mercy is no more! Oh! Rolla! treacherous, or cowardly?

How! Can it be, that—

Away! Elvira speaks, she knows not what! Leave me,

I conjure you, with Pizarro.

How!—Rolla, dost thou think I shall re­tract—or that I meanly will deny, that in thy hand I placed a poinard to be plunged into that tyrant's heart?—No!—My sole regret is, that I trusted to thy weakness, and did not strike the blow myself. Too soon thou wilt learn that mercy to that man, is direst cruelty to all thy race!

Guard! quick! a guard!

Yes, a guard! I call them too! And soon I know they [...] me to my death. But think not, Pizarro, the fury of thy flashing eyes shall awe me for a moment!—Nor think that woman's an­ger, or the feelings of an injured heart prompted me to this design. No! Had I been only influ­enced so—thus failing, shame and remorse would weigh me down. But though defeated and de­stroyed, as now I am, such is the greatness of the cause that urged me, I shall perish, glorying in the attempt, and my last breath of life shall speak the proud avowal of my purpose—to have rescued millions of innocents from the blood-thirsty ty­ranny of one—by ridding the insulted world of thee.

Had the act been noble as the motive— Rolla had not shrunk from its performance.

Seize this discovered fiend who sought to kill your leader.

Touch me not, at the peril of your souls; —I am your prisoner, and will follow you. But thou, their triumphant leader, shalt hear me. Yet, first—for thee, Rolla, accept my forgiveness: even had I been the victim of thy nobleness of heart, I should have admired thee for it. But 'twas myself provoked my doom—thou wouldst have shielded me. Let not thy contempt follow me to the grave. Didst thou but know the spell-like arts, by which this hypocrite first undermined the virtue of a guiltless heart! how, even in the pious sanctuary wherein I dwelt, by corruption and fraud, he practised upon those in whom I most confided—till my distempered fancy led me, step by step, into the abyss of guilt—

Why am I not obeyed?—Tear her hence!

Tis past—but didst thou know my story, Rolla, thou wouldst pity me.

From my soul I do pity thee!

Villains! drag her to the dungeon!—pre­pare the torture instantly!

Soldiers—but a moment more—'tis to ap­plaud your general—it is to tell the astonished world, that, for once, Pizarro's sentence is an act of justice: yes, rack me with the sharpest tortures that ever agonized the human frame; and when thou shalt bid them tear me to death, hoping that thy unshrinking ears may at last be feasted with the music of my cries, I will not utter one shriek or groan—but to the last gasp, my body's patience shall deride thy vengeance, as my soul defies thy power.

Hearest thou the wretch whose hands were even now prepared for murder?

Yes! And if her accusation's false, thou wilt not shrink from hearing her; if true, thy bar­barity cannot make her suffer the pangs thy con­science will inflict on thee.

And now, farewel, world!—Rolla, fare­wel!—Farewel, thou condemned of heaven!—

—for repentance and remorse, I know, will never touch thy heart—we shall meet again.—Ha! be it thy horror here, to know that we shall meet hereafter!—And when thy parting hour approaches—hark to the knell, whose dread­ful beat will strike to thy despairing soul. Then, will vibrate on thy ear, the curses of the cloistered saint from whom you stole me. Then, the last shrieks which burst from my mother's breaking [Page 68] heart, as she died, appealing to her God against the seducer of her child! Then, the blood-stifled groan of my murdered brother—murdered by thee, fell monster!—seeking atonement for his sister's ruined honor—I hear them now! To me, the recollection's madness! At such an hour— What will it be to thee?

A moment's more delay, and at the peril of your lives—

I have spoken—and the last mortal frailty of my life is past. And now, with an undaunted spirit, and unshaken firmness, I go to meet my destiny. That I could not live nobly, has been Pizarro's act. That I will die nobly, shall be my own.

Pizarro—I pity thee the tortures of this hour.

No more—Explain to me by what mira­cle thou art here, and here as the protector of Pi­zarro?

I came to save my friend Alonzo.

Then thou camest in vain.

No! Alonzo is in safety.

Who?

Thy prisoner.

Fled!

Yes. I have deceived his guard. My friend is safe. I am thy prisoner.

Young man, you force from me my admi­ration—my esteem.—Thou art at liberty.

Thou doest in this, thy duty.

Go, and if we meet again in battle—

We will fight like men.

I will turn aside and spare thee.

Not so. For thou shalt be the first whom I will seek in the field of battle. Meanwhile fare­wel.

Pizarro, the soldier who guarded Alonzo, has done his duty—forgive him.

Thou requirest too much.

Grant my request, or I remain. I save or suffer with him.

What, for a private soldier?

He is a man: a man of whose misfor­tune I am the cause.

Depart in peace. I forgive him. Rolla, I would we were friends.

Be virtue's friend, and thou art Rolla's.

Ambition! tell me what is the phantom I have follow'd? Where is the one delight which it has made my own? My fame is the mark of en­vy—my love the dupe of treachery—my glory eclipsed by the boy I taught—my revenge defeat­ed and rebuked by the rude honor of a savage foe. And I have suffered him to escape!—The strength of the enemy was in my power.—Ha!—By Heavens! he is still in my power.—What, guards!

Hold, Pizarro, thou hast pledged thy faith. Damnation!—But he is a heathen, and with these our priests—Away, away! damned so­phistry!—The faith of heroes ever was the same.

SCENE FIRST.

O, nature! thou hast not the strength of love. My anxious spirit is untired in its march. My wearied shivering frame sinks under it.—And for thee, my boy—when faint beneath thy lovely burthen, could I refuse to give thy slumbers that poor bed of rest? O, my child! were I assured thy father breathes no more, how quickly would I lay me down by thy dear side; but down, down forever.

—I ask thee not, unpitying storm! to abate thy rage, in mercy to poor Cora's misery; nor, while thy thunders spare his slumbers, will I disturb my sleeping cherub. Though, heaven knows, I wish to hear the voice of life, and feel that life is near me. But I will endure all, while what I have of reason holds.

—Still, still implacable, unfeeling elements!—Yet still dost thou sleep, my smiling innocent!—O, death! when wilt thou grant to this babe's mother such repose? Sure I may shield thee better from the storm. My veil may—

Cora!

Ha!!!

Cora!

O, my heart! Sweet heaven, deceive me not! Is it not Alonzo's voice?

Cora!

It is—it is Alonzo!

Cora! my beloved!

Alonzo!—Here! here! Alonzo!

I tell you we are near our out-posts, and the word we heard just now was the coun­tersign.

It is no such thing, comrade, we have lost our way.

Trust to me. I will lead you safe. When you see the sun on your left hand, then—

When we shall see the sun again, Hea­ven knows!

I say the sun is on our left hand, and the camp—

What have we here?

A child, as I'm a soldier! A lovely child! Let us carry it off.

And what shall we do with it?—Let it alone—it's a heathen child.

It sleeps so sweetly! I left one in Spain just of the same age!—What say you, comrade, it is abandoned here to perish—I will take it and preserve it.

As you like. But make haste, or we shall not regain the camp—come this way!

Poor rogue! How sound it sleeps!

This way, dear Alonzo. Now I am right—there—there—under that tree. Was it possible the instinct of a mother's heart could mistake the spot! Now will you look at him as he sleeps; or shall I bring him waking, with his full blue laughing eyes to welcome you at once?— Yes—yes—stand thou there—I'll snatch him from his rosy slumber, blushing like the perfumed morn.

My heart's beloved!

He is gone!

Eternal God!

He is gone!—My child!—My child!

Where did you leave him?

Here!

Be calm, beloved Cora—he has waked, and crept to a little distance—we shall find him.

Fernando! Fernando!

Is this certainly the spot where you left him?

Is not this the veil that covered him?

Think not the worst.

I think not. I see the blood of my child!

Cora, dear Cora! Come to my ar [...].

Give me my child or death.

Here is a hut among the trees.

Ha! yes, yes! there lives the savage that has robbed me of my child—

Give me back my child—restore to me my boy!

Who calls me from my wretched solitude?

Give me back my child!

Fernando!

Almighty powers! do my eyes deceive me! Las Casas!!!

Alonzo—my beloved young friend!

My revered instructor.

Will you embrace this man before he restores my boy?

Alas, my friend—in what a moment of misery do we meet!

Yet his look is goodness and humanity.— Good old man, have compassion on a wretched mother—and I will be your servant while I live.— But do not, for pity's sake—do not say you have him not—do not say you have not seen him.

What can this mean?

She is my wife. Just rescued from the Spaniard's prison, I learned she had fled to this wild forest.—Hearing my voice, she left the child, [Page 74] and flew to meet me—he was left sleeping under yonder tree.

How!—did you leave him?

O, you are right!—right!—Unnatural mother, that I was—I left my child—I forsook my innocent—but I will fly to the earth's brink, but I will find him.

Forgive me, Las Casas, I must follow her: for at night I attempt brave Rolla's escape.

I will not leave you, Alonzo.—You must try to lead her to the right—that way lies your camp—wait not my infirm steps—I follow you, my friend.

SCENE SECOND.

Bear him along—his story must be false.

False! —Rolla utter falsehood!—I would I had thee in a desert, with thy troop around thee;—and I, but with my sword in this unshackled hand!

Is it to be credited that Rolla, the renowned Peruvian hero—should be detected like a spy, skulking through our camp?

Skulking! Base-minded plunderer, 'tis on­ly such as thee that know the arts of skulking and deceit: you cannot judge, cannot conceive, the motives which animate the minds of nature's chil­dren. You, by a strange frenzy driven, contend for power, for plunder and dominion—we for our country, our altars, and our homes. You follow an adventurer whom you fear, and obey a power which you hate—we serve a monarch whom we love—a God whom we adore. Whenever you move in anger, desolation tracks your progress— wherever you pause in amity, affliction mourns your friendship.

Proud savage!—we come to improve your state, enlarge your thoughts, and free you from the yoke of error.

Away, away!—first free yourselves from passion's deadly rule, and spurn the dictates of ava­rice and pride. When we accept a change, it must be by virtue recommended. The rulers whom we honor, possess the people's confidence and love—the laws we reverence, are our brave fathers' legacy—the faith we follow, teaches us to live in charity with all, and die with hope of bliss beyond the grave!—But why waste words with thee—bring me to your general.

He is here.

What, Rolla!

To thy surprize, no doubt.

And bound too!

So fast that thou hast nothing to fear.

The guards surprized him, passing our out-post.

Rolla, thou hearest that I am guiltless of this insult.—Release him.

Nor shall a hero like Rolla depart from me unarmed.

Learn that Spaniards know the courtesy which is due to a valiant enemy.

And learn that Pe­ruvians can forgive injuries. I forgive thee.

Only forgive?—I had hoped that Pizarro and Rolla might one day be friends.

I will talk to thee of friendship—as soon as the sea lies between us. May I depart?

Freely.

And shall I not again be intercepted?

No! Let the word be given that Rolla passes freely.

Here are two soldiers, who have found a Peruvian child.

What is the imp to me?—Bid them toss it into the sea.

Gracious heaven! it is Alonzo's child!— give it to me.

Ha!—Alonzo's child!—Welcome, thou pretty hostage.—Now Alonzo is again my pri­soner!

Thou wilt not keep the infant from its mother?

Will I not?—What, when I shall meet Alonzo in the heat of the victorious fight—thinkest thou I shall not have a check upon the valor of his heart, when he is reminded that a word of mine is this child's death?

I do not understand you.

My vengeance has a long arrear of hate to settle with Alonzo—and this pledge may help to balance the account.

Man! man!—Art thou a man? Couldst thou hurt that innocent?—By heaven! it is smil­ing in thy face.

Tell me, does it resemble Cora?

Pizarro! thou hast set my heart on fire. If thou dost harm that child—think not his blood will sink into the barren sand—no!—faithful to the eager hope that now trembles in this indignant heart—'twill rise to the common God of nature and humanity, and cry aloud for vengeance on its accursed destroyer's head.

Be that peril mine.

Behold me at thy feet.—Me, Rolla!—Me, the preserver of thy life!—Me, that have never yet bent or bowed be­fore created man, my king excepted. In humble agony I sue to you—prostrate I implore you— but spare that child, and I will be your slave.

Rolla!—Still thou art free to go—this child remains with me.

Then was this sword heaven's gift, not thine.

Who moves one step to follow me, dies upon the spot.

Pursue him instantly—but spare his life.

With what fury he defends himself!—Ha! —he fells them to the ground—and now—

Three of your brave soldiers are already victims to your command to spare this madman's life; and if he once gains the thicket—

Spare him no longer.

Their guns must reach him—he'll yet escape— holloa! those horse!—the Peruvian sets them— and now he turns among the rocks—then is his retreat cut off.

Now! quick! quick! Seize the child!—

By hell! he has escaped!—and with the child unhurt.

No—he bears his death with him. Be­lieve me, I saw him struck upon the side.

Dead!—Shot!—Brave man! Thou wast worthy of a nobler death!—I would have won thy friendship.—Yes, by heaven! I reverenc­ed and admired him—yet—I am his murderer!— Away!—Give me a thousand men like this, and I would conquer worlds!

SCENE THIRD.

Oh! avoid me not, Ataliba! To whom, but to her king, is the wretched mother to address her griefs? The gods refuse to hear my prayers! Did not my Alonzo fight for you? and will not my sweet boy, if thou wilt but restore him to me, one day fight thy battles too?

Oh! my suffering love! my poor heart-broken Cora! you but wound our sovereign's feeling soul, and not relieve thy own.

Is he our sovereign, and has he not the power to give me back my child?

When I reward desert, or can relieve my people, I feel what is the real glory of a king. When I hear them suffer, and cannot aid them, I mourn the impotence of all mortal powers.

Rolla! Rolla! Rolla!

Gracious God!

Cora—thy child!

My child—covered with blood!

It is my blood.

My child! Rol­la!

I loved thee! Thou didst me injustice! I can no more—

Rol­la! thou diest!—

For thee—and Cora!—

O! who ever loved like this man?

Boy, thou art dearly purchased!

Las Casas! help me to believe in God!

His ways are dark. Have faith, pray, and be humble.