ed suspicion--
Now will I to the monastery.

[_Casement opens, and Donna Serafina appears at window._]

_Ser._ Who's there?

_Gasp._ (_aside_). I had forgotten her.

_Ser._ Who's there?

_Gasp._ A father of the neighbouring monastery,
Attracted hither by the clash of swords,
And but in time to shrive a dying man.

_Ser._ Good father, didst thou hear the names of those
Who were engaged?

_Gasp._ Not of the murderer, who has escaped.
The one whose body has been borne away,
Was call'd----Don Gaspar.

_Ser._ Don Gaspar! Father, surely thou mistak'st?
It was the other cavalier who fell.

_Gasp._ The words of dying men are those of truth;
He call'd himself Don Gaspar, and he begg'd
I would take off his scarf, and, with his love,
Bear it to Donna Serafina.

_Ser._ Then it is true--and I am lost for ever!
Father, recall those words, those dreadful words!
Say 'twas not Don Gaspar, and I'll load
Thy monastery with the wealth of India.
Its shrines shall blaze with gold and precious gems,
And holy relics shall be purchased thee,
To draw all faithful Christians to thy gates!

_Gasp._ I cannot change the name, and, if I could,
'Twere no less a murder. Lady, good-night.

_Ser._ Good father, stop--thou hast a scarf
For Donna Serafina. I am she--
Where is it? give it me.

_Gasp._ Are you that woe-struck lady, Serafina?
Alas! indeed you have much cause to grieve.
He loved you well.

_Ser._ Give me the scarf.

_Gasp._ I cannot, lady; 'tis not fit to offer,
For it is tinged with blood.

_Ser._ Give me the scarf! I'll kiss away the blood,
Or wash it off with tears!

_Gasp._ That I cannot, the casement is too high;
Nor can I tarry longer. The last message,
Together with the scarf, I will deliver
Before to-morrow's sun shall gild these trees.

_Ser._ Then be it so. O Gaspar! Gaspar!
[_Exit from window, and closes it._

_Gasp._ One hour of misery, like hers, exceeds
An age of common earthly suffering;
And when at last she hears the unvarnish'd truth,
'Twill but perplex her more. Oh destiny!
Why am I thus a blood-stain'd guilty man
In early years? still yearning towards virtue,
Yet ever falling in the snares of vice!
Now do I loathe the amorous Serafina,
Who sacrifices all--her fame--her honour,
At Passion's shrine. How do I adore
The chaste, the innocent, sweet Isidora!
Yet in my love, so ardent and so pure,
There's guilt--deep damning guilt--and more,
There's cruelty an