hat break too--should'st thou e'er deceive me--
Oh! should'st thou, Amelrosa.

_Amel._ Doubts my father?

_Alfon._ No, no!--Nay, droop not. By my soul, I think thee
As free from guile, as yon blue vault from clouds,
And clear as rain-drops ere they touch the earth!
Nor love I mean suspicion:--where I give
My heart I give my faith, my whole firm faith,
And hold it base to doubt the thing I value.

_Amel._ Then why that wronging thought?

_Alfon._ By fear 'twas prompted;
By fear to lose, but not by doubt to keep.
And well my heart may fear. Think, think how keenly
Ingratitude has wrung that trusting heart!
Think that my faithless son but rends anew
A wound scarce fourteen years had healed.

_Amel._ Orsino.

_Alfon._ He! he! that man--Oh! how I loved that man!
And yet that man betrayed me!

_Amel._ Is that certain?
Might not deception----? Slander loves the court,
And slippery are the heights of royal favour.
Who stumbles, falls; who falls, finds none to raise him.

_Alfon._ Nay, but I saw the writings; 'twas his hand,
His very hand, nor dared he disavow it:
For when I taxed him with his guilt, and showed him
His letters to the Moor, awhile he eyed me
In sullen silence, then contemptuous smiled,
And coldly bade me treat him as I list.
Arraigned, no plea excused his dark offence;
Condemned to die, no word implored for pardon:
But my heart pleaded stronger than all words!
I saved his life, yet bade him live a prisoner
Or clear himself from guilt.

_Amel._ And did he never----

_Alfon._ Without one word or look, one tear or sigh,
He turned away, and silent sought the dungeon
Where three years since he died----Ah! said I, died?
No, no, he lives! lives in my memory still,
Such as in youth's fond dreams my fancy formed him,
Virtuous and brave, faithful, sincere and just;
My friend? my guide?--a Phoenix among men!
How now? What haste brings fair Ottilia hither?

_Enter_ Ottilia, _wearing the scarf_.

Pardon, my sovereign, that uncalled I come
You see a suppliant from a dying man.

_Alfon._ Lady, from whom?

_Otti._ My husband, Marquis Guzman,
Lies on the bed of death, and, stung by conscience,
By me unloads it of this secret guilt!
Those traitor-scrolls, which bore Orsino's name--

_Alfon._ Say on, say on!

_Otti._ By Guzman's hand were forged.

_Alfon._ Forged?--No, no, no! Lady, it cannot be!
Unsay thy words or stab me!

_Otti._ Gracious Sir,
Look on these papers.

_Alfon._ Ha!

[_After