wealth. All, all! Even my mother's caresses, since she was not my mother,—even her kisses, since I was not her son. No, no. This is not possible. I am not so base. Juana, Juana, for the love you bear the God above, tell me the truth. Look, it is not for my own sake—what does it matter what happens to me?—but for my family's sake—for those unfortunate women—for my dear child's sake, my beloved Inés, who will die of it, and you see, I cannot let her die. [Bursts into desperate sods.]
Juana. That is true. But hush! Who need know of it? and then it will not matter.
Don Lorenzo. But if it be true?
Juana. [In a low voice.] It is true.
Don Lorenzo. It seems a lie. That woman who cherished me so tenderly was not my mother?
Juana. No. Your mother loved you still more.
Don Lorenzo. Who was she, then?
Juana. Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. What was her name?
Juana. Look at me without anger, and I will tell you.
Don Lorenzo. Where is she?
Juana. In strife with the torments of hell.
Don Lorenzo. Is she also dead?
Juana. She is dying. [Towards the end of this dialogue Juana raises herself, and both stand in nervous agitation, staring wildly. When she utters the last word, she falls back again powerless upon the sofa.]
Don Lorenzo. Juana!
Juana. [Contorted with pain.] Not that name!
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