head between his hands, and contemplates her yearningly.] How sweet you are! It seems incredible that you should not prove stronger than the law of honour.
Duchess. [Unable to control herself.] To make an end of the matter, Señor de Avendaña, do you wish my son, the Duke of Almonte, to give his name to your daughter Inés?
Don Lorenzo. [In magnificent fury.] If I were a scoundrel, madam, this were an excellent occasion for procuring an honest name for my nameless child.
Inés. Father!
| Dr. Tomás. | Lorenzo! | |
| Doña Ángela. |
Duchess. I must frankly confess that I can make nothing of your answers nor of your attitude, which is quite other than what I had expected. I will content myself with asking for the last time—do you consent?
Don Lorenzo. I am an honourable man. Misfortune may conquer me, but it will never disgrace me. Your Grace, this marriage is impossible.
Duchess. [Offended, retreats a step.] Ah!
Inés. What do you say, father? Impossible!
Don Lorenzo. Yes, impossible. For I am not Avendaña. My parents were not my parents. This house is not my house. To you, my dearest girl, I can only give a soiled and an unworthy name,—because I am the wretchedest of men and I do not wish to be the basest.
Inés. Father, father—oh, why are you killing me? [Falls into a chair.]
Doña Ángela. What have you done, you madman?
Don Lorenzo. Inés, my child! Thou hast conquered, O God; but have pity on me.
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