Don Lorenzo. [Moves away and grasps his head in both hands.] Silence, for God Almighty's sake, silence!
Doña Ángela. That is just what I am begging of you—silence!
Don Lorenzo. She is my mother.
Doña Ángela. What of that? He who can injure an innocent daughter need not trouble himself to respect a culpable mother. Is not divine law above human law? Is not justice first?—Justice, duty, and truth? Must not the command of the spirit ever triumph over the weaknesses of the flesh?
Don Lorenzo. You speak well—but in spite of it you are raving. [Moves away from her.]
Doña Ángela. And why? You seem already to be growing as ordinary and weak as any poor mother. Does duty not order you to let your daughter die? Then let her die. Does it not also command you to cast the dying Juana into a prison-cell? Then hasten to procure her condemnation. You see, Lorenzo, I have some logic too, in my own way.
Don Lorenzo. Infernal logic.
Doña Ángela. And yours? From what sublime sphere does it descend?
Don Lorenzo. [Moves still further off.] Let me be, let me be. I can stand no more. My own Inés—and my mother! What have I done to you, Ángela, that you should torture me so? [Falls nervously into arm-chair at table.] My head burns; it is on fire.
Doña Ángela. [Gently.] Lorenzo, Lorenzo.
Don Lorenzo. Yes, you are right, and I am a poor fool. How can I know what I ought to do? Darkness envelops me. What is truth? What is falsehood?
Doña Ángela. [Aside.] It was very cruel of me, but I
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