Edward. Inés is too sweet-natured to harbour rebellious thoughts. But we who see her suffer cannot help thinking and saying it for her.
Don Lorenzo. It is but natural you should do so.
Edward. [Passionately.] Then if I am right, you are wrong.
Don Lorenzo. I am not in the wrong for that. There is something more pallid than the white brow of a lovesick maid; there are tears sadder far than the crystal drops of her beautiful eyes, something still crueller than the curving smiles of her lips, and something yet more tragic than the death of our beloved.
Edward. [With violence and contempt.] What is this worse pallor, these sadder tears, and still mournfuller tragedies?
Don Lorenzo. [Seizing his arm.] Madman! The pallor of crime, the tears of remorse, the consciousness of one's own infamy.
Edward. And this infamy, this remorse, this crime would lie in furthering your daughter's happiness?
Don Lorenzo. [Despairingly.] It should not be—but so it is nevertheless. [Pause.] And this makes my torment. This is the idea that will drive me mad.
Inés. No, no, father. You must not say that. Do what you think best without thought of me. What does it matter whether I live or die?
Don Lorenzo. Inés!
Inés. Only, do not be uncertain in it—above all, do not let others see your uncertainty. Let your speech be clear and persuasive, as it is now, and do not let worry blind you. Be calm, father. I implore you by all that is sacred.
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