Dr. Tomás. Nothing, my poor friend.
Don Lorenzo. Nothing! [Again looks at paper.] You are deceiving me. Dr. Bermúdez, that fellow is deceiving me. He is one of the scoundrels who have plotted this wretched treason. Read it you—read it
Bermúdez. There is nothing written on the paper.
Don Lorenzo. Nothing written on it! You say there is nothing written upon it! It is not true—no, it is not true. Inés, my daughter, my best beloved, come and save your father.—What does it say?
Inés. Oh, father, I see nothing.
Don Lorenzo. Nothing!—she also!—But is this not the proof?
Dr. Tomás. Yes, my unhappy friend—the proof—but a far too cruel one.
Don Lorenzo. [Striking his forehead.] Ah, I understand. [Looks at Dr. Tomás and Doña Ángela.] I heard them once before talking of a proof. You! [to Dr. Tomás] and you! [To Doña Ángela.] You have taken it away. God in Heaven! [Recoils from them in horror. The rest move away from him, and he stands alone in the middle of the stage. Pause.] Be it so,—be it so!—I am defeated—most miserably defeated! How they rejoice in their triumph! See how they gaze at me in their hypocritical distress! And they feign to weep, too. They are all feigning. [Pause.] Alas! my heart—alas! for my life's illusion—alas! for love, and oh, alas! alas! my child—phantoms that whirl about and fly from me—for ever fly away!—I who believed in all things good—in the blue above, in the purity of my daughter's brow—what is there now left me to believe in? You see for yourselves. I make no resistance. I yield myself up. Yours the victory. Why have you brought those men here when I do not seek to oppose your will? I will go wherever you bid me. Adieu. Don't touch me. [To Dr.
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