“On thee, King Pedro, lies the curse; thy brother thou hast slain;
A thousand harlots there may be within the realms of Spain,
But where is she can give to thee thy brother back again?”
Came darkness o’er King Pedro’s brow, when thus he heard her say;
He sorely rued the accursed vow he had fulfilled that day;
He passed unto his paramour, where on her couch she lay.
Leaning from out her painted bower, to see the mastiff’s play.
He drew her to a dungeon dark, a dungeon strong and deep;
“My father’s son lies stiff and stark, and there are few to weep.
Fadrique’s blood for vengeance calls, his cry is in mine ear;