Scarcely twelve years old the one seem’d,
Scarcely older seem’d the other;
Fair and noble were their faces,
But through sickness thin and sallow.
They were clothed in rags, half naked,
And their wither’d bodies offer’d
Plainest signs of gross ill-treatment;
Both with fever shook and trembled.
From the depth of their deep mis’ry
They upon me turn’d their glances;
White and spirit-like their eyes were,
And I felt all terror-stricken.
“Who, then, are these wretched objects?”
I exclaim’d, with hasty action
Don Diego’s hand tight grasping,
Which was trembling as I touch’d it.
Don Diego seem’d embarrass’d,
Look’d if any one was listening,
Deeply sigh’d, and said, assuming
A mere worldling’s jaunty accents:
These are children of a monarch,
Early orphan’d, and their father
Was Don Pedro, and their mother
Was Maria de Padilla.
After the great fight at Narvas,
Where Henrico Transtamara
Freed his brother, this Don Pedro,
From his crown’s oppressive burden,
And from that still greater burden
Which by men is Life entitled,
Don Henrico’s victor-kindness
Also reach’d his brother’s children.
Under his own care he took them,
As becomes a kindly uncle,
And in his own castle gave them
Free of charge, both board and lodging.
Narrow is indeed the chamber
That he there allotted to them;
Yet in summer it is coolish,
And not over cold in winter.