Each one of the doughty champions
Has eleven comrades by him,
All to share his fate determined,
And for weal or woe keep nigh him.
While the monks who back the friar
With assurance full and steady
Hold the holy-water vessels
For the rite of christening ready,
Swinging sprinkling-brooms and censers,
Whence the incense smoke is rising,—
All their adversaries briskly
Whet their knives for circumcising.
By the lists within the hall stand,
Ready for the fray, both forces,
And the crowd await the signal,
Eager for the knights’ discourses.
’Neath a golden canopy,
While their courtiers duly flatter,
Both the king and queen are sitting;
Quite a child appears the latter.
With a small French nose, her features
Are in roguishness not wanting,
And the ever laughing rubies
Of her mouth are quite enchanting.
Fragile fair inconstant flower,—
May the grace of God be with her!—
From the merry town of Paris
She has been transplanted hither,
To the country where the Spanish
Old grandees’ stiff manners gall her;
Whilome known as Blanche de Bourbon,
Donna Blanca now they call her.
And the monarch’s name is Pedro,
With the nickname of The Cruel;
But to-day, in gentle mood, he
Looks as if he ne’er could do ill.
With the nobles of his court he
Enters into conversation,
And both Jew and Moor addresses
With a courteous salutation.