Ped. Then heaven must not be heaven. Judge the event
By what has passed. The usurper joyed not long
His ill-got crown:—'tis true, he died in peace,—
Unriddle that, ye powers!—but left his daughter,
Our present queen, engaged upon his death-bed,
To marry with young Bertran, whose cursed father
Had helped to make him great.
Hence, you well know, this fatal war arose;
Because the Moor Abdalla, with whose troops
The usurper gained the kingdom, was refused;
And, as an infidel, his love despised.
Alph. Well, we are soldiers, Pedro; and, like lawyers,
Plead for our pay.
Ped. A good cause would do well though:
It gives my sword an edge. You see this Bertran
Has now three times been beaten by the Moors:
What hope we have, is in young Torrismond,
Your brother's son.
Alph. He's a successful warrior,
And has the soldiers' hearts: upon the skirts
Of Arragon our squandered troops he rallies.
Our watchmen from the towers with longing eyes
Expect his swift arrival.
387 Ped. It must be swift, or it will come too late.
Alph. No more.—Duke Bertran.
Enter Bertran attended.
Bert. Relieve the sentries that have watched all night.
[To Ped.] Now, colonel, have you disposed your men,
That you stand idle here?
Ped. Mine are drawn off
To take a short repose.
Bert. Short let it be:
For, from the Moorish camp, this hour and more,
There has been heard a distant humming noise,
Like bees disturbed, and arming in their hives.
What courage in our soldiers? Speak! What hope?