Had chill’d their fiery blood;—it is no time
For the light mien wherewith, in happier hours,
We trode the woodland mazes, when young leaves
Were whispering in the gale.—My father comes—
Oh! speak of me no more. I would not shade
His princely aspect with a thought less high
Than his proud duties claim.
Gonzalez enters.
Elm. My noble lord!
Welcome from this day’s toil! It is the hour