Is it of them? Oh! wouldst thou speak of them?

Gon. A mother’s heart divineth but too well!

Elm. Speak, I adjure thee! I can bear it all.

Where are my children?

Gon. In the Moorish camp

Whose lines have girt the city.

Xim. But they live?

—All is not lost, my mother!

Elm. Say, they live.

Gon. Elmina, still they live.