And the mourners girt for Spain.
[They take up the banner and follow Ximena out, their voices are heard gradually dying away at a distance.
Ere night must swords be red!
It is not an hour for knells and tears,
But for helmets braced and serried spears!
To-morrow for the dead!
The Cid is in array!
His steed is barded, his plume waves high,
His banner is up in the sunny sky—
Now, joy for the Cross to-day!