The little that our misery doth require,
Sooner than e’en this anguish! Life is best
Thrown from us in such moments.
[Voices heard at a distance.
Her. Hush! what strain
Floats on the wind?
Gar. ’Tis the Cid’s battle-song!
What marvel hath been wrought?
Voices approaching heard in chorus.
The Moor is on his way!