Lit up by flashing swords!
Gon. (falling upon her neck.) Hath aught been spared?
Am I not all bereft? Thou’rt left me still!
Mine own, my loveliest one, thou’rt left me still!
Farewell!—thy father’s blessing, and thy God’s,
Be with thee, my Ximena!
Xim. Fare thee well!
If, ere thy steps turn homeward from the field,
The voice is hush’d that still hath welcomed thee,
Think of me in thy victory!