Her. The king!
Was it not told to us how he sent, of late,
To the Cid’s tomb, e’en for the silver cross,
Which he who slumbers there was wont to bind
O’er his brave heart in fight?[284]
Gon. (springing up joyfully.) My king! my king!
Now all good saints for Spain! My noble king!
And thou art there! That I might look once more
Upon thy face! But yet I thank thee, heaven!
That thou hast sent him, from my dying hands