That sails to plant the banner of the church
Over the golden turrets of the north:
Leaving my lady—not, as you surmise,
Deserted and dishonour’d here behind,
But in some holy house at San Lucar,
With all the little substance I possess,
Till I return. For to a soldier
His sword is property enough. (Drums within.)
Ped. And hark
The drum that answers you—