Their long estrangement by as long a welcome,
Snatcht from me almost ere we’d shaken hands!—
Is not this ill, Alvaro?
Alv. Ill indeed.
Luis. And, as they needs must go, my hospitality,
Foil’d in its spring, must turn to wound myself
By speeding their departure. (Going.)
Alv. Sir, a moment.
Although his Highness would not, or could not,
Grant you the boon your services deserved,