Viol. What is it, sir?
Tell me at once.
Men. I know not. Oh, ’tis false!
I know too well, and you must know it too.
My daughter, the poor prisoner who lies there
Is my own son, not Blanca’s, not Urrea’s,
But my own son, your brother, Violante!
Viol. My brother!
Men. Ay, your brother, my own son,
Whom we must save!