They were moving towards the holy place when a soldier ran quickly in, saying he had woeful news.
The gipsey Azucena—was taken.
“Azucena!”
“They say—she will be burnt!”
“Ah! the air grows hot and dark about me.”
The lady Leonora put her hand to the troubadour’s brow, but he put it aside and cried—“My mother—they would slay my mother.”
“Thy mother!”
Then she bade him take arms. No fear had she now. Victory must be with him who fought to save a mother! “Onward!” she cried. She buckled on his sword, and was the first to cry, “farewell.” Her last words were “love” and “victory!”