KING. With deeds we shall regain the ground that's lost.
RACHEL. I hear them speaking; and I know of what—Of
And not be lonesome in this concourse loud.
I see you come not. No, they hold you back.
[Weeping.]
Not any comfort give they me, nor joy.
They hold me here, apart, in slavery.
Would I were home again in father's house,
Where every one is at my beck and call,
Instead of here,—the outcast of contempt.
KING. Go thou to her!
GARCERAN. What? Shall I?
KING. Go, I say!
RACHEL. Sit down by me, but nearer, nearer—so!
Once more I say, I love you, Garceran.
You are, indeed, a knight without a flaw,
Not merely knight in name, as they it learn—
Those iron, proud Castilians—from their foes,
The Moors.—But these Castilians imitate
In manner borrowed, therefore rough and crude,
What those, with delicate and clever art,
Are wont to practise as a native gift.
Give me your hand. Just see, how soft it is!
And yet you wield a sword as well as they.
But you're at home in boudoirs, too, and know
The pleasing manners of a gentler life.
From Dona Clara cometh not this ring?
She's far too pale for rosy-cheekèd love,
Were not the color which her face doth lack
Replaced by e'er renewing blush of shame.
But many other rings I see you have—
How many sweethearts have you? Come, confess!
GARCERAN. Suppose I ask the question now of you?
RACHEL. I've never loved. But I could love, if e'er
In any breast that madness I should find
Which could enthrall me, were my own heart touched.
Till then I follow custom's empty show,
Traditional in love's idolatry,
As in the fanes of stranger-creeds one kneels.