Tarik. Now, by the clement and the merciful!
The girl did well: when I breathe out my soul,
Oh! if compassion give one pang the more,
That pang be mine; here be it, in this land—
Such women are they in this land alone.
Egil. Insulting man!
Muza. We shall confound him yet.
Say, and speak quickly, whither went the king?
Thou knewest where was Julian.
Abd. I will tell
Without his answer: yes, my friends! yes, Tarik,
Now will I speak, nor thou, for once, reply.
There is, I hear, a poor half-ruin’d cell
In Xeres, whither few indeed resort;
Green are the walls within, green is the floor
And slippery from disuse; for christian feet
Avoid it, as half-holy, half-accurst.
Still in its dark recess fanatic sin
Abases to the ground his tangled hair,
And servile scourges and reluctant groans
Roll o’er the vault uninterruptedly,
Till, such the natural stilness of the place,
The very tear upon the damps below
Drops audible, and the heart’s throb replies.
There is the idol maid of christian creed,
And taller images, whose history
I know not, nor inquired—a scene of blood,
Of resignation amid mortal pangs,
And other things, exceeding all belief.
Hither the aged Opas of Seville
Walked slowly, and behind him was a man
Barefooted, bruized, dejected, comfortless,
In sack-cloth; the white ashes on his head
Dropt as he smote his breast—he gathered up,
Replaced them all, groan’d deeply, looked to heaven,
And held them, like a treasure, with claspt hands.
Egil. O! was Roderigo so abased?
Muza. ’Twas he.
Now, Egilona, judge between your friends
And enemies—behold what wretches brought
The king, thy lord, Roderigo, to disgrace.
Egil. He merited—but not from them—from me
This, and much worse: had I inflicted it,
I had rejoiced—at what I ill endure.
Muza. For thee, for thee alone, we wished him here,
But other hands released him—
Abd. —With what aim
Will soon appear to those discerning eyes.
Egil. I pray thee, tell what past until that hour.