Sis. To hold Covilla from me!
To urge her into vows against her faith,
Against her beauty, youth, and inclination,
Without her mother’s blessing, nay without
Her father’s knowledge and authority—
So that she never will behold me more,
Flying afar for refuge and for help
Where never friend but God will comfort her—
Opas. These, and more barbarous deeds were perpetrated.
Sis. Yet her proud father deigned not to inform
Me, whom he loved and taught, in peace and war,
Me, whom he called his son, before I hoped
To merit it by marriage or by arms.
He offered no excuse, no plea; expressed
No sorrow; but with firm unfaltering voice
Commanded me—I trembled as he spoke—
To follow where he led, redress his wrongs,
And vindicate the honour of his child.
He called on God, the witness of his cause,
On Spain, the partner of his victories,
And yet amid these animating words
Rolled the huge tear down his unvisored face—
A general swell of indignation rose
Through the long line, sobs burst from every breast,
Hardly one voice succeeded—you might hear
The impatient hoof strike the soft sandy plain:
But when the gates flew open, and the king
In his high car came forth triumphantly,
Then was Count Julian’s stature more elate;
Tremendous was the smile that smote the eyes
Of all he passed. “Fathers, sons, and brothers,”
He cried, “I fight your battles, follow me!
Soldiers, we know no danger but disgrace!”
“Father, and general, and king,” they shout,
And would proclaim him: back he cast his face,
Pallid with grief, and one loud groan burst forth;
It kindled vengeance through the Asturian ranks,
And they soon scattered, as the blasts of heaven
Scatter the leaves and dust, the astonished foe.
Opas. And doubtest thou his truth?
Sis. I love—and doubt—
Fight—and believe: Roderigo spoke untruths—
In him I place no trust; but Julian holds
Truths in reserve—how should I quite confide!
Opas. By sorrows thou beholdest him oppressed;
Doubt the more prosperous: march, Sisabert,
Once more against his enemy and ours:
Much hath been done, but much there still remains.
FOURTH ACT.—FIRST SCENE.
Tent of Julian.
Roderigo and Julian.
Jul. To stop perhaps at any wickedness
Appears a merit now, and at the time
Prudence and policy it often is
Which afterward seems magnanimity.
The people had deserted thee, and thronged
My standard, had I raised it, at the first;
But once subsiding, and no voice of mine
Calling by name each grievance to each man,
They, silent and submissive by degrees,
Bore thy hard yoke, and, hadst thou but oppressed,
Would still have borne it: thou hast now deceived;
Thou hast done all a foreign foe could do,
And more, against them; with ingratitude
Not hell itself could arm the foreign foe:
’Tis forged at home, and kills not from afar.
Amid whate’er vain glories fell upon
Thy rainbow span of power, which I dissolve,
Boast not how thou conferredst wealth and rank,
How thou preservedst me, my family,
All my distinctions, all my offices,
When Witiza was murdered, that I stand
Count Julian at this hour by special grace.
The sword of Julian saved the walls of Ceuta,
And not the shadow that attends his name:
It was no badge, no title, that o’erthrew
Soldier, and steed, and engine—Don Roderigo,
The truly and the falsely great here differ:
These by dull wealth or daring fraud advance;
Him the Almighty calls amid his people
To sway the wills and passions of mankind.
The weak of heart and intellect beheld
Thy splendour, and adored thee lord of Spain:
I rose—Roderigo lords o’er Spain no more.