University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

Royal Tent in the Spanish Camp.
Enter Ferdinand, Isabella, and Suite.
FERDINAND.
True, Isabel; when I received advices
That thy Gonzalvo had escaped the snares
Of treacherous Seïd, I gave forth to all,
That he, ere many suns should set, would join
The glorious strife as he was wont. Methinks
Thy hero slackens in our cause, or else
Why this delay?

ISABELLA.
We know not yet how many
Disastrous chances may beset his way.
Thou dost not love the flower of my heroes,
For that he still has borne the palm away
From those of Aragon. Yet, Ferdinand,
Since he who conquer'd Cordova no longer
Flames in the van of battle, the proud Moor
Has borne himself right vauntingly; nay, oft
With such true mettle, that our knights of name
Are dash'd and crest-fall'n. Of sicklier hue
The soldier's ardor.

FERDINAND.
Isabel, thou wrong'st me.
Would he were here, so he might woo again
The truant Victory to smile on us! Enter Lara.

Welcome, brave Lara! Ha! methinks thy mien
Bespeaks some joyful tidings.

LARA.
Yes, my liege,
And gracious queen! These letters, from good Pedro,
Announce Gonzalvo's coming. A faithful Moor
(I know not how won to his service), bore them,
And now conveys his arms, and gallant steed,
To meet th' impatient chief.

ISABELLA.
Oh! doubly welcome,
For all the dangers past! How 'scaped he, Lara?

LARA.
He and his faithful Pedro, clad as Moors,
In a frail fisher's boat put forth by night,
And purposed, when at open sea, to join
The ships that bore his train; but, tempest-tost,
The crazy, unresisting bark was drifted
Towards the Moorish coast of Spain, where courteously
They were as Africans received, and shared
The liberal rights of hospitality.

FERDINAND.
The moon has fill'd her horns and waned again
Since he escaped, as our advices stated.

LARA.
A grievous sickness seized him, good my liege:
And Pedro further adds, his lord not yet
Has gain'd his wonted cheer.

FERDINAND.
The Moors are soft,
And they have dark-eyed maids, with wily speech.
Methinks thy friend has loiter'd on his way,
Till, haply, Moorish hospitality
Has won his soul from glory's love; and yet
The infatuated soldier, if he lead,
Will rush, as 'twere, enamour'd ev'n of death,
When met beneath his eye.

LARA.
My liege, what praise
So great as that which from thy lips has fall'n,
Though in contempt? The leader who is loved,
Beneath whose eye 'tis glory but to fight,
And deathless fame to fall, whate'er th' event,
Leads on to what a soldier covets—honour!
Nay Fortune, fickle Fortune, will forego
Her very nature; and, as 'twere, spell-bound,
Wait on his charmed sword.

FERDINAND.
Thou pleadest well,
And art an honest, and an eager friend.
Nay, 'twas but our impatience, Isabel,
(To Isabella.
That chid Gonzalvo's stay. When may we hope
To speak a joyous welcome?

LARA.
Ere the close
Of evening I dare swear he will appear,
And by his wonted bearing, put to flight
The half form'd doubts that cloud the royal brow.

Enter Messenger.
MESSENGER.
My liege, our outposts near the city walls
Have mark'd advancing heralds, with the wand
That speaks their office.

FERDINAND.
Ha! What may it be?
We will receive them as befits our state.
Come in, my queen: let all things be prepared.

[Exeunt.