_Her._ The soldier, not the Spaniard, shall obey. [_Muza_, _to Tarik_. _Muza_. Into our very council bringest thou Children of reprobation and perdition? Darkness thy deeds and emptiness thy speech, Such images thou raisest as buffoons Carry in merriment on festivals, Nor worthiness nor wisdom would display To public notice their deformities, Nor cherish them nor fear them; why shouldst thou? _Tarik_. I fear not them nor thee. ACT V. SCENE 3. EGILONA _enters_. _Abd._ Advance, O queen. Now let the turbulence of faction cease. _Muza_. Whate’er thy purpose, speak, and be composed. _Egil._ He goes; he is afar; he follows her; He leads her to the altar, to the throne, For, calm in vengeance, wise in wickedness, The traitor hath prevailed, o’er him, o’er me, O’er you—the slaves, the dupes, the scorn, of Julian. What have I heard! what have I seen! _Muza_. Proceed— _Abd._ —And I swear vengeance on his guilty head Who intercepts from thee the golden rays Of sovranty; who dares rescind thy rights; Who steals upon thy rest, and breathes around Empoisoned damps o’er that serenity Which leaves the world, and faintly lingers here. _Muza_. Who shuns thee— _Abd._ —Whose desertion interdicts Homage, authority, precedency— _Muza_. Till war shall rescue them— _Abd._ —And love restore. _Egil._ O generous Abdalazis! never! never! My enemies—Julian alone remains— The worst, in safety, far beyond my reach, Breathe freely on the summit of their hopes; Because they never stopt, because they sprang From crime to crime, and trampled down remorse. Oh! if her heart knew tenderness like mine! Grant vengeance on the guilty; grant but that, I ask no more; my hand, my crown, is thine. Fulfill the justice of offended heaven, Assert the sacred rights of royalty, Come not in vain, crush the rebellious crew, Crush, I implore, the indifferent and supine. _Muza_. Roderigo thus escaped from Julian’s tent? _Egil._ No, not escaped—escorted—like a king. The base Covilla first pursued her way On foot; but after her the royal car, Which bore me from San Pablos to the throne, Empty indeed, yet ready at her voice, Rolled o’er the plain, amid the carcases Of those who fell in battle or in flight: She, a deceiver still, to whate’er speed The moment might incite her, often stopt To mingle prayers with the departing breath, Improvident! and those with heavy wounds Groaned bitterly beneath her tottering knee. _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!