[53] It will be sufficient to cite, in support of this opinion, the romance of the _Conde Alarcos_, which is, besides, distinguished from most of the other romances by greater richness of composition. It opens in a very simple manner with a description of the sorrow of the Infante Solesa, who, after being secretly betrothed to Count Alarcos, has been abandoned by him. Retraida està la Infanta Bien assi como salia, Viviendo muy descontenta De la vida que tenia, Vienda ya que se pasava Toda la flor de su vida. The fair Infanta midst the court A look of sorrow wears, Told by an aching heart how she Is doom’d to pass her years; For far from her is ever flown The early bloom of life---- At length, after Count Alarcos has been long married, the forsaken princess discloses her seduction to her father. This scene is strongly painted, but not overcharged: the king is transported by rage and indignation; his honour appears to him so wounded, that nothing but the death of the Countess can be a sufficient satisfaction. He has an interview with the Count, addresses him courteously, represents the case to him with chivalrous dignity as a point of justice and honour, and concludes by categorically demanding the death of his lady. Thus the developement of the story commences in a manner, which, though most singular, is perhaps not unnatural, when the ideas of the age to which the composition belongs are considered. The Count conceives himself bound as a man of honour to give the king the satisfaction he desires. He promises to comply with his demand, and proceeds on his way home. There is a touching simplicity in the picture which is here drawn. Llorando se parte el Conde, Llorando, sin alegria, Llorando a la Condessa, Que mas que a sì la queria. Lloraba tambien el Conde Por tres hijos que tenia, El una era de teta, Que la Condessa lo cria, Que no queria mamar De tres amas, que tenia, Sino era de su madre. Weeping he homeward wends his way, His grief nought can remove, Because his tears are shed for her He more than life doth love. He weepeth too for his three sons, In youth and beauty dear; The youngest boy a suckling still, The Countess’ self doth rear. For, save his mother, none he lov’d, Though he had nurses three, Nor by the milk of other breasts Would alimented be. The pathetic interest now rises gradually to the highest pitch of tragic horror. The Countess, who receives her husband with the wonted marks of affection, in vain enquires the cause of his melancholy. He sits down to supper with his family, and again we have a situation painted with genuine feeling, though with little art.