’Tis said, the sight of blood so much Is wont to infuriate The tiger, that he still rends on With stomach satiate; Solely because ’tis his delight With blood the earth to stain, So doubtless with the King it was Such feelings grew amain. For when he saw Fadrique laid, Thus prostrate on the ground, After the squires in search he ran The palace all around; Who tremblingly and livid fled The apartments various o’er, Nor find they any hiding-place, Or whence to fly a door. One happily at length succeeds, To hide or fly outright; The other, Sancho Villiegas, Less happy or adroit, Seeing the King still follow him, Enter’d half dead with fear Where was Padillia on her couch, With her attendants near; They trembling, as she senseless laid, And by her side reclined Her two young tender girls, who were Angels in form and mind. The unhappy youth still seeing there The spectre following nigh, That even this asylum mocks, In his arms quickly high Snatches the Lady Beatrice, Who scarce six years has known, The child for whom the King has e’er The most affection shown. But, ah! naught serves him this resource, As in the desert naught The holy cross avails, that clasps The pilgrim hapless caught; When roars the south wind, burns the sky, And seems as if up-driven A frightful sea, of waves of sand, Commingling earth and heaven; Thus with the child between his arms, And on his knees compress’d, The furious dagger of the King Was planted in his breast. As if that day had witness’d naught The palace new or rare, The King sat at the table calm To eat as usual there; Play’d afterwards a game of draughts, Then went out pacing slow To see the galleys, arming soon To Biscay’s shores to go. And when the night the hemisphere Had with its mantle veil’d, He enters in the Golden Tower, Where he shut up has held The fair Aldonza, whom he took From Santa Clara’s walls, And as in blind idolatry Who now his heart enthralls. With Levi then his treasurer, Who though a Hebrew vile Has all his confidence, he goes On state affairs awhile; And very late retires to rest, With no attendants nigh, Only a Moor, a wretch perforce, His favourite waiting by.