And yet he waked not from his deathly swoon, Albeit my wife did try her skill, and now Bad lay him on a bed, when lo the folds Of that great ensign covered store of gold, Rich Spanish ducats, raiment, Moorish blades Chased in right goodly wise, and missals rare, And other gear. I locked it for my part Into an armoury, and that fair flag (While we did talk full low till he should end) Spread over him. Methought, the man shall die Under his country's colours; he was brave, His deadly wound to that doth testify. And when 't was seemly order'd, Rosamund, My daughter, who had looked not yet on death, Came in, a face all marvel, pity, and dread-- Lying against her shoulder sword-long flowers, White hollyhocks to cross upon his breast. Slowly she turned as of that sight afeard, But while with daunted heart she moved anigh, His eyelids quiver'd, quiver'd then the lip, And he, reviving, with a sob looked up And set on her the midnight of his eyes. Then she, in act to place the burial gift Bending above him, and her flaxen hair Fall'n to her hand, drew back and stood upright Comely and tall, her innocent fair face Cover'd with blushes more of joy than shame. 'Father,' she cried, 'O father, I am glad. Look you! the enemy liveth.' ''T is enough, My maiden,' quoth her mother, 'thou may'st forth, But say an Avè first for him with me.' Then they with hands upright at foot o' his bed Knelt, his dark dying eyes at gaze on them, Till as I think for wonder at them, more Than for his proper strength, he could not die. So in obedient wise my daughter risen, And going, let a smile of comforting cheer Lift her sweet lip, and that was all of her For many a night and day that he beheld. And then withal my dame, a leech of skill, Tended the Spaniard fain to heal his wound, Her women aiding at their best. And he 'Twixt life and death awaken'd in the night Full oft in his own tongue would make his moan, And when he whisper'd any word I knew, If I was present, for to pleasure him, Then made I repetition of the same. 'Cordova,' quoth he faintly, 'Cordova,' 'T was the first word he mutter'd. 'Ay, we know,' Quoth I, 'the stoutness of that fight ye made Against the Moors and their Mahometry, And dispossess'd the men of fame, the fierce Khalifs of Cordova--thy home belike, Thy city. A fair city Cordova.'