God hath upheld her, the old man replied; She bears this last and heaviest of her griefs, Not as she bore her husband’s wrongs, when hope And her indignant heart supported her; But patiently, like one who finds from Heaven A comfort which the world can neither give Nor take away.... Roderick inquired no more; He breathed a silent prayer in gratitude, Then wrapt his cloak around him, and lay down Where he might weep unseen. When morning came, Earliest of all the travellers he went forth, And linger’d for Siverian by the way, Beside a fountain, where the constant fall Of water its perpetual gurgling made, To the wayfaring or the musing man Sweetest of all sweet sounds. The Christian hand, Whose general charity for man and beast Built it in better times, had with a cross Of well-hewn stone crested the pious work, Which now the misbelievers had cast down, And broken in the dust it lay defiled. Roderick beheld it lying at his feet, And gathering reverently the fragments up, Placed them within the cistern, and restored With careful collocation its dear form, ... So might the waters, like a crystal shrine, Preserve it from pollution. Kneeling then, O’er the memorial of redeeming love He bent, and mingled with the fount his tears, And pour’d his spirit to the Crucified. A Moor came by, and seeing him, exclaim’d, Ah, Kaffer! worshipper of wood and stone, God’s curse confound thee! And as Roderick turn’d His face, the miscreant spurn’d him with his foot Between the eyes. The indignant King arose, And fell’d him to the ground. But then the Moor Drew forth his dagger, rising as he cried, What, darëst thou, thou infidel and slave, Strike a believer? and he aim’d a blow At Roderick’s breast. But Roderick caught his arm, And closed, and wrench’d the dagger from his hold, ... Such timely strength did those emaciate limbs From indignation draw, ... and in his neck With mortal stroke he drove the avenging steel Hilt deep. Then, as the thirsty sand drank in The expiring miscreant’s blood, he look’d around In sudden apprehension, lest the Moors Had seen them; but Siverian was in sight, The only traveller, and he smote his mule And hasten’d up. Ah, brother! said the old man, Thine is a spirit of the ancient mould! And would to God a thousand men like thee Had fought at Roderick’s side on that last day When treason overpower’d him! Now, alas! A manly Gothic heart doth ill accord With these unhappy times. Come, let us hide This carrion, while the favouring hour permits.