Bright rose the flame replenish’d; it illumed The cork-tree’s furrow’d rind, its rifts and swells And redder scars, ... and where its aged boughs O’erbower’d the travellers, cast upon the leaves A floating, grey, unrealizing gleam. Alphonso, light of heart, upon the heath Lay carelessly dispread, in happy dreams Of home; his faithful Hoya slept beside. Years and fatigue to old Siverian brought Easy oblivion; and the Prince himself, Yielding to weary nature’s gentle will, Forgot his cares awhile. Florinda sate Beholding Roderick with fix’d eyes intent, Yet unregardant of the countenance Whereon they dwelt; in other thoughts absorb’d, Collecting fortitude for what she yearn’d, Yet trembled to perform. Her steady look Disturb’d the Goth, albeit he little ween’d What agony awaited him that hour. Her face, well nigh as changed as his, was now Half-hidden, and the lustre of her eye Extinct; nor did her voice awaken in him One startling recollection when she spake, So altered were its tones. Father, she said, All thankful as I am to leave behind The unhappy walls of Cordoba, not less Of consolation doth my heart receive At sight of one to whom I may disclose The sins which trouble me, and at his feet Lay down repentantly, in Jesu’s name, The burthen of my spirit. In his name Hear me, and pour into a wounded soul The balm of pious counsel.... Saying thus, She drew toward the minister ordain’d, And kneeling by him, Father, dost thou know The wretch who kneels beside thee? she enquired, He answered, Surely we are each to each Equally unknown. Then said she, Here thou seest One who is known too fatally for all, ... The daughter of Count Julian.... Well it was For Roderick that no eye beheld him now; From head to foot a sharper pang than death Thrill’d him; his heart, as at a mortal stroke, Ceased from its functions: his breath fail’d, and when The power of life recovering set its springs Again in action, cold and clammy sweat Starting at every pore suffused his frame. Their presence help’d him to subdue himself; For else, had none been nigh, he would have fallen Before Florinda prostrate on the earth, And in that mutual agony belike Both souls had taken flight. She mark’d him not, For having told her name, she bow’d her head, Breathing a short and silent prayer to Heaven, While, as a penitent, she wrought herself To open to his eye her hidden wounds.