Is it the spoiler’s work? At yonder door Behold the favourite kidling bleats unheard; The next stands open, and the sparrows there Boldly pass in and out. Thither he turn’d To seek what indications were within; The chesnut-bread was on the shelf, the churn, As if in haste forsaken, full and fresh; The recent fire had moulder’d on the hearth; And broken cobwebs mark’d the whiter space Where from the wall the buckler and the sword Had late been taken down. Wonder at first Had mitigated fear, but Hoya now Return’d to tell the symbols of good hope, And they prick’d forward joyfully. Ere long Perceptible above the ceaseless sound Of yonder stream, a voice of multitudes, As if in loud acclaim, was heard far off; And nearer as they drew, distincter shouts Came from the dell, and at Count Pedro’s gate The human swarm were seen, ... a motley group, Maids, mothers, helpless infancy, weak age, And wondering children and tumultuous boys, Hot youth and resolute manhood gather’d there, In uproar all. Anon the moving mass Falls in half circle back, a general cry Bursts forth, exultant arms are lifted up And caps are thrown aloft, as through the gate Count Pedro’s banner came. Alphonso shriek’d For joy, and smote his steed and gallop’d on. Fronting the gate the standard-bearer holds His precious charge. Behind the men divide In order’d files; green boyhood presses there, And waning eld, pleading a youthful soul, Intreats admission. All is ardour here, Hope and brave purposes and minds resolved. Nor where the weaker sex is left apart Doth aught of fear find utterance, though perchance Some paler cheeks might there be seen, some eyes Big with sad bodings, and some natural tears. Count Pedro’s war-horse in the vacant space Strikes with impatient hoof the trodden turf, And gazing round upon the martial show, Proud of his stately trappings, flings his head, And snorts and champs the bit, and neighing shrill Wakes the near echo with his voice of joy. The page beside him holds his master’s spear And shield and helmet. In the castle-gate Count Pedro stands, his countenance resolved But mournful, for Favinia on his arm Hung, passionate with her fears, and held him back. Go not, she cried, with this deluded crew! She hath not, Pedro, with her frantic words Bereft thy faculty, ... she is crazed with grief, And her delirium hath infected these: But, Pedro, thou art calm; thou dost not share The madness of the crowd; thy sober mind Surveys the danger in its whole extent, And sees the certain ruin, ... for thou know’st I know thou hast no hope. Unhappy man, Why then for this most desperate enterprize Wilt thou devote thy son, thine only child? Not for myself I plead, nor even for thee; Thou art a soldier, and thou canst not fear The face of death; and I should welcome it As the best visitant whom Heaven could send.