Who found them thus, withheld at Eudon’s voice His wrathful hand, and led them to his Lord. Count Pedro and Alphonso and the Prince Stood on a little rocky eminence Which overlook’d the vale. Pedro had put His helmet off, and with sonorous horn Blew the recall; for well he knew what thoughts, Calm as the Prince appear’d and undisturb’d, Lay underneath his silent fortitude; And how at this eventful juncture speed Imported more than vengeance. Thrice he sent The long-resounding signal forth, which rung From hill to hill, re-echoing far and wide. Slow and unwillingly his men obey’d The swelling horn’s reiterated call; Repining that a single foe escaped The retribution of that righteous hour. With lingering step reluctant from the chase They turn’d, ... their veins full-swoln, their sinews strung For battle still, their hearts unsatisfied; Their swords were dropping still with Moorish blood, And where they wiped their reeking brows, the stain Of Moorish gore was left. But when they came Where Pedro, with Alphonso at his side, Stood to behold their coming, then they press’d All emulous, with gratulation round, Extolling for his deeds that day display’d The noble boy. Oh! when had Heaven, they said, With such especial favour manifest Illustrated a first essay in arms! They bless’d the father from whose loins he sprung, The mother at whose happy breast he fed; And pray’d that their young hero’s fields might be Many, and all like this. Thus they indulged The honest heart, exuberant of love, When that loquacious joy at once was check’d, For Eudon and the Moor were brought before Count Pedro. Both came fearfully and pale, But with a different fear: the African Felt at this crisis of his destiny Such apprehension as without reproach Might blanch a soldier’s cheek, when life and death Hang on another’s will, and helplessly He must abide the issue. But the thoughts Which quail’d Count Eudon’s heart, and made his limbs Quiver, were of his own unworthiness, Old enmity, and that he stood in power Of hated and hereditary foes. I came not with them willingly! he cried, Addressing Pedro and the Prince at once, Rolling from each to each his restless eyes Aghast, ... the Moor can tell I had no choice; They forced me from my castle: ... in the fight They would have slain me: ... see I bleed! The Moor Can witness that a Moorish scymitar Inflicted this: ... he saved me from worse hurt: ... I did not come in arms: ... he knows it all; ... Speak, man, and let the truth be known to clear My innocence! Thus as he ceased, with fear And rapid utterance panting open-mouth’d, Count Pedro half represt a mournful smile, Wherein compassion seem’d to mitigate His deep contempt. Methinks, said he, the Moor Might with more reason look himself to find An intercessor, than be call’d upon