Diffused their chilling influence, worthy pride, And sympathy of love and joy and hope, Had then possess’d him wholly. Even now His spirit rose; the sense of power, the sight Of his brave people, ready where he led To fight their country’s battles, and the thought Of instant action, and deliverance, ... If Heaven, which thus far had protected him, Should favour still, ... revived his heart, and gave Fresh impulse to its spring. In vain he sought Amid that turbulent greeting to enquire Where Gaudiosa was, his children where, Who call’d them to the field, who captain’d them; And how these women, thus with arms and death Environ’d, came amid their company? For yet, amid the fluctuating light And tumult of the crowd, he knew them not. Guisla was one. The Moors had found in her A willing and concerted prisoner. Gladly to Gegio, to the renegade On whom her loose and shameless love was bent, Had she set forth; and in her heart she cursed The busy spirit, who, with powerful call Rousing Pelayo’s people, led them on In quick pursual, and victoriously Achieved the rescue, to her mind perverse Unwelcome as unlook’d for. With dismay She recognized her brother, dreaded now More than he once was dear; her countenance Was turn’d toward him, ... not with eager joy To court his sight, and meeting its first glance, Exchange delightful welcome, soul with soul; Hers was the conscious eye, that cannot chuse But look to what it fears. She could not shun His presence, and the rigid smile constrain’d, With which she coldly drest her features, ill Conceal’d her inward thoughts, and the despite Of obstinate guilt and unrepentant shame. Sullenly thus upon her mule she sate, Waiting the greeting which she did not dare Bring on. But who is she that at her side, Upon a stately war-horse eminent, Holds the loose rein with careless hand? A helm Presses the clusters of her flaxen hair; The shield is on her arm; her breast is mail’d; A sword-belt is her girdle, and right well It may be seen that sword hath done its work To-day, for upward from the wrist her sleeve Is stiff with blood. An unregardant eye, As one whose thoughts were not of earth, she cast Upon the turmoil round. One countenance So strongly mark’d, so passion-worn was there, That it recall’d her mind. Ha! Maccabee! Lifting her arm, exultingly she cried, Did I not tell thee we should meet in joy? Well, Brother, hast thou done thy part, ... I too Have not been wanting! Now be His the praise, From whom the impulse came! That startling call, That voice so well remember’d, touch’d the Goth With timely impulse now; for he had seen His Mother’s face, ... and at her sight, the past And present mingled like a frightful dream, Which from some dread reality derives Its deepest horror. Adosinda’s voice Dispersed the waking vision. Little deem’d