But, far within, Toledo’s Prelate lent An ear of fearful wonder to the King; The silver lamp a fitful lustre sent, So long that sad confession witnessing: For Roderick told of many a hidden thing, Such as are lothly uttered to the air, When Fear, Remorse, and Shame the bosom wring, And Guilt his secret burden cannot bear, And Conscience seeks in speech a respite from Despair. VI. Full on the Prelate’s face, and silver hair, The stream of failing light was feebly rolled: But Roderick’s visage, though his head was bare, Was shadowed by his hand and mantle’s fold. While of his hidden soul the sins he told, Proud Alaric’s descendant could not brook, That mortal man his bearing should behold, Or boast that he had seen, when Conscience shook, Fear tame a monarch’s brow, Remorse a warrior’s look. VII. The old man’s faded cheek waxed yet more pale, As many a secret sad the King bewrayed; As sign and glance eked out the unfinished tale, When in the midst his faltering whisper stayed. “Thus royal Witiza was slain,”—he said; “Yet, holy Father, deem not it was I.” Thus still Ambition strives her crimes to shade.— “Oh, rather deem ’twas stern necessity! Self-preservation bade, and I must kill or die. VIII. “And if Florinda’s shrieks alarmed the air, If she invoked her absent sire in vain, And on her knees implored that I would spare, Yet, reverend Priest, thy sentence rash refrain! All is not as it seems—the female train Know by their bearing to disguise their mood:” But Conscience here, as if in high disdain, Sent to the Monarch’s cheek the burning blood— He stayed his speech abrupt—and up the Prelate stood. IX. “O hardened offspring of an iron race! What of thy crimes, Don Roderick, shall I say? What alms, or prayers, or penance can efface Murder’s dark spot, wash treason’s stain away! For the foul ravisher how shall I pray, Who, scarce repentant, makes his crime his boast? How hope Almighty vengeance shall delay, Unless, in mercy to yon Christian host, He spare the shepherd, lest the guiltless sheep be lost?” X.