KING. 'Tis true of righteous wrath! And do not think That I with custom and propriety Am less severe and serious than my wife, Yet anger has its limits, like all else. And so, once more, my Garceran, what cheer? Gives you the foe concern in spite of peace? GARCERAN. With bloody wounds, O Sire, as if in play, On this side of the boundary and that We fought, yet ever peace resembled war So to a hair, that perfidy alone Made all the difference. But now the foe A short time holdeth peace. KING. 'Tis bad! GARCERAN. We think So too, and that he plans a mightier blow. And rumor hath it that his ships convey From Africa to Cadiz men and food, Where secretly a mighty army forms, Which Jussuf, ruler of Morocco, soon Will join with forces gathered over seas; And then the threat'ning blow will fall on us. KING. Well, if they strike, we must return the blow. A king leads them, and so a king leads you. If there's a God, such as we know there is, And justice be the utt'rance of his tongue, I hope to win, God with us, and the right I I grieve but for the peasants' bitter need, Myself, as highest, should the heaviest bear. Let all the people to the churches come And pray unto the God of victory. Let all the sacred relics be exposed, And let each pray, who goeth to the fight. GARCERAN. Without thy proclamation, this is done, The bells sound far through all the borderland, And in the temples gathereth the folk; Only, alas, its zeal, erring as oft, Expends itself on those of other faith, Whom trade and gain have scattered through the land. Mistreated have they here and there a Jew. KING. And ye, ye suffer this? Now, by the Lord, I will protect each one who trusts in me. Their faith is their affair, their conduct mine. GARCERAN. 'Tis said they're spies and hirelings of the Moors. KING. Be sure, no one betrays more than he knows, And since I always have despised their gold, I never yet have asked for their advice. Not Christian and not Jew knows what shall be, But I alone. Hence, by your heads, I urge-- [_A woman's voice without._] Woe, woe! KING. What is't? GARCERAN. An old man, Sire, is there, A Jew, methinks, pursued by garden churls, Two maidens with him, one of them, behold, Is fleeing hither. KING. Good! Protection's here, And thunder strike who harms one hair of hers. (_Calling behind the scenes._)