KING. Nay, to Alarcos, friend. We're for the border, for the war, and so Make ready only what we need the most. For in Toledo four eyes threaten me; Two full of tears, the other two, of fire. She would not leave my picture here behind, And bade defiance unto death itself. And yet there needed but my stern command To make her put it back where it belonged. She tried her actress arts on me, that's all; But did she put it in the frame again? Since I am leaving here for many moons Let all be undisturbed as 'twas before; Of this affair let every trace be gone. [_He goes into the ante-chamber. A pause as one of the servants takes up from the chair the clothes which_ RACHEL _had worn, but holds the crown in his hand. The_ KING _comes back holding_ RACHEL'S _picture._] KING. My picture gone--and this one in its place! It is her own, and burns within my hand-- (_Throwing the picture on the floor._) Avaunt! Avaunt! Can boldness go so far? This may not be, for while I think of her With just repugnance, this her painted image Stirs up the burning passion in my breast. Then, too, within her hands my picture rests! They talk of magic, unallowèd arts, Which this folk practises with such-like things And something as of magic o'er me comes-- (_To the servant._) Here, pick this up and spur thee on until Thou overtake them. SERVANT. Whom, my liege? KING. Whom? Whom? The girls of course, I mean, and Garceran; Return this picture to the girls and ask-- SERVANT. What, Sire? KING. Shall my own servants then become The sharers in the knowledge of my shame? I'll force th' exchange myself, if it must be! Take up the picture--I will touch it not! [_The servant has picked up the picture._] KING. How clumsy! Hide it in your breast; but nay, If there, it would be warmed by other's glow! Give 't here, myself will take it; follow me--We'll overtake them yet! But I surmise, Since now suspicion's rife, there may some harm, Some accident befall them unawares. My royal escort were the safest guide. Thou, follow me! [_He has looked at the picture, then has put it in his bosom._] Stands there not, at the side, The Castle Retiro, where, all concealed, My forebear, Sancho, with a Moorish maid--! SERVANT. Your Majesty, 'tis true!