In the crossway which conducted To the kennels of the monarch, Which proclaimed themselves already By far growling sounds and yelpings, There I noticed, built up strongly In the wall, and on the outside Firmly fasten’d by strong iron, Like a cage, a narrow cell. And inside it sat two human Figures, two young boys appearing; By the legs securely fetter’d, On the dirty straw they squatted. Scarcely twelve years old the one seem’d, Scarcely older seem’d the other; Fair and noble were their faces, But through sickness thin and sallow. They were clothed in rags, half naked, And their wither’d bodies offer’d Plainest signs of gross ill-treatment; Both with fever shook and trembled. From the depth of their deep mis’ry They upon me turn’d their glances; White and spirit-like their eyes were, And I felt all terror-stricken. “Who, then, are these wretched objects?” I exclaim’d, with hasty action Don Diego’s hand tight grasping, Which was trembling as I touch’d it. Don Diego seem’d embarrass’d, Look’d if any one was listening, Deeply sigh’d, and said, assuming A mere worldling’s jaunty accents: These are children of a monarch, Early orphan’d, and their father Was Don Pedro, and their mother Was Maria de Padilla. After the great fight at Narvas, Where Henrico Transtamara Freed his brother, this Don Pedro, From his crown’s oppressive burden, And from that still greater burden Which by men is Life entitled, Don Henrico’s victor-kindness Also reach’d his brother’s children. Under his own care he took them, As becomes a kindly uncle, And in his own castle gave them Free of charge, both board and lodging. Narrow is indeed the chamber That he there allotted to them; Yet in summer it is coolish, And not over cold in winter. For their food, they live on ryebread, As delicious in its flavour As if Ceres’ self had baked it For her dear child Proserpina. Oftentimes he also sends them Quite a bowl-full of garbanzos, And the youngsters in this manner Learn that ’tis in Spain a Sunday. Yet not always is it Sunday, And garbanzos come not always, And the upper huntsman treats them To a banquet with his whip. For this worthy upper huntsman, Who is with the care entrusted Of the pack of hounds, together With the cage that holds the nephews, Is the most unhappy husband Of that acid Citronella With the frill so white and plate-like, Whom we saw to-day at table; And she scolds so loud, that often On the whip her husband seizes, Hither hastens, and chastises First the dogs, and then the children. But the king is very angry With his conduct, and commanded That his nephews should in future Never like the dogs be treated.