KING.  Put down a carpet, ye, that we have peace.

RACHEL.  I feel it well—­I merely burden you! 
             Oh, were my sister only here with me,
             For I am sick and tired unto death! 
             Naught but these pillows here?

(Throwing the pillows in the arbor violently about.)

No, no, no, no!

KING (laughing).

I see your weakness happily abates.

(Catching sight of GARCERAN.)

Ah, Garceran!  Behold, she’s but a child!

GARCERAN.  A spoiled child, surely!

KING.  Yes, they all are that. 
             It suits her well!

GARCERAN.  According to one’s tastes!

KING.  See, Garceran!  I feel how wrong I am;
             And yet I know there needeth but a nod,
             A simple word, to make it all dissolve—­This
             dream—­into the nothing that it is. 
             And so I suffer it because I’ve need,
             In this confusion which myself have caused. 
             How is the army?

GARCERAN.  As you long have known,
             The enemy is arming.

KING.  So shall we. 
             A few days more, and I shall put away
             This toying from me, and forevermore;
             Then time and counsel shall be found again.

GARCERAN.  Mayhap the counsel, but the time slips by!

KING.  With deeds we shall regain the ground that’s lost.

RACHEL.  I hear them speaking; and I know of what—­Of
             And not be lonesome in this concourse loud. 
             I see you come not.  No, they hold you back.

[Weeping.]

Not any comfort give they me, nor joy. 
They hold me here, apart, in slavery. 
Would I were home again in father’s house,
Where every one is at my beck and call,
Instead of here,—­the outcast of contempt.

KING.  Go thou to her!

GARCERAN.  What?  Shall I?

KING.  Go, I say!

RACHEL.  Sit down by me, but nearer, nearer—­so! 
             Once more I say, I love you, Garceran. 
             You are, indeed, a knight without a flaw,
             Not merely knight in name, as they it learn—­
             Those iron, proud Castilians—­from their foes,
             The Moors.—­But these Castilians imitate
             In manner borrowed, therefore rough and crude,
             What those, with delicate and clever art,
             Are wont to practise as a native gift. 
             Give me your hand.  Just see, how soft it is! 
             And yet you wield a sword as well as they. 
             But you’re at home in boudoirs, too, and know
             The pleasing manners of a gentler life. 
             From