After, with two my neighbours drawing nigh,
One of them touched the Spaniard’s hand and said,
‘Dead is he but not cold;’ the other then,
‘Nay in good truth methinks he be not dead.’ 
Again the first, ‘An’ if he breatheth yet
He lies at his last gasp.’  And this went off,
And left us two, that by the litter stayed,
Looking on one another, and we looked
(For neither willed to speak), and yet looked on. 
Then would he have me know the meet was fixed
For nine o’ the clock, and to be brief with you
He left me.  And I had the Spaniard home. 
What other could be done?  I had him home. 
Men on his litter bare him, set him down
In a fair chamber that was nigh the hall.

And yet he waked not from his deathly swoon,
Albeit my wife did try her skill, and now
Bad lay him on a bed, when lo the folds
Of that great ensign covered store of gold,
Rich Spanish ducats, raiment, Moorish blades
Chased in right goodly wise, and missals rare,
And other gear.  I locked it for my part
Into an armoury, and that fair flag
(While we did talk full low till he should end)
Spread over him.  Methought, the man shall die
Under his country’s colours; he was brave,
His deadly wound to that doth testify.

And when ’t was seemly order’d, Rosamund,
My daughter, who had looked not yet on death,
Came in, a face all marvel, pity, and dread—­
Lying against her shoulder sword-long flowers,
White hollyhocks to cross upon his breast. 
Slowly she turned as of that sight afeard,
But while with daunted heart she moved anigh,
His eyelids quiver’d, quiver’d then the lip,
And he, reviving, with a sob looked up
And set on her the midnight of his eyes.

Then she, in act to place the burial gift
Bending above him, and her flaxen hair
Fall’n to her hand, drew back and stood upright
Comely and tall, her innocent fair face
Cover’d with blushes more of joy than shame. 
‘Father,’ she cried, ’O father, I am glad. 
Look you! the enemy liveth.’ ’’T is enough,
My maiden,’ quoth her mother, ’thou may’st forth,
But say an Ave first for him with me.’

Then they with hands upright at foot o’ his bed
Knelt, his dark dying eyes at gaze on them,
Till as I think for wonder at them, more
Than for his proper strength, he could not die.

So in obedient wise my daughter risen,
And going, let a smile of comforting cheer
Lift her sweet lip, and that was all of her
For many a night and day that he beheld.

And then withal my dame, a leech of skill,
Tended the Spaniard fain to heal his wound,
Her women aiding at their best.  And he
’Twixt life and death awaken’d in the night
Full oft in his own tongue would make his moan,
And when he whisper’d any word I knew,
If I was present, for to pleasure him,
Then made I repetition of the same. 
‘Cordova,’ quoth he faintly, ‘Cordova,’
’T was the first word he mutter’d.  ‘Ay, we know,’
Quoth I, ’the stoutness of that fight ye made
Against the Moors and their Mahometry,
And dispossess’d the men of fame, the fierce
Khalifs of Cordova—­thy home belike,
Thy city.  A fair city Cordova.’