Then after many days, while his wound healed,
He with abundant seemly sign set forth
His thanks, but as for language had we none,
And oft he strove and failed to let us know
Some wish he had, but could not, so a week,
Two weeks went by.  Then Rosamund my girl,
Hearing her mother plain on this, she saith,
’So please you, madam, show the enemy
A Psalter in our English tongue, and fetch
And give him that same book my father found
Wrapped in the ensign.  Are they not the same
Those holy words?  The Spaniard being devout,
He needs must know them.’ 
                          ’Peace, thou pretty fool! 
Is this a time to teach an alien tongue?’
Her mother made for answer.  ’He is sick,
The Spaniard.’  ‘Cry you mercy,’ quoth my girl,
’But I did think ’t were easy to let show
How both the Psalters are of meaning like;
If he know Latin, and ’t is like he doth,
So might he choose a verse to tell his thought.’

Then said I (ay, I did!) ‘The girl shall try,’
And straight I took her to the Spaniard’s side,
And he, admiring at her, all his face
Changed to a joy that almost showed as fear,
So innocent holy she did look, so grave
Her pitiful eyes. 
                   She sat beside his bed,
He covered with the ensign yet; and took
And showed the Psalters both, and she did speak
Her English words, but gazing was enough
For him at her sweet dimple, her blue eyes
That shone, her English blushes.  Rosamund,
My beautiful dear child.  He did but gaze,
And not perceive her meaning till she touched
His hand, and in her Psalter showed the word.

Then was all light to him; he laughed for joy,
And took the Latin Missal.  O full soon,
Alas, how soon, one read the other’s thought! 
Before she left him, she had learned his name
Alonzo, told him hers, and found the care
Made night and day uneasy—­Cordova,
There dwelt his father, there his kin, nor knew
Whether he lived or died, whether in thrall
To the Islanders for lack of ransom pined
Or rued the galling yoke of slavery.

So did he cast him on our kindness.  I—­
And care not who may know it—­I was kind,
And for that our stout Queen did think foul scorn
To kill the Spanish prisoners, and to guard
So many could not, liefer being to rid
Our country of them than to spite their own,
I made him as I might that matter learn,
Eking scant Latin with my daughter’s wit,
And told him men let forth and driven forth
Did crowd our harbours for the ports of Spain,
By one of whom, he, with good aid of mine,
Should let his tidings go, and I plucked forth
His ducats that a meet reward might be. 
Then he, the water standing in his eyes,
Made old King David’s words due thanks convey.

Then Rosamund, this all made plain, arose
And curtsey’d to the Spaniard.  Ah, methinks
I yet behold her, gracious, innocent,
And flaxen-haired, and blushing maidenly,
When turning she retired, and his black eyes,
That hunger’d after her, did follow on;
And I bethought me, ’Thou shalt see no more,
Thou goodly enemy, my one ewe lamb.’