Ped. She wears apace.

Alph. Then welcome day-light; we shall have warm work on’t. 
The Moor will ’gage
His utmost forces on this next assault,
To win a queen and kingdom.

Ped. Pox on this lion-way of wooing, though.  Is the queen stirring yet?

Alph. She has not been abed, but in her chapel All night devoutly watched, and bribed the saints With vows for her deliverance.

Ped. O, Alphonso! 
I fear they come too late.  Her father’s crimes
Sit heavy on her, and weigh down her prayers. 
A crown usurped; a lawful king deposed,
In bondage held, debarred the common light;
His children murdered, and his friends destroyed,—­
What can we less expect than what we feel,
And what we fear will follow?

Alph. Heaven avert it!

Ped. Then heaven must not be heaven.  Judge the event
By what has passed.  The usurper joyed not long
His ill-got crown:—­’tis true, he died in peace,—­
Unriddle that, ye powers!—­but left his daughter,
Our present queen, engaged upon his death-bed,
To marry with young Bertran, whose cursed father
Had helped to make him great. 
Hence, you well know, this fatal war arose;
Because the Moor Abdalla, with whose troops
The usurper gained the kingdom, was refused;
And, as an infidel, his love despised.

Alph. Well, we are soldiers, Pedro; and, like lawyers, Plead for our pay.

Ped. A good cause would do well though: 
It gives my sword an edge.  You see this Bertran
Has now three times been beaten by the Moors: 
What hope we have, is in young Torrismond,
Your brother’s son.

Alph. He’s a successful warrior,
And has the soldiers’ hearts:  upon the skirts
Of Arragon our squandered troops he rallies. 
Our watchmen from the towers with longing eyes
Expect his swift arrival.

Ped. It must be swift, or it will come too late.

Alph. No more.—­Duke Bertran.

  Enter BERTRAN attended.

Bert. Relieve the sentries that have watched all night. [To Ped.] Now, colonel, have you disposed your men, That you stand idle here?

Ped. Mine are drawn off To take a short repose.

Bert. Short let it be: 
For, from the Moorish camp, this hour and more,
There has been heard a distant humming noise,
Like bees disturbed, and arming in their hives. 
What courage in our soldiers?  Speak!  What hope?

Ped. As much as when physicians shake their heads,
And bid their dying patient think of heaven. 
Our walls are thinly manned; our best men slain;
The rest, an heartless number, spent with watching,
And harassed out with duty.

Bert. Good-night all, then.

Ped. Nay, for my part, ’tis but a single life
I have to lose.  I’ll plant my colours down
In the mid-breach, and by them fix my foot;
Say a short soldier’s prayer, to spare the trouble
Of my new friends above; and then expect
The next fair bullet.