Part 2 / Act 4 — Scene I.—Camp of Melech, the Saracen Emir.

Mel. Yes! he I mean—Rainier de Chatillon! Go, send swift riders o’er the mountains forth, And through the deserts, to proclaim the price I set upon his life! Sadi. Thou gav’st the word Before; it hath been done—they are gone forth. Mel. Would that my soul could wing them! Didst thou heed To say his life? I’ll have my own revenge! Yes! I would save him from another’s hand! Thou said’st he must be brought alive? Sadi. I heard Thy will, and I obey’d. Mel. He slew my son— That was in battle—but to shed her blood! My child Moraima’s! Could he see and strike her? A Christian see her face, too! From my house The crown is gone! Who brought the tale? Sadi. A slave Of your late son’s, escaped. Mel. Have I a son Left? speak, the slave of which? Kaled is gone— And Octar gone—both, both are fallen— Both my young stately trees, and she my flower— No hand but mine shall be upon him, none!— [A sound of festive music without. What mean they there? [An attendant enters. Att. Tidings of joy, my chief! Mel. Joy!—is the Christian taken? Moraima enters, and throws herself into his arms. Mor. Father! Father! I did not think this world had yet so much Of aught like happiness! Mel. My own fair child! Is it on thee I look indeed, my child? [Turning to attendants. Away, there!—gaze not on us! Do I hold Thee in my arms! They told me thou wert slain. Rainier de Chatillon, they said—— Mor. (hurriedly.) Oh, no! Twas he that sent thee back thy child, my father. Mel. He! why, his brother Aymer still refused A monarch’s ransom for thee! Mor. (with a momentary delight.) Did he thus? [Suddenly checking herself. —Yes! I knew well! Oh! do not speak of him! Mel. What! hath he wrong’d thee? Thou hast suffer’d much Amongst these Christians! Thou art changed, my child. There’s a dim shadow in thine eye, where once—— But they shall pay me back for all thy tears With their best blood. Mor. (alarmed.) Father! not so, not so! They still were gentle with me. But I sat And watch’d beside my dying brother’s couch Through many days: and I have wept since then— Wept much. Mel. Thy dying brother’s couch!—yes, thou Wert ever true and kind. Mor. (covering her face.) Oh! praise me not! Look gently on me, or I sink to earth; Not thus! Mel. No praise! thou’rt faint, my child, and worn: The length of way hath—— Mor. (eagerly.) Yes! the way was long, The desert’s wind breath’d o’er me. Could I rest? Mel. Yes! thou shalt rest within thy father’s tent. Follow me, gentle child! Thou look’st so changed. Mor. (hurriedly.) The weary way,—the desert’s burning wind—— [Laying her hand on him as she goes out. Think thou no evil of those Christians, father!— They were still kind.