Insult to the great and noble,
    Lofty house of the De Lainez,
    Which excelled the old Abarcos
        And the Inigos in fame.

    Deeply wrong'd,— by old age weaken'd,—
    Close he felt the grave approaching;
    And meanwhile his foe, Don Gormaz,
        Triumph'd, with no rival near.

    Mourning ever; foodless, sleepless,
    On the ground his glances fixing,
    Never did he cross the threshold,
        Never deign'd his friends a word.

    Answer'd not when they address'd him,
    Bidding him again take comfort;
    For the breath of the dishonour'd,
        So he thought, would stain his friends.

    But at last he shook the burden
    From him, of his moveless anguish,
    And his sons before him summon'd,
        Yet he spake them ne'er a word.

    All their warlike hands he fasten'd
    Close and sure with strongest fetters;
    All— their eyes with tears o'erflowing—
        Pray'd for pity from their sire.

    All his hope had nearly vanish'd,
    When the youngest of his children,
    Don Rodrigo, gave him courage,
        Hope and comfort, once again.

    Glaring like a fierce-eyed tiger,
    Stept he from his father backward,
    "Father," said he, "you're forgetful
        Who you are, and who I am!

    Had I not received my weapons
    From your hands, this trusty dagger
    Should have cleared the foul dishonour,
        You have tried to fling on me."

    Streaming fell the tears of rapture
    Down the cheek of that old father.
    "Thou," he said, his son embracing,
        "Thou, Rodrigo, art my son!

    Your brave wrath my rest restores me;
    Your brave anger cures my sorrows!
    Not on me, your kind old father,
        But upon our house's foe,

    Lift your hand!"—"Our foe, where is he?"
    Cried Rodrigo. "Who flings insult
    On our house?" He left his father
        Scarcely time to tell the tale.

II.

    In the court-yard of the palace
    Don Rodrigo met Don Gormaz
    By himself, with none beside him,
        And the Conde thus addressed:—

    "Did you know me, noble Gormaz,
    Me, the son of Don Diego,
    When you shook your hand in anger
        In that venerable face?

    Knew you not that Don Diego
    Traced his line from Läyn Calvo;
    Not on earth is nothing purer
        Than his 'scutcheon and his blood?"

    "Know you, boy," proud Gormaz answered,
    That's the half of man's existence?"
    "Yea! I know it," said Rodrigo,
        Yea! proud lord, I know it well!

    There's one-half consists in giving
    Honour to the brave and noble;
    And one-half in humbling braggarts,
        With the last drop of your blood,

    Shame and insult dearly venging."
    As he spoke these words in anger,
    Look'd he on the noble proudly,
        Who thus tauntingly replied:—

    "Now what want you, foolish stripling?"
    "'Tis your head I want, Don Gormaz,"
    Said the Cid, "I've sworn to have it."
        "You deserve a whipping, boy,"

    Said Don Gormaz, "such a whipping
    As men give their froward pages."
    Oh! ye holy ones in Heaven,
        How behaved the Cid on this?

III.

    Tears fall fast, in silence falling;
    Down Diego's face they trickle;
    He beside his table seats him,
        Lost to everything around!

    Thinking on his stain'd escutcheon,
    Thinking on Rodrigo's boyhood,
    Thinking on Rodrigo's danger,
        And the valour of his foe.

    Joy ne'er comes to the dishonour'd,
    Hope and happiness desert him;
    But when honour is restored him,
        Then they all come back again!

    Still, sunk down in deepest sorrow,
    Marks he not the Cid returning—
    'Neath his arm his sword he carries,
        And his hands upon his breast;

    Long he gazes on his father,
    While his bosom swells with pity;
    Then he shakes his hand, advancing:
        "Eat," he says, "belov'd old man!"

    Pointing to the table, spake he.
    More and more from Don Diego
    Fell the tears. "What, THOU, Rodrigo,
        Sayest THOU that word to me?"

    "Yes, dear father! Eat, I pray thee!
    Lift thine head erect and lofty,
    We have saved our house's honour;
        Noble father, he is dead!"

    "Sit thee down, my son Rodrigo,
    Gladly will I eat below thee;
    He who slew that man is worthy
        To be chief of all his name!"

    Weeping, weeping, kneels Rodrigo,
    While his father's hand he kisses;
    Weeping, weeping, Don Diego
        Kiss'd the forehead of his son.

But how in the meantime is the news of
Gormaz' death received by his daughter
Ximene? There is a great outcry, and
galloping hither and thither before the court