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In the proud joy I felt at his high deeds.
How swell'd my heart! A braver knight in arms
Fought not that day. Bold heart and potent hand,
And lofty mien and eyes that flash'd with valour.
Where run my words? I have forgot their drift.

FRIAR.

Something which happened in the armory.

HENRIQUEZ.

Ay, in the armory, as I have said,

I struck my hand, in vehemence of action,
On a spik'd shield, nor knew till afterwards,
When the wild fit was past, and oozing blood
Loaded my clammy touch, that in my flesh
The broken iron was sheath'd.
No; what can corporeal pain or penance do?
That which inflicts the mental wound, which rends
The hold of pride, wrenching the bent of nature;
'T is that alone hath power. Yet from the effort
Nature starts back; my mind, stunn'd at the thought,
Loses the use of thought.

FRIAR.

I do not understand you; good, my Lord.

HENRIQUEZ.

It matters not, you will, perhaps, hereafter.