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How is it, Othus? something in thine eye
Of joyous sadness looks upon me wistfully.

(To Othus, who takes him tenderly by the hand.)

OTHUS.

Dost thou not guess?—But I would speak to thee

Of a brave soldier, who, in one short moment
Of nature's weakness, has a wound receiv'd
That will unto his life as fatal prove
As fellest foeman's thrust: who in his rest
Will not be mourn'd as brave men mourn the brave.
Justiniani in his cave of shame——

RODRIGO.

And therein let him perish!

He hath disgrac'd a soldier's honest fame:
He hath disgrac'd the country of his birth:
He hath——It makes me stamp upon the ground
To think that one, who grasp'd with brother's hand
The noble Constantine, should basely turn.
Name not his cursed name!

OTHUS.

Art thou so stern? In a lone cave he groans,

On the damp earth, in deepest agony
Of the soul's shrewdest sufferings. I have
By an old soldier been advis'd of this,
And I would go to him, but that I feel