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.
