 no more.
 
So shall Jesus, still attending,
Gracious to a Christian's vow,
Pleas'd accept my ghost ascending,
And a seat in heaven allow.«
 
Thus spoke gallant Durandarte;
Soon his brave heart broke in twain.
Greatly joy'd the Moorish party,
That the gallant knight was slain.
 
Bitter weeping, Montesinos
Took from him his helm and glaive;
Bitter weeping, Montesinos
Dug his gallant cousin's grave.
 
To perform his promise made, he
Cut the heart from out the breast,
That Belerma, wretched lady!
Might receive the last bequest.
 
Sad was Montesinos' heart, he
Felt distress his bosom rend.
»Oh! my cousin Durandarte,
Woe is me to view thy end!
 
Sweet in manners, fair in favour,
Mild in temper, fierce in fight,
Warrior nobler, gentler, braver,
Never shall behold the light.
 
Cousin, lo! my tears bedew thee;
How shall I thy loss survive?
Durandarte, he who slew thee,
Wherefore left he me alive?«
 
While she sung, Ambrosio listened with delight: never had he heard a voice more
harmonious; and he wondered how such heavenly sounds could be produced by any
but angels. But though he indulged the sense of hearing, a single look convinced
him, that he must not trust to that of sight. The songstress sat at a little
distance from his bed. The attitude in which she bent over her harp was easy and
graceful: her cowl had fallen backwarder than usual: two coral lips were
visible, ripe, fresh, and melting, and a chin, in whose dimples seemed to lurk a
thousand Cupids. Her habit's long sleeve would have swept along the chords of
the instrument: to prevent this inconvenience she had drawn it above her elbow;
and by this means an arm was discovered, formed in the most perfect symmetry,
the delicacy of whose skin might have contended with snow in whiteness. Ambrosio
dared to look on her but once: that glance sufficed to convince him, how
dangerous was the presence of this seducing object. He closed his eyes, but
strove in vain to banish her from his thoughts. There she still moved before
him, adorned with all those charms which his heated imagination could supply.
Every beauty which he had seen appeared embellished; and those still concealed
fancy represented to him in glowing colours. Still, however, his vows, and the
necessity of keeping to them, were present to his memory. He struggled with
desire, and shuddered when he beheld how deep was the precipice before him.
    Matilda ceased to sing
