ph._ Pedro?--how goes the night?

_Ped._ She wears apace.

_Alph._ Then welcome day-light; we shall have warm work on't.
The Moor will 'gage
His utmost forces on this next assault,
To win a queen and kingdom.

_Ped._ Pox on this lion-way of wooing, though.
Is the queen stirring yet?

_Alph._ She has not been abed, but in her chapel
All night devoutly watched, and bribed the saints
With vows for her deliverance.

_Ped._ O, Alphonso!
I fear they come too late. Her father's crimes
Sit heavy on her, and weigh down her prayers.
A crown usurped; a lawful king deposed,
In bondage held, debarred the common light;
His children murdered, and his friends destroyed,--
What can we less expect than what we feel,
And what we fear will follow?

_Alph._ Heaven avert it!

_Ped._ Then heaven must not be heaven. Judge the event
By what has passed. The usurper joyed not long
His ill-got crown:--'tis true, he died in peace,--
Unriddle that, ye powers!--but left his daughter,
Our present queen, engaged upon his death-bed,
To marry with young Bertran, whose cursed father
Had helped to make him great.
Hence, you well know, this fatal war arose;
Because the Moor Abdalla, with whose troops
The usurper gained the kingdom, was refused;
And, as an infidel, his love despised.

_Alph._ Well, we are soldiers, Pedro; and, like lawyers,
Plead for our pay.

_Ped._ A good cause would do well though:
It gives my sword an edge. You see this Bertran
Has now three times been beaten by the Moors:
What hope we have, is in young Torrismond,
Your brother's son.

_Alph._ He's a successful warrior,
And has the soldiers' hearts: upon the skirts
Of Arragon our squandered troops he rallies.
Our watchmen from the towers with longing eyes
Expect his swift arrival.

_Ped._ It must be swift, or it will come too late.

_Alph._ No more.--Duke Bertran.

_Enter_ BERTRAN _attended._

_Bert._ Relieve the sentries that have watched all night.
[_To Ped._] Now, colonel, have you disposed your men,
That you stand idle here?

_Ped._ Mine are drawn off
To take a short repose.

_Bert._ Short let it be:
For, from the Moorish camp, this hour and more,
There has been heard a distant humming noise,
Like bees disturbed, and arming in their hives.
What courage in our soldiers? Speak! What hope?

_Ped._ As much as when physicians shake their heads,
And bid their dying patient think of heaven.
Our walls are thinly manned; our best men slain;
The rest, a