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No, hear it now; 'tis short, and when once told, One misery is past. Leagued with three chiefs, Resentful as myself, we did in secret Devise the means, and soon had reach'd our mark.

Your mark! O what was that?

I see the fearful meaning of thine eye; But be not so disturbed.—Our mark indeed Was vengeance, but not murder.—On his throne We meant to place a nobler prince, whose hand Had even justice to his subjects dealt. We meant to place on Pedro's worthless brow That which became it better than a crown.

I understand;—a monk's unseemly cowl. I'm glad you did not mean to shed his blood.

My gentle child, we meant but as I say. And while revenging my especial wrongs, We should have freed Castile from a hard master, Who now sheds noble blood upon the scaffold As lavishly as hinds the common water Of village pool cast o'er their arid fields. And yet to kindle in our native land The flames of civil discord, even for this,