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Ev'n as a breastplate.—Aye, men look on her, As she goes forth serenely to her tasks, Binding the warrior's wounds, and bearing fresh Cool draughts to fever'd lips; they look on her, Thus moving in her beautiful array Of gentle fortitude, and bless the fair Majestic vision, and unmurmuring turn Unto their heavy toils.

And seest thou not In that high faith and strong collectedness, A fearful inspiration?—They have cause To tremble, who behold th' unearthly light Of high, and, it may be, prophetic thought, Investing youth with grandeur!—From the grave It rises, on whose shadowy brink thy child Waits but a father's hand to snatch her back Into the laughing sunshine.—Kneel with me, Ximena, kneel beside me, and implore That which a deeper, more prevailing voice Than ours doth ask, and will not be denied; —His children's lives!

Alas! this may not be, Mother!—I cannot. [Exit.