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Yet well thou'lt know the hand that wrote this letter for thine eye, For conscience will remind thee of thy fickle treachery. Dissemble as thou wilt, and play with woman's skill thy part, Thou knowest there is but one who bears for thee a broken heart." Thus read the valiant castellan of Baza's castle tower, Then sealed the scrip and sent it to the Moorish maiden's bower.
Upon a piebald colt he rode along the valley's side, The bravest of the valiant Moors and once Granada's pride. In furious rage descending from bold Ubeda's steep, He crossed the vale and mounted to Baza's castle keep.
He called on heaven, and heaven was deaf to all his bitter cry, For the victim of the strife of kings, of the bloody war, was I; It was my father bade him first to seek our strong retreat. Would God that he had never come to Baza's castle seat! Would God that he had never come, an armored knight, to stand Amid the soldiers that were ranked beneath my sire's command.
And all of Baza's people with cries his coming greet, And follow at his horse's tail from street to crowded street. His heart with gratitude was filled, his bosom filled with pride, And with doffed bonnet, lo, he bowed and once again he cried: "And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant, By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment."
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