King.

Almeh! my rose of June! Queen of my gardens, flower of all my kingdom!

Al. Honour be thine, my sire.

K. I bring thee joy. Hast thou not wondered why I sent for thee?

Al. Why was it? I long to know.

K. (giving). See for thyself.

Al. A picture!

K. ’Tis a portrait.

Al. And of whom?

K. Dost thou not guess who this young Kaled is: This high and dauntless brow, this stalwart arm, Keen eye and martial poise?

Al. If this be he, Who made of late entreaty for my hand, Prince Tarudante ...

K. A happy omen. Ay, Look, girl, and love him, for he wooes thee well With all Morocco.

Al. Yet I cannot love Thy wish to banish me so far.

K. Thy marriage Will bring Morocco nearer, and renew Our old alliance: for thy valiant lover Comes not with gold to woo thee, but sharp steel. His flag is black, his ceremonious train Are twenty thousand horsemen sworn to avenge The Prophet.... Ceuta will be mine.

Al. Ah, sire! I like not love that comes with war to woo.

K. But war that shall bring peace, whose lasting olive May not be sceptred in my hand, until This fallen jewel be set back in my crown. Thy marriage with Morocco shall wipe out The old dishonour that hath vexed my reign.

Al. And yet doth Ceuta, sire, in all thy kingdom Rank as a little town.

K. Thou art a woman; How can I show thee? This anemone, ’Tis beautiful, nor canst thou say its grace Resides in this part nor in that: but look; I pluck a petal from it.—Thou beholdest My kingdom without Ceuta. Wouldst thou wish To set this back unto the perfect flower?

Al. How could I do it?

K. I must tell thee all. Our ancestors, thou knowest, blest be their names, Long ruled in Spain, and made that coign of the earth The glory of all; but to the peaceful arts Turning their genius when they sat to rule, Their prudence slept: for that half-barbarous race, Whom conquering they had spared, grew up more apt In arms, and rising ’gainst our easy folk O’erthrew and dispossest them;—and, not content To have driven us out of Spain, pursued us hither, Where in our southern bounds we lived retired Behind the ocean as an ample shield. ’Twas in thy grandsire’s time, ere thou wert born, They did this wrong; the boastful Portuguese Swoln with malevolence,—why should I say it?— King Joam and his sons, all unprovoked, For we had oaths of peace, attacked us here With sudden treacherous assault, and seized Ceuta, our strongest barrier thitherward. Impregnable we deemed it, and indeed Impregnable have found it ’gainst ourselves For twenty years besieging it in vain. Then should this shame, unbearable to us, Prove but incitement to our foes, a foothold For further wresting. Two months have not passed Since that a new Armada sailed from Tagus Against Tangiers, and both by land and sea Beleaguering would have reft that city too, And added my dishonour to my father’s, Had not Ben Sala’s generalship o’ermatched Their most infernal malice. Praised be Allah! They fell, they fled; and such as fled not lie Dead on our sands, or in our dungeons chained.

Al. Are those the captives in the castle pit?

K. Ay, but thou breakst my tale;—mark what I tell.— The victory mine, I looked to make fair peace, And would have given my prisoners in exchange For Ceuta; but the prince of Portugal, Behind those walls retired, refused the ransom; And gathering reinforcement hath come forth To devastate the country. ’Tis ’gainst him That Sala marched five days ago. Meanwhile Morocco, who was treating for thy hand, Heard tidings of our war, and having now An armament collected ’gainst the tribes, Has turned it to my rescue. ’Twas for this I sent for thee; in furtherance of thy marriage; Hoping thereby to bind him in the terms I have to tell thee. However Sala fare, And hitherto no news comes from his camp, ’Twere no achievement worthy of Tarudante To make dispersal of a broken foe: I shall propose a greater enterprise; I’ll say ’Thou wilt not grudge to sweep the bounds Of the fair realm, whose heiress thou wouldst wed. Make we this compact—Win me Ceuta back And drive the idolaters across the sea, Ere thou take home my daughter for thy queen.’

Al. But doth Morocco, sire, know I am here?

K. Nay, nor myself knew, when I sent for thee, How ’twould fall out: ’twas timed most happily.

Al. But coming not to woo, may he not find Offence in the constraint; as I confess I feel to lay it on him, tho’my lover?

K. Nay, nay, girl; he is in earnest; meet him frankly; ’Tis by his love thou shalt restore my town.

Enter Messenger.