Ped. I hear the general’s trumpet.  Stand and mark How he will be received; I fear, but coldly.  There hung a cloud, methought, on Bertran’s brow.

Lor. Then look to see a storm on Torrismond’s; Looks fright not men.  The general has seen Moors With as bad faces; no dispraise to Bertran’s.

Ped. ’Twas rumoured in the camp, he loves the queen.

Lor. He drinks her health devoutly.

Alph. That may breed bad blood betwixt him and Bertran.

Ped. Yes, in private. 
But Bertran has been taught the arts of court,
To gild a face with smiles, and leer a man to ruin,
O here they come.—­

  Enter TORRISMOND and Officers on one Side, BERTRAN attended on
  the other; they embrace, BERTRAN bowing low.

Just as I prophesied.—­

Lor. Death and hell, he laughs at him!—­in his face too.

Ped. O you mistake him; ’twas an humble grin, The fawning joy of courtiers and of dogs.

Lor. Here are nothing but lies to be expected:  I’ll even go lose myself in some blind alley, and try if any courteous damsel will think me worth the finding. [Aside, and Exit.

Alph. Now he begins to open.

Bert. Your country rescued, and your queen relieved,—­
A glorious conquest, noble Torrismond! 
The people rend the skies with loud applause,
And heaven can hear no other name but yours. 
The thronging crowds press on you as you pass,
And with their eager joy make triumph slow.

Torr. My lord, I have no taste
Of popular applause; the noisy praise
Of giddy crowds, as changeable as winds;
Still vehement, and still without a cause;
Servant to chance, and blowing in the tide
Of swoln success; but veering with its ebb,
It leaves the channel dry.

Bert. So young a stoick!

Torr. You wrong me, if you think I’ll sell one drop
Within these veins for pageants; but, let honour
Call for my blood, and sluice it into streams: 
Turn fortune loose again to my pursuit,
And let me hunt her through embattled foes,
In dusty plains, amidst the cannons’ roar,
There will I be the first.

Bert. I’ll try him farther.—­ [Aside.
Suppose the assembled states of Arragon
Decree a statue to you, thus inscribed: 
“To Torrismond, who freed his native land.”

Alph. [To Ped.]
Mark how he sounds and fathoms him,
To find the shallows of his soul!

Bert. The just applause
Of god-like senates, is the stamp of virtue,
Which makes it pass unquestioned through the world. 
These honours you deserve; nor shall my suffrage
Be last to fix them on you.  If refused,
You brand us all with black ingratitude: 
For times to come shall say,—­Our Spain, like Rome,
Neglects her champions after noble acts,
And lets their laurels wither on their heads.