Raym. O virtue, virtue! what art thou become,
That man should leave thee for that toy, a woman,
Made from the dross and refuse of a man! 
Heaven took him, sleeping, when he made her too;
Had man been waking, he had ne’er consented. 
Now, son, suppose
Some brave conspiracy were ready formed,
To punish tyrants, and redeem the land,
Could you so far belie your country’s hope,
As not to head the party?

Tor. How could my hand rebel against my heart?

Raym. How could your heart rebel against your reason?

Tor. No honour bids me fight against myself;
The royal family is all extinct,
And she, who reigns, bestows her crown on me: 
So must I be ungrateful to the living,
To be but vainly pious to the dead,
While you defraud your offspring of their fate.

Raym. Mark who defraud their offspring, you or I? 
For know, there yet survives the lawful heir
Of Sancho’s blood, whom when I shall produce,
I rest assured to see you pale with fear,
And trembling at his name.

Tor. He must be more than man, who makes me tremble. 
I dare him to the field, with all the odds
Of justice on his side, against my tyrant: 
Produce your lawful prince, and you shall see
How brave a rebel love has made your son.

Raym. Read that; ’tis with the royal signet signed, And given me, by the king, when time should serve, To be perused by you.

Tor. [Reads.] I, the king. 
My youngest and alone surviving son,
Reported dead, to escape rebellious rage,
Till happier times shall call his courage forth,
To break my fetters, or revenge my fate,
I will that Raymond educate as his,
And call him Torrismond—­
If I am he, that son, that Torrismond,
The world contains not so forlorn a wretch! 
Let never man believe he can be happy! 
For, when I thought my fortune most secure,
One fatal moment tears me from my joys;
And when two hearts were joined by mutual love,
The sword of justice cuts upon the knot,
And severs them for ever.

Raym. True, it must.

Tor. O, cruel man, to tell me that it must! 
If you have any pity in your breast,
Redeem me from this labyrinth of fate,
And plunge me in my first obscurity. 
The secret is alone between us two;
And, though you would not hide me from myself,
O, yet be kind, conceal me from the world,
And be my father still!

Raym. Your lot’s too glorious, and the proof’s too plain. 
Now, in the name of honour, sir, I beg you,—­
Since I must use authority no more,—­
On these old knees, I beg you, ere I die,
That I may see your father’s death revenged.

Tor. Why, ’tis the only business of my life;
My order’s issued to recall the army,
And Bertran’s death’s resolved.