_Alph._ He's a successful warrior, And has the soldiers' hearts: upon the skirts Of Arragon our squandered troops he rallies. Our watchmen from the towers with longing eyes Expect his swift arrival.
_Ped._ It must be swift, or it will come too late.
_Bert._ Relieve the sentries that have watched all night. [_To Ped._] Now, colonel, have you disposed your men, That you stand idle here?
_Ped._ Mine are drawn off To take a short repose.
_Bert._ Short let it be: For, from the Moorish camp, this hour and more, There has been heard a distant humming noise, Like bees disturbed, and arming in their hives. What courage in our soldiers? Speak! What hope?
_Ped._ As much as when physicians shake their heads, And bid their dying patient think of heaven. Our walls are thinly manned; our best men slain; The rest, an heartless number, spent with watching, And harassed out with duty.
_Ped._ Nay, for my part, 'tis but a single life I have to lose. I'll plant my colours down In the mid-breach, and by them fix my foot; Say a short soldier's prayer, to spare the trouble Of my new friends above; and then expect The next fair bullet.
_Alph._ Never was known a night of such distraction; Noise so confused and dreadful; jostling crowds. That run, and know not whither; torches gliding, Like meteors, by each other in the streets.
_Ped._ I met a reverend, fat, old gouty friar,-- With a paunch swoll'n so high, his double chin Might rest upon it; a true son of the church; Fresh-coloured, well thriven on his trade,-- Come puffing with his greasy bald-pate choir, And fumbling o'er his beads in such an agony, He told them false, for fear. About his neck There hung a wench, the label of his function, Whom he shook off, i'faith, methought, unkindly. It seems the holy stallion durst not score Another sin, before he left the world.
_Capt._ To arms, my lord, to arms! From the Moors' camp the noise grows louder still: Rattling of armour, trumpets, drums, and ataballes; And sometimes peals of shouts that rend the heavens, Like victory: then groans again, and howlings, Like those of vanquished men; but every echo Goes fainter off, and dies in distant sounds.
_Bert._ Some false attack: expect on t'other side. One to the gunners on St Jago's tower; bid them, for shame, Level their cannon lower: On my soul They are all corrupted with the gold of Barbary, To carry over, and not hurt the Moor.