Four paces hence I shall cause thee to know it.

Count. Presumptuous youth!

Don Rodrigo. Speak without exciting thyself. I am young, it is true; but in souls nobly born valor does not depend upon age (lit. wait for the number of years).

Count. To measure thyself with me! Who (or, what) has rendered thee so presumptuous—thou, whom men have never seen with a sword (lit. arms) in thine hand?

Don Rodrigo. Men like me do not cause themselves to be known at a second trial, and they wish (to perform) masterly strokes for their first attempt.

Count. Dost thou know well who I am?

Don Rodrigo. Yes! Any other man except myself, at the mere mention of thy name, might tremble with terror. The laurels with which I see thine head so covered seem to bear written (upon them) the prediction of my fall. I attack, like a rash man, an arm always victorious; but by courage I shall overcome you (lit. I shall have too much strength in possessing sufficient courage). To him who avenges his father nothing is impossible. Thine arm is unconquered, but not invincible.

Count. This noble courage which appears in the language you hold has shown itself each day by your eyes; and, believing that I saw in you the honor of Castile, my soul with pleasure was destining for you my daughter. I know thy passion, and I am delighted to see that all its impulses yield to thy duty; that they have not weakened this magnanimous ardor; that thy proud manliness merits my esteem; and that, desiring as a son-in-law an accomplished cavalier, I was not deceived in the choice which I had made. But I feel that for thee my compassion is touched. I admire thy courage, and I pity thy youth. Seek not to make thy first attempt (or, maiden-stroke) fatal. Release my valor from an unequal conflict; too little honor for me would attend this victory. In conquering without danger we triumph without glory. Men would always believe that thou wert overpowered without an effort, and I should have only regret for thy death.

Don Rodrigo. Thy presumption is followed by a despicable (lit. unworthy) pity! The man who dares to deprive me of honor, fears to deprive me of life!

Count. Withdraw from this place.

Don Rodrigo. Let us proceed without further parley.

Count. Art thou so tired of life?

Don Rodrigo. Hast thou such a dread of death?

Count. Come, thou art doing thy duty, and the son becomes degenerate who survives for one instant the honor of his father.

Scene III.—The INFANTA, CHIMÈNE and LEONORA.

Infanta. Soothe, my Chimène, soothe thy grief; summon up thy firmness in this sudden misfortune. Thou shalt see a calm again after this short-lived (lit.