The Cid's high banner stream'd all joyously,
For still its lord was there!
CITIZENS (rising tumultuously).
Again it shall be follow'd!
XIMENA.
The noble stem hewn down, the beacon-light
Which his house for ages o'er the land
Hath shone through cloud and storm, thus quench'd at once?
Will he not aid his children in the hour
Of this their uttermost peril?—Awful power
Is with the holy dead, and there are times
When the tomb hath no chain they cannot burst?
—Is it a thing forgotten, how he woke
From its deep rest of old, remembering Spain
In her great danger?—At the night's mid-watch
How Leon started, when the sound was heard
That shook her dark and hollow-echoing streets,
As with the heavy tramp of steel-clad men,
By thousands marching through!—For he had risen!
The Campeador was on his march again,
