_Infanta._ Alas! what uneasiness I feel in my mind! I weep for her
sorrows, [yet still] her lover enthralls me; my calmness forsakes me,
and my passion revives. That which is going to separate Rodrigo from
Chimène rekindles at once my hope and my pain; and their separation,
which I see with regret, infuses a secret pleasure in mine enamored
soul.

_Leonora._ This noble pride which reigns in your soul, does it so soon
surrender to this unworthy passion?

_Infanta._ Call it not unworthy, since, seated in my heart, proud and
triumphant, it asserts its sway [_lit._ law] over me. Treat it with
respect, since it is so dear to me. My pride struggles against it, but,
in spite of myself--I hope; and my heart, imperfectly shielded against
such a vain expectation, flies after a lover whom Chimène has lost.

_Leonora._ Do you thus let this noble resolution give way [_lit._ fall]?
And does reason in your mind thus lose its influence?

_Infanta._ Ah! with how little effect do we listen to reason when the
heart is assailed by a poison so delicious, and when the sick man loves
his malady! We can hardly endure that any remedy should be applied to
it.

_Leonora._ Your hope beguiles you, your malady is pleasant to you; but,
in fact, this Rodrigo is unworthy of you.

_Infanta._ I know it only too well; but if my pride yields, learn how
love flatters a heart which it possesses. If Rodrigo once [_or_, only]
comes forth from the combat as a conqueror, if this great warrior falls