As friends, but prisoners to the power of Spain.
Fortune dispenses with your country's right;
But you desert your honour in your flight.

_Ozm._ I cannot leave you here, and go away;
My honour's glad of a pretence to stay.
[_A noise within,_--Follow, follow, follow!--

_Enter_ SELIN, _his sword drawn, as pursued._

_Selin._ I am pursued, and now am spent and done;
My limbs suffice me not with strength to run.
And, if I could, alas! what can I save?
A year, the dregs of life too, from the grave.
[_Sits down on the ground._
Here will I sit, and here attend my fate,
With the same hoary majesty and state,
As Rome's old senate for the Gauls did wait.

_Benz._ It is my father; and he seems distressed.

_Ozm._ My honour bids me succour the oppressed;
That life he sought, for his I'll freely give;
We'll die together, or together live.

_Benz._ I'll call more succour, since the camp is near,
And fly on all the wings of love and fear. [_Exit_ BENZ.

_Enter_ ABENAMAR, _and four or five Moors. He looks and finds_
SELIN.