_Zul._ No, murderer, no; I never will be won
To peace with him, whose hand has slain my son.

_Ozm._ Our prophet's curse
On me, and all the Abencerrages light,
If, unprovoked, I with your son did fight.

_Abdelm._ A band of Zegrys ran within the place,
Matched with a troop of thirty of our race.
Your son and Ozmyn the first squadrons led,
Which, ten by ten, like Parthians, charged and fled.
The ground was strowed with canes where we did meet,
Which crackled underneath our coursers' feet:
When Tarifa (I saw him ride a part)
Changed his blunt cane for a steel-pointed dart,
And, meeting Ozmyn next,--
Who wanted time for treason to provide,--
He basely threw it at him, undefied.

_Ozm._ [_Shewing his arms._]
Witness this blood--which when by treason sought,
That followed, sir, which to myself I ought.

_Zul._ His hate to thee was grounded on a grudge,
Which all our generous Zegrys just did judge:
Thy villain-blood thou openly didst place
Above the purple of our kingly race.

_Boab._ From equal stems their blood both houses draw,