Aren't you that prince of
the line of Roca Salada who went into battle that pleasant night
in the castle of Malvei with that most serene princess, the
beautiful Carmesina? And if my heart hasn't gone mad or I
haven't lost all my senses, it seems to me that I heard tell that
Her Highness let you into her chambers at a very late hour. She
put her father's crown--that of the Greek Empire--on your head,
and accepted you as her universal lord, with the help of a sad
maiden named Plaerdemavida. You have given so little thought to
either of them, it's as if you'd never known them. Her Highness,
with you forgetting about her, is more dead than alive in the
Monastery of Santa Clara, always calling out the name of Tirant
in whom she has placed all her hope. Oh, Tirant! How you have
shed all kindness. You know full well that the Turks have
overrun all of Greece, that all they have left to do is take the
city of Constantinople and seize the emperor, his wife and the
grieving princess."
When Tirant heard the maiden say these things, he heaved a sigh
from the depths of his heart as he remembered the lady he loved
more than anyone in the world.
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