Sits a maid alone.Like the sunset splendor
Of that current bright,
Shone her dark eyes tender
As its witching light.
Like the ripple flowing,
Tinged with purple sheen,
Darkly, richly glowing,
Is her warm cheek seen.
’Tis the Gitanilla
By the stream doth linger,
In the hope that eve
Will her lover bring her.
See, the sun is sinking;
All grows dim, and dies;
See, the waves are drinking
Glories of the skies.
Day’s last lustre playeth
On that current dark;
Yet no speck betrayeth
His long looked-for bark.
’Tis the hour of meeting!
Nay, the hour is past;
Swift the time is fleeting!
Fleeteth hope as fast.
Still the Gitanilla
By the stream doth linger,
In the hope that night
Will her lover bring her.
The tender trembling of a guitar was heard in accompaniment of the ravishing melodist.
The song ceased.
“Where is the bird?” asked Turpin.
“Move on in silence, and you shall see,” said Luke; and keeping upon the turf, so that his horse’s tread became inaudible, he presently arrived at a spot where, through the boughs, the object of his investigation could plainly be distinguished, though he himself was concealed from view.
Upon a platform of rock, rising to the height of the trees, nearly perpendicularly from the river’s bed, appeared the figure of the gipsy maid. Her footstep rested on the extreme edge of the abrupt cliff, at whose base the water boiled in a deep whirlpool, and the bounding chamois could not have been more lightly poised. One small hand rested upon her guitar, the other pressed her brow. Braided hair, of the jettiest dye and sleekest texture, was twined around her brow in endless twisted folds:
Rowled it was in many a curious fret,
Much like a rich and curious coronet,
Upon whose arches twenty Cupids lay,
And were as tied, or loth to fly away.24
And so exuberant was this rarest feminine ornament, that, after encompassing her brow, it was passed behind, and hung down in long thick plaits almost to her feet. Sparkling, as the sunbeams that played upon her dark yet radiant features, were the large, black, Oriental eyes of the maiden, and shaded with lashes long and silken. Hers was a Moorish countenance, in which the magnificence of the eyes eclipses the face, be it ever so beautiful — an effect to be observed in the angelic pictures of Murillo — and the lovely contour is scarcely noticed in the gaze which those long, languid, luminous orbs attract. Sybil’s features were exquisite, yet you looked only at her eyes — they were the loadstars of her countenance. Her costume was singular, and partook, like herself, of other climes. Like the Andalusian dame, her choice of color inclined towards black, as the material of most of her dress was of that sombre hue. A bodice of embroidered velvet restrained her delicate bosom’s swell; a rich girdle, from which depended a silver chain, sustaining a short poniard, bound her waist; around her slender throat was twined a costly kerchief; and the rest of her dress was calculated to display her slight, yet faultless, figure to the fullest advantage.
Unconscious that she was the object of regard, she raised her guitar, and essayed to touch the chords. She struck a few notes, and resumed her romance:
Swift that stream flows on,
Swift the night is wearing —
Yet she is not gone,
Though with heart despairing.
Her song died away. Her hand was needed to brush off the tears that were gathering in her large dark eyes. At once her attitude was changed. The hare could not have started more suddenly from her form. She heard accents well known concluding the melody:
Dips an oar-plash — hark! —
Gently on the river;
’Tis her lover’s bark.
On the Guadalquivir.
Hark! a song she hears!
Every note she snatches;
As the singer nears,
Her own name she catches.
Now the Gitanilla
Stays not by the water,
For the midnight hour
Hath her lover brought her.
It was her lover’s voice. She caught the sound at once, and, starting, as the roe would arouse herself at the hunter’s approach, bounded down the crag, and ere he had finished the refrain, was by his side.
Flinging the bridle to Turpin, Luke sprang to her, and caught her in his arms. Disengaging herself from his ardent embrace, Sybil drew back, abashed at the sight of the highwayman.
“Heed him not,” said Luke; “it is a friend.”
“He is welcome here then,” replied Sybil. “But where have you tarried so long, dear Luke?” continued she, as they walked to a little distance from the highwayman. “What hath detained you? The hours have passed wearily since you departed. You bring good news?”
“Good news, my girl; so good, that I falter even in the telling of it. You shall know all anon. And see, our friend yonder grows impatient. Are there any stirring? We must bestow a meal upon him, and that forthwith: he is one of those who brook not much delay.”
“I came not to spoil a love meeting,” said Turpin, who had good-humoredly witnessed the scene; “but, in sober seriousness, if there is a stray capon to be met with in the land of Egypt, I shall be glad to make his acquaintance. Methinks I scent a stew afar off.”
“Follow me,” said Sybil; “your wants shall be supplied.”
“Stay,” said Luke; “there is one other of our party whose coming we must abide.”
“He is here,” said Sybil,
