Before him, beyond the low wall, rudely built of great yellow stones, the vineyard spreads upward. A girl, in a light garment of blue, walks between the rows of vines, bending down over something below, and again straightening up, and she is singing. Her ruddy hair flames in the sun:
The breath of the day is coolness,
And the shadows flee away.
Turn, my beloved,
And be thou like a roe or a young hart,
Within the clefts of the rocks....
Thus sings she, tying up the grapevines, and slowly descends, nearer and nearer the stone wall behind which the king is standing. She is alone, none sees nor hears her; the scent of the grapes in blossom, the joyous freshness of the morning, and the warm blood in her heart are like wine unto her, and now the words of the naïve little song are born spontaneously upon her lips and are carried away by the wind, to be forgotten forever:
Take us the foxes,
The little foxes
That spoil the vines: