Precisely at midnight was heard the sounds of a guitar, and a voice which sang—
“The black of thy black hair I love,
Believe me, much more fully,
Than ivory whiteness e’er can prove,
Or the majestic lily.”
“What folly!” cried Rosa Mistica, springing out of her bed. “See how he continues this annoyance which he sings so profitlessly.”
The voice continued:
“To thy prayers, to the church so superb,
All resplendent thou seemest in vain;
Tread thou gracefully then the light herb,
For the herb will be green soon again.”
“God assist us!” murmured Rosa, in putting on her third petticoat: “he mixes up the Church with his profane couplets, and those who hear him will say that he sings thus to insult me. This beardless barber! does he believe he can mock me? It required only that.”
Rosa entered into the saloon, and caught a view of Marisalada, who, leaning against the shutter, listened to the singer with all the attention she was capable of. Then she made the sign of the cross, exclaiming—
“And she is not yet thirteen years old! There are no more children.”
Taking her scholar by the arm, she drew her away from the window, and placed herself there at the moment when Ramon powerfully touched his guitar, and strained his throat to entone the following couplet:
“My loved one to the window came,
Now all around here is obscure;
But thy bright eyes will soon illume,
For love will be the Cynosure.”[3]