The caravan is winding slowly round the curve of the road, and three plump geese are stowed inside. The Romany lass is humming a song,—a song about love and dance and song,—and the soul of the sleeping girl floats along at her side in a dream of freedom. She of the song looks up: "Six moons will rise, then you will be free!" she mutters to herself as she passes on; and the sun mounts higher, and the shadow of the cross is lightening with the coming dawn—who knows?
III.
AN EBB TIDE.
On right and left with flight of light,
How whirled the hills, the trees, the bowers!
With light-like flight, on left and right,
How spun the hamlets, towns, and towers!
Dost quail? The moon is fair to see;
Hurrah! the Dead ride recklessly!
Beloved! Dost dread the shrouded dead?