Burned to the last, like sullen stars, in that haughty eye of Spain.

And often now it breaks my rest, the tumult vague and wild,

Drifting, like storm-tossed clouds,[167] around the mother and her child—

While she,[168] distinct in raiment white, stands silently the while,

And sheds through torn and bleeding hair the same unchanging smile.

—Sir Francis Hastings Doyle.

[Gestures.]

“Come, let us within.”