Next triumphantly he intoned:
"Fly away, little dove, fly away; the cruel bars are broken."
Once more in pantomime he directed his fancied musicians.
"What is it, Don Alfredo? Art fanning thyself, or do mosquitoes annoy thee?"
He looked upward into a pair of dark, laughing eyes not three feet distant.
"O, Doña Carmelita," rapturously, "I was marking rhythm for the angel choirs which sing in praise of thy beauty and charm. They sing of one angel, even thou, Doña mia, more fair than they."
The girl withdrew from the embrasure, brushing her fan across its iron-barred front.
"I shut out, Don Alfredo, thy foolish words. I drive them back into the air. I fear the angels are displeased at thy presumption. Many nights have you sung here meaningless words, empty nothings; but even better such than to speak thoughts which must offend the saints in heaven."
"O, Doña Carmelita, let me once again see thy eyes sparkle in the moonlight; add a flash or two from thy teeth of pearl——"
"Hush, Don Alfredo, or I leave. Perhaps at other embrasures not far away wait caballeros, not so vain as to fancy themselves directors of the music celestial. Good night, Don Alfredo. Clip the wings of thy imagination lest thou fly too near the sun."