“It is the hour when from the boughs,
The nightingale’s high note is heard;
It is the hour when lovers vows,
Seem sweet in every whisper’d word;
And gentle winds and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf is browner hue,
And in the heaven that clear obscure,
So softly dark, and darkly pure,
Which follows the decline of day,
When twilight melts beneath the moon away.”
“Well recited, skipper,” shouted Bang. “Given as the noble poet’s verses should be given. I did not know the extent of your accomplishments; grown poetical ever since you saw Francesca Cangrejo, eh?”
The darkness hid the gallant captain’s blushes, if blush he did.
“I say, Don Ricardo, who are those?”—half-a-dozen well-clad negroes had approached the house by this time—“Ask them, Mr Bang; take your friend Mr Cringle for an interpreter.”
“Well, I will. Tom, who are they? Ask them—do.”
I put the question, “Do you belong to the property?”
The foremost, a handsome Negro answered me, “No, we don’t, sir; at least, not till tomorrow.”
“Not till tomorrow?”
“No, sir; somos caballeros hoy” (we are gentlemen to-day.)
“Gentlemen today; and, pray, what shall you be tomorrow?”