The nightingale was warbling under her window.
The nightingale! The song-bird of love! Why was it entrusted with singing at night when every other bird is sitting on its nest, and hiding its head under its wing. Who had sent it, saying, "Rise and announce that love is always waking?"
Who had entrusted it to awake the sleepers?
Why, even the popular song says:
"Sleep is better far than love
For sleep is tranquillity;
Love is anguish of the heart."
Fly away, bird of song!
Czipra tried to sleep again. The bird's song did not allow her.
She rose, leaned upon her elbows and continued to listen.
And there came back to her mind that old gypsy woman's enchantment,—the enchantment of love.
"At midnight—the nightingale ... barefooted—... plant it in a flower-pot ... before it droops, thy lover will return, and will never leave thee."