The music ceased, the while spell-bound I stayed;
Then came a rustle,—he was at my feet!
Few moments might we stay, and few words speak;
But love is swift of tongue! all was arranged,—
The plan of our escape, the hour, the place,
And that Ippolito, next night but two,
With a rope-ladder hidden ’neath his cloak,
Should stand beneath my window. Once on ground
A priest should wait to bind us quickly one.
Then a mad gallop, ere the dawn of day,