Their mutual secret. Blindfold thus they stand,
Till Hate in anguished hour whirls high his flaming brand.
IX.
’Twas starry midnight lone, when Carlos soft
’Neath Isidora’s open lattice stole,
And gently touching his guitar, as oft,
In strains melodious poured his melting soul.
Even when his deepest cadenced transports roll,
An iron hand his shoulder seized—another
Held high the gleaming dagger, to its goal