Fetch me the Book of Councils—he was lost.”
Scarce was the secret spoken, ere it stole
In rumor through the novice-court, and thence
Below to Santa Cruz,—stole, like a cloud,
Black, ominous, across the starlit dome
Above the black mosteiro, where the moon
Revelled amid the sculptured lattices,—
The marble ropes and palms memorial
Of old Da Gama and his caravels,—
Upon the rose-paths and the trickling pools