we tasted again the bite of crude Spanish passion.
... He had got into her courtyard.
She was alone that night.
Through the black night-rain, he sang to her window bars:
Love me, love—ah, love me!
If you will not, I can follow
Into the highest of mountains;
And there, in the wooden cabin,
I will strangle you for your lover.
—That was but rustling of dripping plants in the dark.