If footsteps sounded; then, assured, renewed her swift career.
And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;
"And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?"
Her fancy in the silent air could whispering voices hear;
"I'll make of thee a sacrifice, to Albenzaide dear;"
This fancy took her breath away, lifeless she sank at length,
And grasped the saddle-bow; for fear had sapped her spirit's strength.
And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;
"And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?"
She came in sight of proud Seville; but the darkness bade her wait