When the sound of distant footsteps seems the beating of her heart;
Not a wind the green oak rustles or the redwood branches stirs,
But she hears the silver jingle of his ringing bit and spurs.
Often, out the hazy distance, come the horsemen, day by day,
But they come not as Bernardo—she can see it, far away;
Well she knows the airy gallop of his mettled alazàn,[[2]]
Light as any antelope upon the Hills of Gavilàn.
She would know him ’mid a thousand, by his free and gallant air;
By the featly-knit sarápè,[[3]] such as wealthy traders wear;
By his broidered calzoneros[[4]] and his saddle, gaily spread,