“Then, señor, I will go and find you another ramo of lilies while you think of one to tell me.”
“No,” I said, “you must get no more lilies for me. Look, I will give you back these you gave me.” And, saying that, I fastened them in her black hair, where by contrast they looked very splendid, and gave the girl a new grace. “Ah, Monica, they make you look too pretty—let me take them out again.”
But she would not have them taken. “I will leave you now to think of a story for me,” she said, blushing and turning away.
Then I took her hands and made her face me. “Listen, Monica,” I said. “Do you know that these lilies are full of strange magic? See how crimson they are; that is the colour of passion, for they have been steeped in passion, and turn my heart to fire. If you bring me any more of them, Monica, I shall tell you a story that will make you tremble with fear—tremble like the willow-leaves and turn pale as the mist over the Yí.”
She smiled at my words; it was like a ray of sunlight falling through the foliage on her face. Then, in a voice that was almost a whisper, she said, “What will the story be about, señor? Tell me, then I shall know whether to gather lilies for you or not.”
“It will be about a stranger meeting a sweet, pale girl standing under the trees, her dark eyes cast down, and red lilies in her hand; and how she asked him for a story, but he could speak to her of nothing but love, love, love.”
When I finished speaking she gently withdrew her hands from mine and turned away amongst the trees, doubtless to fly from me, trembling at my words, like a frightened young fawn from the hunter.
So for a moment I thought. But no, there lay the lilies gathered for a religious purpose at my feet, and there was nothing reproachful in the shy, dark eyes when they glanced back for a moment at me; for, in spite of those warning words, she had only gone to find more of those perilous crimson flowers to give me.
Not then, while I waited for her return with palpitating heart, but afterwards in calmer moments, and when Monica had become a pretty picture in the past, did I compose the following lines. I am not so vain as to believe that they possess any great poetical merit, and introduce them principally to let the reader know how to pronounce the pretty name of that Oriental river, which it still keeps in remembrance of a vanished race.
Standing silent, pale her face was,
Pale and sweet to see:
'Neath the willows waiting for me,
Willow-like was she,
Smiling, blushing, trembling, bashful
Maid of Yí.
Willow-like she trembled, yet she
Never fled from me;
But her dove-like eyes were downcast,
On the grass to see
White feet standing: white thy feet were,
Maid of Yí.
Stalks of lilies in her hands were:
Crimson lilies three,
Placed I in her braids of black hair—
They were bright to see!
Lift thy dark eyes, for I love thee,
Maid of Yí!