[Song dies away. Enter PRECIOSA, on horseback, attended by VICTORIAN, HYPOLITO, DON CARLOS, and CHISPA, on foot, and armed.]

Vict. This is the highest point.
Here let us rest.

See, Preciosa, see how all about us Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty mountains

Receive the benediction of the sun!
O glorious sight!

Pre. Most beautiful .ndeed!
Hyp. Most wonderful!
Vict.

And in the vale below Where yonder steeples flash like lifted halberds,

San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries,
Sends up a salutation to the morn,
As if an army smote their brazen
shields,
And shouted victory!

Pre.

Lies Segovia ?

And which way

Vict. At a great distance yonder. Dost thou not see it?

Pre.

My father waits. there,

Pre.
No. I do not see it.
Vict. The merest flaw that dents
the horizon's edge.

There yonder!

Нур. 'T is a notable old town, Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct, And an Alcázar, builded by the Moors, Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Blas

Was fed on Pan del Rey. O, many a time

Out of its grated windows have I looked

Hundreds of feet plumb down to the Eresma,

That, like a serpent through the valley creeping,

Glides at its foot.

Pre. O, yes! I see it now, Yet rather with my heart, than with mine eyes,

So faint it is. And all my thoughts

sail thither,

Freighted with prayers and hopes, and forward urged

Against all stress of accident, as, in The Eastern Tale, against the wind and tide,

Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic Mountains,

And there were wrecked, and per

ished in the sea! [She weeps.] Vict. O gentle spirit! Thou didst bear unmoved

Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate! But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee

Melts thee to tears! O, let thy weary heart

Lean upon mine! and it shall faint

no more,

Nor thirst, nor hunger; but be comforted

And filled with my affection.

Stay no longer! Methinks I see him

Now looking from the window, and now watching

Each sound of wheels or foot-fall in the street,

And saying, "Hark! she comes!" O father! father!

[They descend the pass. remains behind.]

I

CHISPA

Chis. I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. Alas and alack-a-day ! Poor was I born, and poor do I remain. I neither win nor iose. Thus Iwag through the world, half the time on foot, and the other half walking; and always as merry as a thunderstorm in the night. And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox. Who knows what may happen? Patience, and shuffle the cards! I am not yet so bald, that you can see my brains; and perhaps, after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and come back Saint Peter. Benedicite! [Exit.

[A pause. Then enter BARTOLOMÉ wildly, as if in pursuit, with a carbine in his hand.]

Bart. They passed this way! I hear their horses' hoofs ! Yonder I see them! Come, sweet caramillo,

This serenade shall be the Gipsy's last!

[Fires down the pass.] Ha ha! well whistled, my sweet caramillo ! Well whistled!

I have missed her!

- O, my God!

[The shot is returned. BARTOLOMÉ falls.]

CARILLON.

In the ancient town of Bruges,
In 'he quaint old Flemish city,
As the evening shades descended,
Low and loud and sweetly blended,
Low at times and loud at times,
And changing like a poet's rhymes,
Rang the beautiful wild chimes,
From the Belfry in the market
Of the ancient town of Bruges.

Then, with deep sonorous clangor
Calmly answering their sweet anger,
When the wrangling bells had ended,
Slowly struck the clock eleven,
And, from out the silent heaven,
Silence on the town descended.
Silence, silence everywhere,
On the earth and in the air,
Save that footsteps here and there
Of some burgher home returning,
By the street lamps faintly burning,
For a moment woke the echoes
Of the ancient town of Bruges.

But amid my broken slumbers
Still I heard those magic numbers,
As they loud proclaimed the flight
And stolen marches of the night;
Till their chimes in sweet collision
Mingled with each wandering vision,
Mingled with the fortune-telling
Gipsy-bands of dreams and fancies,
Which amid the waste expanses
Of the silent land of trances
Have their solitary dwelling.

All else seemed asleep in Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city.

And I thought how like these chimes
Are the poet's airy rhymes,
All his rhymes and roundelays,
His conceits, and songs, and ditties,
From the belfry of his brain,
Scattered downward, though in vain,
On the roofs and stones of cities!
For by night the drowsy ear
Under its curtains cannot hear,
Ard by day men go their ways,
Hearing the music as they pass,
But deeming it no more, alas!
Than the hollow sound of brass.

Yet perchance a sleepless wight,
Lodging at some humble inn
In the narrow lanes of life,
When the dusk and hush of night
Shut out the incessant din

Of daylight and its toil and strife,
May listen with a calm delight
To the poet's melodies,

Till he hears, or dreams he hears,
Intermingled with the song,
Thoughts that he has cherished long;
Hears amid the chime and singing
The bells of his own village ringing,
And wakes, and finds his slumberous
eyes

Wet with most delicious tears.
Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay
In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Blé,
Listening with a wild delight
To the chimes that, through the night,
Rang their changes from the Belfry
Of that quaint old Flemish city.