Then the grim Commander, pacing where the brazen cannon are, Comforted the maid with proverbs, wisdom gathered from afar; Bits of ancient observation by his fathers garnered, each As a pebble worn and polished in the current of his speech: "'Those who wait the coming rider travel twice as far as he;' 'Tired wench and coming butter never did in time agree;' "'He that getteth himself honey, though a clown, he shall have flies;' 'In the end God grinds the miller;' 'In the dark the mole has eyes;' "'He whose father is Alcalde of his trial hath no fear,'-- And be sure the Count has reasons that will make his conduct clear." Then the voice sententious faltered, and the wisdom it would teach Lost itself in fondest trifles of his soft Castilian speech; And on "Concha," "Conchitita," and "Conchita" he would dwell With the fond reiteration which the Spaniard knows so well. So with proverbs and caresses, half in faith and half in doubt, Every day some hope was kindled, flickered, faded, and went out. IV. Yearly, down the hillside sweeping, came the stately cavalcade, Bringing revel to vaquero, joy and comfort to each maid; Bringing days of formal visit, social feast and rustic sport, Of bull-baiting on the plaza, of love-making in the court. Vainly then at Concha's lattice, vainly as the idle wind, Rose the thin high Spanish tenor that bespoke the youth too kind; Vainly, leaning from their saddles, caballeros, bold and fleet, Plucked for her the buried chicken from beneath their mustang's feet; So in vain the barren hillsides with their gay serapes blazed,-- Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud that their flying hoofs had raised. Then the drum called from the rampart, and once more, with patient mien, The Commander and his daughter each took up the dull routine, Each took up the petty duties of a life apart and lone, Till the slow years wrought a music in its dreary monotone. V. Forty years on wall and bastion swept the hollow idle breeze, Since the Russian eagle fluttered from the California seas; Forty years on wall and bastion wrought its slow but sure decay, And St. George's cross was lifted in the port of Monterey; And the citadel was lighted, and the hall was gayly drest, All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous traveler and guest[16]. Far and near the people gathered to the costly banquet set, And exchanged congratulations with the English baronet; Till, the formal speeches ended, and amidst the laugh and wine, Some one spoke of Concha's lover,--heedless of the warning sign. Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson: "Speak no ill of him, I pray! He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty years ago this day, "Died while speeding home to Russia, falling from a fractious horse. Left a sweetheart, too, they tell me. Married, I suppose, of course!