And walking out upon the beach, below The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found, Insensible,—not dead, but nearly so,— Don Juan, almost famish’d, and half drown’d; But being naked, she was shock’d, you know, Yet deem’d herself in common pity bound, As far as in her lay, ‘to take him in, A stranger’ dying, with so white a skin. But taking him into her father’s house Was not exactly the best way to save, But like conveying to the cat the mouse, Or people in a trance into their grave; Because the good old man had so much ‘nous,’ Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave, He would have hospitably cured the stranger, And sold him instantly when out of danger. And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best (A virgin always on her maid relies) To place him in the cave for present rest: And when, at last, he open’d his black eyes, Their charity increased about their guest; And their compassion grew to such a size, It open’d half the turnpike-gates to heaven (St. Paul says, ’tis the toll which must be given). They made a fire,—but such a fire as they Upon the moment could contrive with such Materials as were cast up round the bay,— Some broken planks, and oars, that to the touch Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch; But, by God’s grace, here wrecks were in such plenty, That there was fuel to have furnish’d twenty. He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse, For Haidee stripped her sables off to make His couch; and, that he might be more at ease, And warm, in case by chance he should awake, They also gave a petticoat apiece, She and her maid—and promised by daybreak To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish. And thus they left him to his lone repose: Juan slept like a top, or like the dead, Who sleep at last, perhaps (God only knows), Just for the present; and in his lull’d head Not even a vision of his former woes Throbb’d in accursed dreams, which sometimes spread Unwelcome visions of our former years, Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears. Young Juan slept all dreamless:—but the maid, Who smooth’d his pillow, as she left the den Look’d back upon him, and a moment stay’d, And turn’d, believing that he call’d again. He slumber’d; yet she thought, at least she said (The heart will slip, even as the tongue and pen), He had pronounced her name—but she forgot That at this moment Juan knew it not. And pensive to her father’s house she went, Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who Better than her knew what, in fact, she meant, She being wiser by a year or two: A year or two ’s an age when rightly spent, And Zoe spent hers, as most women do, In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge Which is acquired in Nature’s good old college.