fire of a southern sun seemed to burn fiercely in all his words and actions. His speech was heard by other ears than those to which it was addressed. The shrewd mind of La Pola readily conjectured that the meeting at her father's house, at midnight, and under peculiar circumstances, contemplated some extraordinary object. She was aware that a tall, mysterious stranger had passed through the court, under the immediate conduct of her father himself. Her instinct divined in this stranger the person of the deliverer, and her heart would not suffer her to lose the words, or if possible to obtain, to forego the sight of the great object of its patriotic worship. Beside, she had a right to know and to see. She was of the party, and had done them service. She was yet to do them more. Concealed in an adjoining apartment--a sort of oratory, connected by a gallery with the chamber in which the conspirators were assembled--she was able to hear the earnest arguments and passionate remonstrances of the Liberator. They confirmed all her previous admiration of his genius and character. She felt with indignation the humiliating position which the men of Bogota held in his eyes. She heard their pleas and scruples, and listened with a bitter scorn to the thousand suggestions of prudence, the thousand calculations of doubt and caution with which timidity seeks to avoid precipitating a crisis. She could listen and endure no longer. The spirit of the improvisatrice was upon her. Was it also that of fate and a higher Providence? She seized the guitar, of which she was the perfect mistress, and sung even as her soul counseled and the exigency of the event demanded. Our translation of her lyrical overflow is necessarily a cold and feeble one. It was a dream of freedom-- A mocking dream, though bright-- That showed the men of Bogota All arming for the fight; All eager for the hour that wakes The thunders of redeeming war, And rushing forth with glittering steel, To join the bands of Bolivar. My soul, I said, it cannot be That Bogota shall be denied Her Arismendi, too--her chief To pluck her honor up, and pride; The wild Llanero boasts his braves That, stung with patriot wrath and shame, Rushed redly to the realm of graves, And rose, through blood and death, to fame. How glads mine ear with other sounds, Of freemen worthy these, that tell! Ribas, who felt Caraccas' wounds, And for her hope and triumph fell; And that young hero, well beloved, Giraldat, still a name for song; Piar, Marino, dying soon, But, for the future, living long.