Don Rafaele, still smiling, caught up his goblet, and raised it to his lips. After just sipping of it contents, he laid it down again, and once more turned to Hildebrand. “Thou art assured of her love: art thou not?” he said. “I rather hold it in doubt,” answered Hildebrand. “Thou art grievously in the wrong, trust me,” returned Don Rafaele. “Look on’t more cheerfully. The maiden lives not would refuse thee!” “Speak on’t no more, I prithee,” said Hildebrand; “for it makes me sorrowful.” “Let it not do that,” replied Don Rafaele. “Give me thine ear a while, and, if thou think’st ’twill disperse thy melancholy, I will straight sing thee a song.” “An’ thou lovest me, let us have it,” returned Hildebrand. “An’ it be a love-song, ’twill soothe me right speedily.” Don Rafaele, without making a reply, leaned back against the wainscot, and, after a moment’s consideration, sang a song which may be thus translated:-- =_SONG._= O! love is like a summer flower, As fragrant and as fair; And thus it flourishes an hour, And braves the hostile air: But, like a flower, its bloom will fade, Its life is but a span; And soon it shows the hapless maid There is no faith in man. O! ’tis a mournful thing to see The flowers of summer fade! How more than mournful must it be To view the blighted maid! Then, let no thought of present joy A future sorrow sow-- That bliss must surely have alloy That is another’s woe. Though the images and sentiments of the song were not very striking, Hildebrand listened to it with the deepest attention, and, as it progressed, with no little emotion. Yet it was not the song--although, in its Spanish dress, it was well calculated to win and arrest the ear--but the singer, that moved him. His voice was so soft, its range so comprehensive, and its full and varied cadences so exquisitely delivered, that it sank to his very heart, and rapt him in wonder and admiration. He could hardly believe that the human voice was capable of such surpassing delicacy of expression. Even when Don Rafaele had ceased singing, his delicious tones still rang in his ear, and his ample chest, as if unable to command itself, still heaved with emotion. Gradually he became more composed, but he did not speak, and he seemed, by his silence, and the deep lines of thought that marked his brow, to be no way disposed to speak. Whatever it might be that he meditated on, his reverie, far from dispersing, became deeper and more deep, and appeared to increase in gloom as it advanced. His complexion grew pale and sad; his eyes, heavy; and, in the expression of his whole countenance, he revealed distinct and unquestionable traces of an uneasy mind. After thus meditating for nearly half an hour, he seemed to arouse himself, and suddenly turned round to his companion. Don Rafaele had fallen asleep.