_Mosada._ Vallence, 'Tis late, wait one more day; below the hills The foot-worn way is long, and it grows dark. It is the darkest eve I ever knew. _Ebremar._ I kneel by thee--no parting now--look up. She smiles--is happy with her wandering griefs. _Mosada._ So you must go; kiss me before you go. Oh! would the busy minutes might fold up Their thieving wings that we might never part. I never knew a night so honey sweet. _Ebremar._ There is no leave taking. I go no more. Safe on the breast of Vallence is thy head Unhappy one. _Mosada._ Go not. Go not. Go not. For night comes fast; look down on me, my love, And see how thick the dew lies on my face. I never knew a night so dew-bedrowned. _Ebremar._ Oh! hush the wandering music of thy mind. Look on me once. Why sink your eyelids so? Why do you hang so heavy in my arms? Love, will you die when we have met? One look Give to thy Vallence. _Mosada._ Vallence--he has gone From here, along the shadowy way that winds Companioning the river's pilgrim torch. I'll see him longer if I stand out here Upon the mountain's brow. [_She tries to stand and totters. Ebremar supports her, and she stands pointing down as if into a visionary valley._] Yonder he treads The path o'er-muffled with the leaves--dead leaves, Like happy thoughts grown sad in evil days. He fades among the mists; how fast they come, And pour upon the world! Ah! well a day! Poor love and sorrow with their arms thrown round Each other's necks, and whispering as they go, Still wander through the world. He's gone, he's gone. I'm weary--weary, and 'tis very cold. I'll draw my cloak around me; it is cold. I never knew a night so bitter cold. [_Dies._] _Ebremar._ Mosada! Oh, Mosada! [_Enter Monks and Inquisitors._] _First Inquisitor._ My lord, you called. _Ebremar._ Not I. This maid is dead. _First Monk._ From poison, for you cannot trust these Moors. You're pale, my lord. _First Inquisitor._ [_aside_] His lips are quivering. The flame that shone within his eyes but now Has flickered and gone out. _Ebremar._ I am not well. 'Twill pass. I'll see the other prisoners now, And importune their souls to penitence, So they escape from hell. But pardon me. Your hood is threadbare--see that it be changed Before we take our seats above the crowd. _First Monk._ I always said you could not trust these Moors. [_They go._] W. B. YEATS. Printed by SEALY, BRYERS AND WALKER, 94, 95, AND 96 MIDDLE ABBEY STREET, DUBLIN. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES Page 5: "my friend," amended to "my friend." Page 6: "First Inqusitor" amended to "First Inquisitor" Page 10: "kn ewa" amended to "knew a"