The second eve had closed upon their march Within the Asturian border, and the Moors Had pitch’d their tents amid an open wood Upon the mountain side. As day grew dim, Their scatter’d fires shone with distincter light Among the trees, above whose top the smoke Diffused itself, and stain’d the evening sky. Ere long the stir of occupation ceased, And all the murmur of the busy host Subsiding died away, as through the camp The crier from a knoll proclaim’d the hour For prayer appointed, and with sonorous voice, Thrice in melodious modulation full, Pronounced the highest name. There is no God But God, he cried; there is no God but God! Mahommed is the Prophet of the Lord! Come ye to prayer! to prayer! The Lord is great! There is no God but God!... Thus he pronounced His ritual form, mingling with holiest truth The audacious name accurst. The multitude Made their ablutions in the mountain stream Obedient, then their faces to the earth Bent in formality of easy prayer. An arrow’s flight above that mountain stream There was a little glade, where underneath A long smooth mossy stone a fountain rose. An oak grew near, and with its ample boughs O’ercanopied the spring; its fretted roots Emboss’d the bank, and on their tufted bark Grew plants which love the moisture and the shade; Short ferns, and longer leaves of wrinkled green Which bent toward the spring, and when the wind Made itself felt, just touch’d with gentle dip The glassy surface, ruffled ne’er but then, Save when a bubble rising from the depth Burst, and with faintest circles mark’d its place, Or if an insect skimm’d it with its wing, Or when in heavier drops the gather’d rain Fell from the oak’s high bower. The mountain roe, When, having drank there, he would bound across, Drew up upon the bank his meeting feet, And put forth half his force. With silent lapse From thence through mossy banks the water stole, Then murmuring hastened to the glen below. Diana might have loved in that sweet spot To take her noontide rest; and when she stoopt Hot from the chase to drink, well pleased had seen Her own bright crescent, and the brighter face It crown’d, reflected there. Beside that spring Count Julian’s tent was pitch’d upon the glade; There his ablutions Moor-like he perform’d, And Moor-like knelt in prayer, bowing his head Upon the mossy bank. There was a sound Of voices at the tent when he arose, And lo! with hurried step a woman came Toward him; rightly then his heart presaged, And ere he could behold her countenance, Florinda knelt, and with uplifted arms Embraced her sire. He raised her from the ground, Kiss’d her, and claspt her to his heart, and said, Thou hast not then forsaken me, my child! Howe’er the inexorable will of Fate May in the world which is to come, divide Our everlasting destinies, in this