For some time they rode along the banks of the stream in silence. A sound at length caught the quick ears of the highwayman. "Hist!" cried he; "some one sings. Do you hear it?" "I do," replied Luke, the blood rushing to his cheeks. "And could give a guess at the singer, no doubt," said Turpin, with a knowing look. "Was it to hear yon woodlark that you nearly broke your own neck, and put mine in jeopardy?" "Prithee be silent," whispered Luke. "I am dumb," replied Turpin; "I like a sweet voice as well as another." Clear as the note of a bird, yet melancholy as the distant dole of a vesper-bell, arose the sound of that sweet voice from the wood. A fragment of a Spanish gipsy song it warbled: Luke knew it well. Thus ran the romance: LA GITANILLA By the Guadalquivir, Ere the sun be flown, By that glorious river Sits a maid alone. Like the sunset splendor Of that current bright, Shone her dark eyes tender As its witching light. Like the ripple flowing, Tinged with purple sheen, Darkly, richly glowing, Is her warm cheek seen. 'Tis the Gitanilla By the stream doth linger, In the hope that eve Will her lover bring her. See, the sun is sinking; All grows dim, and dies; See, the waves are drinking Glories of the skies. Day's last lustre playeth On that current dark; Yet no speck betrayeth His long looked-for bark. 'Tis the hour of meeting! Nay, the hour is past; Swift the time is fleeting! Fleeteth hope as fast. Still the Gitanilla By the stream doth linger, In the hope that night Will her lover bring her. The tender trembling of a guitar was heard in accompaniment of the ravishing melodist. The song ceased. "Where is the bird?" asked Turpin. "Move on in silence, and you shall see," said Luke; and keeping upon the turf, so that his horse's tread became inaudible, he presently arrived at a spot where, through the boughs, the object of his investigation could plainly be distinguished, though he himself was concealed from view. Upon a platform of rock, rising to the height of the trees, nearly perpendicularly from the river's bed, appeared the figure of the gipsy maid. Her footstep rested on the extreme edge of the abrupt cliff, at whose base the water boiled in a deep whirlpool, and the bounding chamois could not have been more lightly poised. One small hand rested upon her guitar, the other pressed her brow. Braided hair, of the jettiest dye and sleekest texture, was twined around her brow in endless twisted folds: Rowled it was in many a curious fret, Much like a rich and curious coronet, Upon whose arches twenty Cupids lay, And were as tied, or loth to fly away.[24]