To solemn thoughts and duties that short time you should give. "One will serve to make your will, and purge your burdened soul, One is for the sacrament, the church's sacred dole; The third and last shall serve you, while tolls the passing bell To see your best beloved, and say a last farewell." While these sad words gave warning, fair Isabel stood by. He turned to look upon her, with death mist in his eye. "You have done well, my treasure, my death to look upon; I 'll pray the Virgin Mary to heal the wrong I've done." While thus he spoke in anguish, there came his mother dear, "My darling son, what ails you, why is your soul in fear?" "Oh, mother, I am dying; I have not long to last; Three hours to live they gave me, and one's already past." "Son of my womb, consider, with death's hand on you laid, Have you no debt of honor to pay some noble maid?" "Yes, mother, to my anguish I owe such debt of shame; That God may not in judgment condemn my soul to flame!" "It is to Dona Isabel I owe that shameful debt; But a thousand cruzadoes a spouse for her will get." "No gold nor silver money will pay for honor lost; Thy cruzadoes are worthless as leaves the wind has tost." "I 'll leave her to the doctors that they no skill may spare, And you, my darling mother, will have her in your care, A city for her dowry the day that she shall wed-- If any man refuse her, the axe shall have his head." "The honor of a maid is not paid or bought with land, Wed her, well-beloved, with your cold and dying hand, That she may be your widow, and bear an honored name, And though she weeps with sorrow it will not be for shame." The ballad of Dom Aleixio, of which there are several versions, has a lightness of touch in the description of the masquerading maid, which is not often found in the popular ballads, although the conclusion is sufficiently tragic. DOM ALEIXIO. We are three sisters, young and gay, Our cheeks and eyes the likeness show; In broidering we spend the day, Or teach each other how to sew. The youngest, in her youth elate, The fancy took, one summer night, To pass the orange garden gate, With two flambeaux to give her light. She wore a pretty page's suit, That showed her shape so trim and neat; In light, fair hands she held a lute, And colored shoes adorned her feet. She strutted up and down the road, With mimic of a martial stride. "Fair maidens here have their abode; Which of the three shall be my bride?" Upon the balcony we leant, And laughed to see her gallant guise; At length the torches' flame was spent; The moon had risen in the skies. As to the gate her way she took