The prisoner answered through the grate, "I'm destined for the gallows tree. "To-morrow morn I'm doomed to die, And to the ravens shall be fed, All for a simple word of love That to the princess I had said." The huntsman to the marquise goes, "I bring you news of woe and scorn, Dom Pedro is condemned to die, As sure as comes to-morrow's morn." The marquise mounted a fleet steed, And all her servants followed on, Their mantles hung upon their arms, They had not time their cloaks to don. "What do you in a prison cell?" "I'm doomed to the black gallows tree, Because I kissed with love words light The royal maid, who smiled on me." "Come, take your sweet-voiced mandolin, And sing in tune the while you play The gentle song your father made In honor of St. John's fair day." Is such a woman from God's hand? Her heart is harder than a stone. Her son must die at morning's light; She bids him sing in joyous tone. "O, what a lovely day, The bright day of St. John When youths and maidens sweet Their shining garments don; They smile as hand in hand, They move with dancing feet, Some bearing blushing roses, And some the basil sweet. How sad it is for me In prison cell to lie, And never see the sun That sparkles in the sky." The King, who rode his courser white, That he might view the royal chase, Reined in his steed and loitered there With silent wonder in his face. "What voice divine is that I hear, That fills the air with melody? Is it the angels in the sky, Or magic sirens in the sea?" "It is no angel in the sky, Nor magic siren in the sea, It is Dom Pedro in the tower, Condemned to die for love of me. I'd wish to have him for my spouse, If that the King would set him free." "Bid the jailer hasten there; Take off his chains and let him go. Take him, daughter, for your spouse, Since God himself has wished it so." The ballad of Count Nillo may perhaps be attributed to the same real or imaginary origin as the preceding on account of some similarity in the name and the language, although the denouement is different. The trees which spring from the tombs of the unfortunate lovers and unite their branches is one of the most familiar images in folk-poetry, and hardly any collection of national ballads is without an example. COUNT NILLO. Count Nillo in the river halts to bathe his weary steed; While the thirsty stallion drinks the Count sings loud and high; The evening shade had darkened down; the King's sight was not clear: