When I finished speaking she gently withdrew her hands from mine and turned away amongst the trees, doubtless to fly from me, trembling at my words, like a frightened young fawn from the hunter. So for a moment I thought. But no, there lay the lilies gathered for a religious purpose at my feet, and there was nothing reproachful in the shy, dark eyes when they glanced back for a moment at me; for, in spite of those warning words, she had only gone to find more of those perilous crimson flowers to give me. Not then, while I waited for her return with palpitating heart, but afterwards in calmer moments, and when Monica had become a pretty picture in the past, did I compose the following lines. I am not so vain as to believe that they possess any great poetical merit, and introduce them principally to let the reader know how to pronounce the pretty name of that Oriental river, which it still keeps in remembrance of a vanished race. Standing silent, pale her face was, Pale and sweet to see: 'Neath the willows waiting for me, Willow-like was she, Smiling, blushing, trembling, bashful Maid of Yí. Willow-like she trembled, yet she Never fled from me; But her dove-like eyes were downcast, On the grass to see White feet standing: white thy feet were, Maid of Yí. Stalks of lilies in her hands were: Crimson lilies three, Placed I in her braids of black hair-- They were bright to see! Lift thy dark eyes, for I love thee, Maid of Yí! CHAPTER XV