One summer afternoon, in a garden of Toledo, this curious tale was
related to me by a young girl as good as she was pretty.
While explaining to me the mystery of its especial structure, she kissed
the leaves and pistils which she was plucking one by one from the flower
that gives to this legend its name.
If I could tell it with the gentle charm and the appealing simplicity
which it had upon her lips, the history of the unhappy Sara would move
you as it moved me.
But since this cannot be, I here set down what of the tradition I can at
this instant recall.