In the trysting-wood, where love made mirth,
They have buried her deep,--but lo!
However high they heap the earth,
A hand as white as snow
Comes stealing up, a hand whose ring
A noble’s troth doth bind.
Above her grave no maidens sing,
But a voice is on the wind:
_Ill fares the soul that sets its trust_
_On faith of dust._
Hardly had the singer finished the last stanza, when, breaking through
the wall of eager listeners who respectfully gave way on recognizing
him, the Count fronted the pilgrim and, clutching his arm, demanded in a
low, convulsive voice:
“From what part of Spain art thou?”
“From Soria,” was the unmoved response.
“And where hast thou learned this ballad? Who is that maiden of whom the
story tells?” again exclaimed the Count, with ever more profound
emotion.
“My lord,” said the pilgrim, fixing his eyes upon the Count with
imperturbable steadiness, “this ballad is passed from mouth to mouth
among the peasants in the fief of Gômara, and it refers to an unhappy
village-girl cruelly wronged by a great lord. The high justice of God
has permitted that, in her burial, there shall still remain above the
earth the hand on which her lover placed a ring in plighting her his
troth. Perchance you know whom it behooves to keep that pledge.”