Vict.  Nay, like the Sibyl’s volumes, thou shouldst say;
Those that remained, after the six were burned,
Being held more precious than the nine together. 
But listen to my tale.  Dost thou remember
The Gypsy girl we saw at Cordova
Dance the Romalis in the market-place?

  Hyp.  Thou meanest Preciosa.

Vict.  Ay, the same. 
Thou knowest how her image haunted me
Long after we returned to Alcala. 
She’s in Madrid.

  Hyp.  I know it.

  Vict.  And I’m in love.

Hyp.  And therefore in Madrid when thou shouldst be
In Alcala.

Vict.  O pardon me, my friend,
If I so long have kept this secret from thee;
But silence is the charm that guards such treasures,
And, if a word be spoken ere the time,
They sink again, they were not meant for us.

Hyp.  Alas! alas!  I see thou art in love. 
Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak. 
It serves for food and raiment.  Give a Spaniard
His mass, his olla, and his Dona Luisa—­
Thou knowest the proverb.  But pray tell me, lover,
How speeds thy wooing?  Is the maiden coy? 
Write her a song, beginning with an Ave;
Sing as the monk sang to the Virgin Mary,

     Ave! cujus calcem clare
     Nec centenni commendare
        Sciret Seraph studio!

Vict.  Pray, do not jest!  This is no time for it! 
I am in earnest!

Hyp.  Seriously enamored? 
What, ho!  The Primus of great Alcala
Enamored of a Gypsy?  Tell me frankly,
How meanest thou?

  Vict.  I mean it honestly.

  Hyp.  Surely thou wilt not marry her!

  Vict.  Why not?

Hyp.  She was betrothed to one Bartolome,
If I remember rightly, a young Gypsy
Who danced with her at Cordova.

Vict.  They quarrelled,
And so the matter ended.

Hyp.  But in truth
Thou wilt not marry her.

Vict.  In truth I will. 
The angels sang in heaven when she was born! 
She is a precious jewel I have found
Among the filth and rubbish of the world. 
I’ll stoop for it; but when I wear it here,
Set on my forehead like the morning star,
The world may wonder, but it will not laugh.

Hyp.  If thou wear’st nothing else upon thy forehead,
’T will be indeed a wonder.

Vict.  Out upon thee
With thy unseasonable jests!  Pray tell me,
Is there no virtue in the world?

Hyp.  Not much. 
What, think’st thou, is she doing at this moment;
Now, while we speak of her?

Vict.  She lies asleep,
And from her parted lips her gentle breath
Comes like the fragrance from the lips of flowers. 
Her tender limbs are still, and on her breast
The cross she prayed to, ere she fell asleep,
Rises and falls with the soft tide of dreams,
Like a light barge safe moored.