so much amiss, that had it not been for the earnest endeavours of the landlord to appease them, there would have been a terrible row.  In spite indeed of all he could do, the muleteers would not have kept their hands quiet, had not the watch happened just then to come up and clear the ground.  A moment afterwards the ears of all who were awake in the quarter were greeted by an admirable voice proceeding from a man who had seated himself on a stone opposite the door of the Sevillano.  Everybody listened with rapt attention to his song, but none more so than Tomas Pedro, to whom every word sounded like a sentence of excommunication, for the romance ran thus: 

    In what celestial realms of space
    Is hid that beauteous, witching face? 
    Where shines that star, which, boding ills,
    My trembling heart with torment fills?

    Why in its wrath should Heaven decree
    That we no more its light should see? 
    Why bid that sun no longer cheer
    With glorious beams our drooping sphere?

    Yes, second sun! ’tis true you shine,
    But not for us, with light divine! 
    Yet gracious come from ocean’s bed;
    Why hide from us your radiant head?

    Constance! a faithful, dying swain
    Adores your beauty, though in vain;
    For when his love he would impart,
    You fly and scorn his proffered heart!

    O let his tears your pity sway,
    And quick he’ll bear you hence away;
    For shame it is this sordid place,
    Should do your charms such foul disgrace

    Here you’re submissive to control,
    Sweet mistress of my doating soul! 
    But altars youths to you should raise,
    And passion’d vot’ries sound your praise!

    Quit then a scene which must consume
    Unworthily your early bloom! 
    To my soft vows your ear incline,
    Nor frown, but be for ever mine!

    His gladsome torch let Hymen light,
    And let the god our hearts unite! 
    This day would then before its end,
    See me your husband, lover, friend.

The last line was immediately followed by the flight of two brick-bats, which fell close to the singer’s feet; but had they come in contact with his head, they would certainly have knocked all the music and poetry out of it.  The poor frightened musician took to his heels with such speed that a greyhound could not have caught him.  Unhappy fate of night-birds, to be always subject to such showers!  All who had heard the voice of the fugitive admired it, but most of all, Tomas Pedro, only he would rather the words had not been addressed to Costanza, although she had not heard one of them.  The only person who found fault with the romance was a muleteer, nicknamed Barrabas.  As soon as this man saw the singer run off, he bawled after him; “There you go, you Judas of a troubadour!  May the fleas eat your eyes out!  Who the devil taught you to sing