At the Satan . . . and what sees he?
As the moon stole higher, higher,
Animated seems the Satan,
Wrinkling up his cloudy forehead.
And it seems to the grand master
That betwixt the Satan's fingers
Stretched across his scar marked forehead,
He beheld a tear that glittered.
But a play of lights and shadows,
Muses on the gazing prelate.
Once again refills the goblet
And sinks back into his musings.
As he mused, he saw injustice
In the fate of Satanella.
How had sinned this child of gypsies
In disturbing the procession,
And in throwing but few date-pits
At the monks and on the bishop?
Should at stake she burn for but this?
But it is the will of people,
Threatening to break in fury,
For they hold that Satanella
Is the cause of plague's appearance.
Yes, it is the will of people
Whom the night had barely scattered
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