They had found him, as if sleeping,
Dead among the cloister ruins. . . .
And they saw beneath the moonbeams
Saw the grave the gypsies made him,
O'er the grave, bitterly weeping,
Dusky child, a barefoot maiden
With a braid of pitch-black tresses
Quickly 'neath red 'kerchief gathered
And in gaily colored bodice,
As if breathed tender body. . . .
I have finished now my story,
In your mind you'll find the balance.
Time is calling, I'm returning
'neath St. Michael's yoke of lightning.
Elsewhere we shall meet tomorrow!"
Once again with solemn footsteps
Walked the Satan without rustling,
Without shadow . . . clambered upward
Laid beneath the foot of Cherub,
With left hand his features covered
And as formerly, self-guarding,
Raised his shield with eight sharp edges.
But upon his horrid features
So much pain and so much sorrow,
That the prelate thought he saw there
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