she sang in the new-born light,—she, the invisible, suddenly made visible. They thought that they heard the hymn of an angel or the song of a bird. On beholding this apparition the man, starting up in ecstasy, struck the beasts with his fists, and overthrew them.
Then the vision, gliding along in a manner difficult to understand, and therefore the more admired, sang these words in sufficiently pure Spanish for the English sailors who were present:—
"Ora! llora!
De palabra
Nace razon.
Da luz el son."[1]
Then, looking down, as if she saw a gulf beneath, she went on:—
"Noche, quita te de alli!
El alba canta hallali."[2]
As she sang, the man raised himself by degrees; instead of crouching he was now kneeling, his hands elevated towards the vision, his knees resting on the beasts, which lay motionless, as if petrified. Turning towards him, she continued,—
"Es menester a cielos ir,
Y tu que llorabas reir."[3]
Then approaching him with the majesty of a star, she added,—
"Gebra barzon;
Deja, monstro,
A tu negro
Caparazon."[4]
And placed her hand upon his brow. Then another voice arose, deeper, and, consequently, still sweeter,—
