XX.

To Santiago’s shrine Don Carlos bore Salustian and his daughters pale with dread. A mighty crowd hath filled with life the floor, And loveliest of them all the maid he led. Ah, lily cheeks and lips that Beauty fled At peril’s aspect, colourless were there, And vows were made at many an altar red With blood from wounded victims of despair, And through the Temple rose a wailing voice of prayer.