secret to your tongues, and her
honour to your aid."

"We are not all bad," replied Preciosa; "perhaps there may be one among
us who piques herself on being as trusty and as true as the noblest man
in this room. Let us begone, grandmother; for here we are held in little
esteem, though in truth we are neither thieves nor beggars."

"Do not be angry, Preciosa," said Andrew's father. "Of you at least I
imagine no one can presume anything ill, for your good looks are warrant
for your good conduct. Do me the favour to dance a little with your
companions. I have here a doubloon for you with two faces, and neither
of them as good as your own, though they are the faces of two kings."

The moment the old woman heard this she cried, "Come along, girls: tuck
up your skirts, and oblige these gentlemen." Preciosa took the
tambourine, and they all danced with so much grace and freedom, that the
eyes of all the spectators were riveted upon their steps, especially
those of Andrew, who gazed upon Preciosa as if his whole soul was
centred in her; but an untoward accident turned his delight into
anguish. In the exertion of the dance, Preciosa let fall the paper given
her by the page. It was immediately picked up by the gentleman who had
no good opinion of the gipsies. He opened it, and said, "What have we
here? A madrigal? Good! Break off the dance, and listen to it; for, as
far as I can judge from the beginning, it is really not bad." Preciosa
was annoyed at this, as she did not know the contents of the paper; and
she begged the gentleman not to read it, but give it back to her. All
her entreaties, however, only made Andrew more eager to hear the lines,
and his friend read them out as follows:--

Who hath Preciosa seen
Dancing like the Fairy Queen?
Ripplets on a sunlit river
Like her small feet glance and quiver.
When she strikes the timbrel featly,
When she warbles, oh how sweetly!
Pearls from her white hands she showers,
From her rosy lips drop flowers.
Not a ringlet of her hair
But doth thousand souls ensnare.
Not a glance of her bright eyes
But seems shot from Love's own skies.
He in obeisance to this sovereign maid,
His bow and quiver at her feet hath laid.

"Por dios!" exclaimed the reader, "he is a dainty poet who wrote this."

"He is not a poet, senor," said Preciosa, "but a page, and a very
gallant and worthy man."

"Mind what you say, P