ench. Curse me, Luke, if I think your horse will do it, and, therefore,
turn him loose."

But Dick might as well have bidden the cataract to flow backwards. Luke
struck his heels into his horse's sides. The steed galloped to the
brink, snorted, and refused the leap.

"I told you so--he can't do it," said Turpin. "Well, if you are
obstinate, a wilful man must have his way. Stand aside, while I try it
for you." Patting Bess, he put her to a gallop. She cleared the gulf
bravely, landing her rider safely upon the opposite rock.

"Now then," cried Turpin, from the other side of the chasm.

Luke again urged his steed. Encouraged by what he had seen, this time
the horse sprang across without hesitation. The next instant they were
in the valley.

For some time they rode along the banks of the stream in silence. A
sound at length caught the quick ears of the highwayman.

"Hist!" cried he; "some one sings. Do you hear it?"

"I do," replied Luke, the blood rushing to his cheeks.

"And could give a guess at the singer, no doubt," said Turpin, with a
knowing look. "Was it to hear yon woodlark that you nearly broke your
own neck, and put mine in jeopardy?"

"Prithee be silent," whispered Luke.

"I am dumb," replied Turpin; "I like a sweet voice as well as another."

Clear as the note of a bird, yet melancholy as the distant dole of a
vesper-bell, arose the sound of that sweet voice from the wood. A
fragment of a Spanish gipsy song it warbled: Luke knew it well. Thus ran
the romance:

LA GITANILLA

By the Guadalquivir,
Ere the sun be flown,
By that glorious river
Sits a maid alone.
Like the sunset splendor
Of that current bright,
Shone her dark eyes tender
As its witching light.
Like the ripple flowing,
Tinged with purple sheen,
Darkly, richly glowing,
Is her warm cheek seen.
'Tis the Gitanilla
By the stream doth linger,
In the hope that eve
Will her lover bring her.

See, the sun is sinking;
All grows dim, and dies;
See, the waves are drinking
Glories of the skies.
Day's last lustre playeth
On that current dark;
Yet no speck betrayeth
His long looked-for bark.
'Tis the hour of meeting!
Nay, the hour is past;
Swift the time is fleeting!
Fleeteth hope as fast.
Still the Gitanilla
By th