The night-smelling flowers in Lucila's window were already beginning
to emit their refreshing perfume when Fadrique, leaning in the shadow
of the angle of an old church opposite, began to tune his guitar.
Heimbert had stationed himself not far from him, behind a pillar, his
drawn sword under his mantle, and his clear blue eyes, like two
watching stars, looking calmly and penetrating around. Fadrique
sang:


"Upon a meadow green with spring,
A little flower was blossoming,
With petals red and snowy white;
To me, a youth, my soul's delight
Within that blossom lay,
And I have loved my song to indite
And flattering homage pay.

"Since then a wanderer I have been,
And many a bloody strife have seen;
And now returned, I see
The little floweret stands no more
Upon the meadow as before;
Transplanted by a gardener's care,
And hedged by golden trellis there,
It is denied to me.

"I grudge him not his trelllsed guard,