He then made promises that I should be
  Mistress of all his castle and his lands
  After his father's death. Till then, he said,
  Our match must be clandestine, as his father
  Would disinherit him were he to know
  That his son were wedded to a gipsy. Our plans were well nigh ripe, for oft we met
  In secret, and had full time to discuss
  Our future prospects, left quite undisturbed. But one day King Djâbel, suspecting guile,
  Did lie in wait for us, and with drawn blade
  From ambush out did spring upon the pair,
  And straight did fall upon this haughty lord,
  The would-be dishonourer of his child. But Pepa threw herself between her lover
  And angered father, and so stayed the blow
  And clinging to him, ever called upon
  Her furious sire to spare the gentle lord,
  And bid him smite _her_ breast if _one_ must die. But Djâbel loved his daughter, and did pause,
  Touched for a moment with her pleading prayer. When, seeing him more calm, the wily don
  Did straight, in full and flowing courteous speech,
  Declare his love for me, and how he sought
  Not to make me his minion, but his wife. But Djâbel, answering with haughty scorn,
  Said: "Go back to thy castle, Christian lord,
  And wed some damsel of the pale-faced herd. No blood of thine must mar our gipsy race." The don's eye flashed. He would have spoken words
  Full of wild fury and deep bitterness;
  But Pepa interposed again, and flung
  Herself on bended knees before her sire,
  And begged her knight kneel too, and join her prayer. The don at first loathing much to grovel
  Down in the dust before a gipsy chief,
  Whom he esteemed a savage, yet did yield,
  And for my sake did bend his haughty knee. And thus we knelt together, clinging to
  King Djâbel's robe and choked with sobs and tears,
  Did pray and plead, and plead and pray for long,
  But all in vain our pleading and our prayers,
  For dark as midnight grew King Djâbel's brow,
  And stern his glance of cold and deep disdain,
  Saying: "Humblest thou thyself, O haughty don? Methinks thou might'st have spared thyself the pains. Rise from the dust. Thy prayers are but as the wind
  That blows against the granite mountain's side,
  Yet harms it not, nor will it budge an inch,
  E'en though it blow a hurricane. So I
  Remain unmoved by all thy puny prayers." Stung to the quick, and rendered desperate,
  The haughty don with one bound sprang erect,
  And darting lightning flashes from his eye,
  Blushing the while at having bent the knee,
  Humbling himself in vain, now cried aloud,
  "Have at thee, then, dark chief, for _one_ must die. I fear thee not, and will not lose my hold
  Upon thy daughter, whom I love as life. Give her me, an it please thee, but if not
  I'll wrest her from thee, so do thou thy worst." Then straight the fray began. Each drew his blade
  And fell upon the other, whilst my tears
  And screams availed not, for the two were locked
  Firm in each other's grasp, and tugged and pulled
  In equal match, whilst I with streaming hair,
  Torn robe, and tearful eyes, did cry aloud
  For help in vain, till this poor frame, o'erwrought
  With multiplex emotions, did give way,
  And, swooning, I fell heavily at their feet,
  Grasping my father's garment in my fall. The fight was stayed awhile, and each took breath. "Look to your daughter, chieftain," were the first
  Words that I heard on wakening from my swoon. And soon as e'er my tongue was loose, I cried,
  In accents feeble still, "Oh, father, stay
  This wicked brawl. Say, dost thou love thy child?" With heaving breast and eyes suffused with tears,
  And choking sobs, I seized his hand, and cried,
  "Spare my young life. I love this Christian lord,
  An thou do aught to him, 'twill be my death. Canst see thy darling wither, droop, and die,
  Or, stung to madness, seek a violent death? Now mark well what I say, O most dread King. Shouldst thou be guilty of this Señor's blood,
  Know me no more for daughter, for I vow
  Or him or none to wed, and should he fall,
  And by thy hand, I too will follow next. The oath is sworn." Then from my father's eye
  A tear fell, which he brushing soon away,
  As if he deemed it shame for man to weep,
  And changing to a lighter mood, he cried:
  "Girl, thou hast conquered. Christian knight, thy hand. Let all broils cease between us. Thou hast fought
  And won my daughter fairly, showing courage
  Worthy a gipsy born. Therefore no more
  Will I withhold consent unto this match. But, mark me well, Sir Knight, this marriage must
  Be, though clandestine, legally up-drawn,
  That no base shuffling subterfuge may e'er
  In after years crop up to thwart the bond." Thus spake the king Djâbel. My Christian knight
  Did vow upon his honour all should be
  Exact as nicest lawyer could require. Alas, for human villainy! What snares
  And wiles beset the simple, trusting heart. I loved him, and did lend a willing ear
  To all his schemes, spite my father's counsel,
  Suspecting nothing. What should I, poor child,
  Know of the world and all its hollowness? But King Djâbel, suspecting treachery
  E'en from the first, and well upon his guard--
  For little trust he placed in Christian wight--
  Did stand aloof, and watched things from afar. "Now will I try the faith of this same knight,"
  He said, and with a frankness ably feigned,
  He bid my lord take all things in _his_ hands,
  Saying he trusted him in all, but he,
  For his part, was a very simple man,
  Unskilled in the world's usances and all
  That appertains to life 'neath governments,
  'Pon seeing which, the wily Christian lord
  Straight sought to profit by his innocence;
  Betray the hand that trusted him, and thought
  The dusky king, the dark barbarian,
  Would fall an easy prey into his hands. Howbeit, King Djâbel, like crafty foe,
  Though simple seeming, sent abroad his spies,
  Whilst he himself was absent. From these men--
  Men whom he trusted--he was well informed
  That this proud don had formed the fell design
  That a false priest should join our hands together. D. PAS. Villain! GIP. Q.       Thou speakest sooth, for villainy
  More base or perjured never sprang from hell. I thought he loved me, but I found too late
  He sought to spurn me from him soon as e'er
  His lust was sated. So he straightway wrote
  To some base profligate and spendthrift friend
  Who owed him money, promising that he
  Would cancel all his debt and yet advance
  Another round sum, if, peradventure,
  He should so aid him in his hellish plot
  As to enact the part of holy priest,
  And satisfy the claims of King Djâbel,
  Whilst he himself should be no longer bound
  To me by law than it should seem him fit,
  E'en as I were but his base concubine. You see, he loved me not, e'en from the first,
  Despite his protestations, since he could
  In base cold blood conceive such dire deceit. But this I knew not at the time, nor all
  The foul devices of his reptile heart.