A rose and a lily she was, 
pure yet passionate for the love that she bore. 

Futile to her were the wiles of hypocrisy,
Harmless the proffers of dons from Spain. 

For she thought and thought only of him who was pilgrim
To the holiest holy land, 
A crusader at the gates of his sanctuary pausing, praying, 
Unable to enter there. 

In her the meek and the suffering found the heart
Of a woman to works of love devote, 
Ibarra, the gloomy, the fiery, the tempter of fate, 
Could see in her face a glimpse of tranquil peace.

That night, when alone with him whom she loved, 
She communed in fevered, intoxicant bliss, 
That night when he left her alone, 
He to be hunted to death. . . 
Her arms uplifted were protest, remonstrance
From the triumph of greed and desire.