Softly as shadows, or as glimmering sails
Upon the moonlit sea, or like shy fish
Through green translucent waters, to depart
In sudden swirls, while silver bubbles rise.
“Next morning Praetextatus said a mass,
And laid my hand in Merow’s, his in mine,
Making us one.” She paused in sudden pain,
Bending her eyes down to the rotten straw,
While the priest watched her silent agony.
Then once again raised up her head and spake: