“Now free at last, but dying, she doth raise
Her pale lips for her sister’s last embrace.
So I! One kiss, and I will die to-night!
We are all alone!” Mirèio’s cheek grew white.
Then sprang he, wild-eyed as a lissome beast,
And clasped her. Hurriedly the maid released
Herself from his too daring touch. Once more
He strove to seize,—but ah! my lips, speak lower,
For the trees hear,—“Give over!” cried the girl,
And all her slender frame did writhe and curl.
Yet would he frantic cling; but straight thereafter
She pinched him, bent, slipped, and, with ringing laughter,
The saucy little damsel sped away,
And lifted up her voice in mocking lay.
So did these two, upon the twilight wold
Their moon-wheat sow, after the proverb old.
Flowery the moments were, and fleet with pleasure:
Of such our Lord giveth abundant measure
To peasants and to kings alike. And so
I come to what befell that eve on Crau.
Ourrias and Vincen met. As lightning cleaves
The first tall tree, Ourrias his wrath relieves.
“’Tis you son of a hag, for aught I know,
Who have bewitched her,—this Mirèio;
“And since your path would seem to lie her way,
Tell her, tatterdemalion, what I say!
No more for her nor for her weasel face
Care I than for the ancient clout,” he says,
“That from your shoulders fluttering I see.
Go, pretty coxcomb, tell her this from me!”
Stopped Vincen thunderstruck. His wrath leaped high
As leaps a fiery rocket to the sky.
“Is it your pleasure that I strangle you,
Base churl,” he said, “or double you in two?”
And faced him with a look he well might dread,
As when a starving leopard turns her head.
His face was purple, quivered all his frame.
“Oh, better try!” the mocking answer came.
“You’ll roll headfirst upon the gravel, neighbour!
Bah, puny hands! meet for no better labour
Than to twist osiers when they’re supple made;
Or to rob hen-roosts, lurking in the shade!”
Stung by the insult, “Yea, I can twist osier,
And I can twist your neck with all composure,”
Said Vincen. “Coward, it were well you ran!
Else vow I by St. James the Gallican,
You’ll never see your tamarisks any more!
This iron first shall bray your limbs before!”
Wondering, and charmed to find by such quick chance
A man whereon to wreak his vengeance,
“Wait!” said the herdsman: “be not over-hot!
First let me have a pipe, young idiot!”
And brought to light a buckskin pouch, and set
Between his teeth a broken calumet.
Then scornfully, “While rocking you, my lamb,
Under the goose-foot, did your gypsy-dam
Ne’er tell the tale of Jan de l’Ours, I pray?—
Two men in one, who, having gone one day,
By orders, to plough stubble with two yoke,
Seized plough and teams, as shepherds do a crook,