“Traitor, you dare not!” But the lad restrains
The word, firm as a martyr in his pains;
For yon’s the farmstead hidden by the trees.
Tenderly, wistfully, he turns to these.
“O my Mirèio!” said the eager eye,
“Look hither, darling,—’tis for you I die!”
Great heart, intent as ever on his love!
“Say your prayers!” thundered Ourrias from above
In a hoarse voice, and pitiless to hear,
And pierced the victim with his iron spear.
Then, with a heavy groan, the fated lover
Upon the green-sward rolled, and all was over.
The beaten grass is dark with human gore,
And the field-ants already coursing o’er
The prostrate limbs ere Ourrias mounts, and hies
Under the rising moon in frantic wise;
Muttering, as the flints beneath him fly,
“To-night the Crau wolves will feast merrily.”
Deep stillness reigned in Crau. Its limit dim
Blent with the sea’s on the horizon’s rim,
The sea’s with the blue ether. Gleaming things,
Swans, and flamingoes on their ruddy wings,
Came to salute the last declining light
Among the desert meres that glimmered white.
Away, Ourrias, away! Draw not the rein,
Urge thy unresting gallop o’er the plain,
While the green heron shout their fearsome cries
In thy mare’s ear, as the good creature flies,
Till her ear trembles, and her nostrils quiver,
And eyes dilate. That night the great Rhone River
Slept on his stony bed beneath the moon,
As pilgrim of Sainte Baume may lay him down,
Fevered and weary, in a deep ravine.
“Ho!” cries the ruffian to three boatmen seen,
“Ho! Boat ahoy! We must cross, hark ye there!
On board or in the hold, I and my mare!”
“On board, my hearty, then, without delay!
There shines the night-lamp! And lured by its ray,”
Answered a cheery voice, “about our prow
And oars the fish frisk playfully enow.
It is good fishing, and the hour is fair.
On board at once! We have no time to spare.”
Therewith upon the poop the villain clomb.
While, tethered to the stern, amid the foam
Swam the white mare. Now fishes huge and scaly
Forsook their grottoes, and leaped upward gayly,
And flashed on the smooth surface of the stream.
“Have a care, pilot! For this craft I deem
“Nowise too sound.” And he who spake once more
Lay foot to stretcher, bent the supple oar.
“So I perceive. Ah!” was the pilot’s word,
“I tell thee we’ve an evil freight on board.”
No more. And all the while the vessel old
Staggered and pitched and like a drunkard rolled.
A crazy craft! Rotten its timbers all.
“Thunder of God!” Ourrias began to call,
Seizing the helm his tottering feet to stay.
Whereon the boat in some mysterious way
Seemed moved to writhing, as a wounded snake
Whose back a shepherd with a stone doth break.