Till the chief-ploughman spake: “Here is a lout
To plough for hire! Why, a hog with his snout
I wager would work better!”—“I will take
Thy bet,” said Lou Marran; “and be the stake
Three golden louis! Either thou or I,
Master, that sum will forfeit presently.”
“Let blow the trumpet!” Then the ploughmen twain
In two unswerving lines upturn the plain,
Making for the chosen goal,—two poplars high.
The sun-rays gild the ridges equally,
And all the labourers call out, “Well done!
Thy furrow, chieftain, is a noble one;
“Yet, sooth to say, so straight the other is,
One might an arrow shoot the length of this.”
And Lou Marran was winner,—he who here
Before the baffled council doth appear,
All pale, his bitter evidence to bear:
“Comrades, as I was whistling, at my share,
“Not long ago, methought the land was rough,
And we would stretch, the day to finish off;
When, lo! my beasts with fear began to quake,
Bristled their hairy sides, their ears lay back.
They stopped; and, with dazed eyes, I saw all round
The field-herbs fade, and wither to the ground.
“I touch my pair. Baiardo sadly eyes
His master, but stirs not. Falet applies
His nostril to the furrow. Then I lash
Their shins; and, all in terror, off they dash,
So that the ash-wood beam—the beam, I say—
Is rent, and yoke and tackle borne away.
“Then grew I pale, and all my breath was gone;
And, seized as with a strong convulsion,
I ground my jaws. A dreadful shudder grew
Upon me,—and my hair upraised, I knew,
As thistle-down is raised by the wind’s breath;
But the wind sweeping over me was Death.”
“Mother of God!” Mirèio’s mother cried
In torture, “do thou in thy mantle hide
Mine own sweet child!” and on her knees she dropped
With lifted eyes and parted lips: yet stopped
Ere any word was spoken, for she saw
Antéume, shepherd-chief and milker, draw
Hurriedly toward them. “And why,” he was panting,
“Was she the junipers untimely haunting?”
Then, the ring entering, his tale he told.
“This morn, as we were milking in the fold,—
So early that above the bare plain showed
The sky yet hob-nailed with the stars of God,—
“A soul, a shadow, or a spectre swept
Across the way. The dogs all silence kept,
As if afraid, and the sheep huddled close.
Thought I,—who scarce have time, as master knows,
Ever an Ave in the church to offer,—
‘Speak, soul, if thou art blest. If not, go suffer!’
“Then came a voice I knew,—it never varies,—
‘Will none go with me to the holy Maries,
Of all the shepherds?’ Ere the word was said,
Afar over the plain the voice had fled.
Wilt thou believe it, master?—it was she,
Mirèio!” Cried the people, “Can it be?”