Then crossed their foreheads with the holy water,
And, hasting o’er the sounding flags, besought her
To wake. But, as a frighted vireo
Who spies the huntsman, shrieked Mirèio,
“O God, what is it? Father, mother, tell!
Where will you go?” And therewith swooned and fell.
The weeping mother lifts her head, and yearns
Over her. “My sweet, your forehead burns!
What means it?” And again, “No dream is this.
My own sweet child,—my very own it is,—
Low lying at my feet!” And then she wept
And laughed together; and old Ramoun crept
Beside them. “Little darling, it is I,
Your father, has your hand!” Then suddenly
His anguish choked him, and he could but hold
And chafe and strive to warm those fingers cold.
Meanwhile the wind the mournful tidings bore
Abroad, and all Li Santo thronged the door,
And anxiously. “Bear the sick child,” they say,
“Into the upper chapel, nor delay;
And let her touch the dear Saints’ relics thus
Within their reliquaries marvellous;
Or kiss, at least, with dying lips!” And there
Two women raised, and bore her up the stair.
In this fair church, altars and chapels three,
Built one upon the other, you may see,
Of solid stone. In that beneath the ground
The dusky gypsies kneel, with awe profound,
Before Saint Sarah. One is over it
That hath God’s altar. And one higher yet,
On pillars borne,—last of the sanctuaries,—
The small, funereal chapel of the Maries,
With heavenward vault. And here long years have lain
Rich legacy,—whence falleth grace like rain!—
The ever-blessed relics. Four great keys
Enlock the cypress chests that shelter these.
Once are they opened in each hundred years;
And happy, happy shall he be who nears
And sees and touches them! Upon the wave
Bright star and weather fair his bark shall have,
His trees be with abundant fruitage graced,
His faithful soul eternal blessing taste!
An oaken door, with carvings rich and rare,
Gift of the pious people of Beaucaire,
Closes the holy precinct. And yet surely
That which defends is not the portal purely,—
Is not the circling rampart; but the grace
Descending from the azure depths of space.
So to the chapel bare they the sick child,
While up the winding stair the folk defiled;
And, as a white-robed priest threw wide the door,
They, entering, fell on the dusty floor,
As falls full-bearded barley when a squall
Hath smitten it, and worshipped one and all.
“O lovely Saints! O friendly Saints!” they said,
“O Saints of God, pity this poor young maid!”
“Pity her!” sobbed the mother. “I will bring,
When she is well, so fair an offering!
My flower-carved cross, my golden ring!” she cried,
“And tell the tale through town and country-side!”