Stung, sharper than a serpent’s tooth, an infant’s cry of pain.
Through all that heat of revelry, through all that boisterous cheer,
To every heart its feeble moan pierced, like a frozen spear.
“Aye,” shrieked the woman, darting up, “I pray you trust again
A widow’s hospitality in our unyielding[157] Spain.
Helpless and hopeless, by the light of God[158] Himself I swore
To treat you[159] as you treated him[160]—that[161] body on the floor.
Yon secret place[162] I filled, to feel, that if ye did not spare,
The treasure of a dread revenge was ready hidden there.
A mother’s love is deep, no doubt; ye did not phrase it ill,