That he for Christ died Christian, with clear joy.
And when his comrades from their outpost ride,
And, reining in abreast, ask news of him,
Lay in their wondering ears, I charge you all,
That word miraculous, that happy word.
A Voice. I ever knew it. Devil! Sorceress!
The Bailiff. What troubles them?
The Crowd. The bowl whereof he drank,
Between her lifted fingers melts away!
Their magic arts, and them, destroy!