My mother, whom you 'll find there, bring the stick
Herself—herself, mind!" Out the lackey dashed
Zealous upon the errand. Craft and trick
Are meat and drink to Satan: and he grinned
—How else?—at an excuse so politic
For failure: scarce would Jacob's-Staff rescind
Fate's firm decree! And ever as he neared
The agonizing one, his breath like wind
Froze to the marrow, while his eye-flash seared
Sense in the brain up: closelier and more close