Along the Cloister do Silencio.
There paced Fonseca, solitary guest
To catch the final crumbs, the laughter, far
Adown the stream, of lutes that mourned his feast,
When lo! a billet in his path!—“Awake,—”
He read,—“at Constance ’twas decreed. Thy voice
Hath mocked the very words of Holy Church.”—
No more,—yet in foreboding he made haste
To find his taper,—fumbled through the stacks
In dust and chill,—unclasped the folio