The Knife, which had cut off their heads that morn,
Still red with their innocent blood, was borne,
The scullion boy he carried it;
And the Skewers also made part of the show,
With which they were truss'd for the spit.
The Cook in triumph bore that Spit
As high as he was able;
And the Dish was display'd wherein they were laid
When they had been served at table.
With eager faith the crowd prest round;
There was a scramble of women and men
For who should dip a finger-tip
In the blessed Gravy then.
Next went the Alcayde, beating his breast,
Crying aloud like a man distrest,
And amazed at the loss of his dinner,
"Santiago, Santiago!
Have mercy on me a sinner!"
And lifting oftentimes his hands
Toward the Cock and Hen,
"Orate pro nobis!" devoutly he cried,
And as devoutly the people replied,
Whenever he said it, "Amen!"
The Father and Mother were last in the train;
Rejoicingly they came,
And extoll'd, with tears of gratitude,
Santiago's glorious name.
So, with all honors that might be,
They gently unhang'd Pierre;
No hurt or harm had he sustain'd,
But, to make the wonder clear,
A deep biack halter-mark remain'd
Just under his left ear.
PART IV.
And now, my little listening dears
With open mouths and open ears,
Like a rhymer whose only art is
That of telling a plain unvarnish'd tale,
To let you know I must not fail,
What became of all the parties.
Pierre went on to Compostella
To finish his pilgrimage,
His parents went back with him joyfully,
After which they returned to their own country,
And there, I believe, that all the three
Lived to a good old age.