Knelt in long vigil on the aching stone,
Within his little chapel, though, all night,
His prayers were drowned by thunders of the storm,
And all about him flashed blue, pulsing light.
Christine in calm, undreaming slumber lay,
Nor stirred till, clear and glittering, the morn
Sang through the forest; though, with roots uptorn,
The mightiest-limbed and highest-soaring oak
Had fallen charred, with green leaves shrivelled grey.
At tinkling of the matin-bell she woke,