XV.

At last the miser cries his pain,— A shrill, wild cry, as if a grave Just ope'd its stony lips and gave One sentence forth, then closed again.

“‘ Twas twenty years last night, last night!” His lips still moved, but not to speak; His outstretched hands so trembling weak Were beggar's hands in sorry plight.

His face upturned to hers, his lips Kept talking on, but gave no sound; His feet were cloven to the ground; Like iron hooks his finger-tips.

“Ay, twenty years,” she sadly sighed: “I promised mother every year That I would pray for father here, As she had prayed, the night she died:

“To pray as she prayed, fervidly; As she had promised she would pray The sad night of her marriage day, For him, wherever he might be.”

Then she was still; then sudden she Let fall her eyes, and so outspake As if her very heart would break, Her proud lips trembling piteously:

“And whether he come soon or late To kneel beside this nameless grave, May God forgive my father's hate As I forgive, as she forgave!”

He saw the stone; he understood With that quick knowledge that will come Most quick when men are made most dumb With terror that stops still the blood.

And then a blindness slowly fell On soul and body; but his hands Held tight his bags, two iron bands, As if to bear them into hell.

He sank upon the nameless stone With oh such sad, such piteous moan As never man might seek to know From man's most unforgiving foe.

He sighed at last, so long, so deep, As one heart breaking in one's sleep,— One long, last, weary, willing sigh, As if it were a grace to die.

And then his hands, like loosened bands, Hung down, hung down on either side; His hands hung down and opened wide: He rested in the orange lands.