Sword Blades and Poppy Seed Part 19

She thought she heard steps, she must be quick.

She darted her hand out, and seized the thick Wriggling slime, Only just in time.

The old gardener came muttering down the path, And his shadow fell like a broad, black swath, And covered Clotilde and the angry snake.

He bit her, but what difference did that make!

The Virgin should dress In his loveliness.

The gardener was covering his new-set plants For the night was chilly, and nothing daunts Your lover of growing things. He spied Something to do and turned aside, And the moonlight streamed On Clotilde, and gleamed.

His business finished the gardener rose.

He shook and swore, for the moonlight shows A girl with a fire-tongued serpent, she Grasping him, laughing, while quietly Her eyes are weeping.

Is he sleeping?

He thinks it is some holy vision, Brushes that aside and with decision Jumps--and hits the snake with his stick, Crushes his spine, and then with quick, Urgent command Takes her hand.

The gardener sucks the poison and spits, Cursing and praying as befits A poor old man half out of his wits.

"Whatever possessed you, Sister, it's Hatched of a devil And very evil.

It's one of them horrid basilisks You read about. They say a man risks His life to touch it, but I guess I've sucked it Out by now. Lucky I chucked it Away from you.

I guess you'll do."

"Oh, no, Francois, this beautiful beast Was sent to me, to me the least Worthy in all our convent, so I Could finish my picture of the Most High And Holy Queen, In her dress of green.

He is dead now, but his colours won't fade At once, and by noon I shall have made The Virgin's robe. Oh, Francois, see How kindly the moon s.h.i.+nes down on me!

I can't die yet, For the task was set."

"You won't die now, for I've sucked it away,"

Grumbled old Francois, "so have your play.

If the Virgin is set on snake's colours so strong,--"

"Francois, don't say things like that, it is wrong."

So Clotilde vented Her creed. He repented.

"He can't do no more harm, Sister," said he.

"Paint as much as you like." And gingerly He picked up the snake with his stick. Clotilde Thanked him, and begged that he would s.h.i.+eld Her secret, though itching To talk in the kitchen.

The gardener promised, not very pleased, And Clotilde, with the strain of adventure eased, Walked quickly home, while the half-high moon Made her beautiful snake-skin sparkle, and soon In her bed she lay And waited for day.

At dawn's first saffron-spired warning Clotilde was up. And all that morning, Except when she went to the chapel to pray, She painted, and when the April day Was hot with sun, Clotilde had done.

Done! She drooped, though her heart beat loud At the beauty before her, and her spirit bowed To the Virgin her finely-touched thought had made.

A lady, in excellence arrayed, And wonder-souled.

Christ's Blessed Mould!

From long fasting Clotilde felt weary and faint, But her eyes were starred like those of a saint Enmeshed in Heaven's beat.i.tude.

A sudden clamour hurled its rude Force to break Her vision awake.

The door nearly leapt from its hinges, pushed By the mult.i.tude of nuns. They hushed When they saw Clotilde, in perfect quiet, Smiling, a little perplexed at the riot.

And all the hive Buzzed "She's alive!"

Old Francois had told. He had found the strain Of silence too great, and preferred the pain Of a conscience outraged. The news had spread, And all were convinced Clotilde must be dead.

For Francois, to spite them, Had not seen fit to right them.

The Abbess, unwontedly trembling and mild, Put her arms round Clotilde and wept, "My child, Has the Holy Mother showed you this grace, To spare you while you imaged her face?

How could we have guessed Our convent so blessed!

A miracle! But Oh! My Lamb!

To have you die! And I, who am A hollow, living sh.e.l.l, the grave Is empty of me. Holy Mary, I crave To be taken, Dear Mother, Instead of this other."

She dropped on her knees and silently prayed, With anguished hands and tears delayed To a painful slowness. The minutes drew To fractions. Then the west wind blew The sound of a bell, On a gusty swell.

It came skipping over the slates of the roof, And the bright bell-notes seemed a reproof To grief, in the eye of so fair a day.

The Abbess, comforted, ceased to pray.

And the sun lit the flowers In Clotilde's Book of Hours.

It glistened the green of the Virgin's dress And made the red spots, in a flushed excess, Pulse and start; and the violet wings Of the angel were colour which s.h.i.+nes and sings.

The book seemed a choir Of rainbow fire.

The Abbess crossed herself, and each nun Did the same, then one by one, They filed to the chapel, that incensed prayers Might plead for the life of this sister of theirs.

Clotilde, the Inspired!

She only felt tired.

The old chronicles say she did not die Until heavy with years. And that is why There hangs in the convent church a basket Of osiered silver, a holy casket, And treasured therein A dried snake-skin.

The Exeter Road

Panels of claret and blue which s.h.i.+ne Under the moon like lees of wine.

A coronet done in a golden scroll, And wheels which blunder and creak as they roll Through the muddy ruts of a moorland track.

They daren't look back!

They are whipping and cursing the horses. Lord!

What brutes men are when they think they're scored.

Behind, my bay gelding gallops with me, In a steaming sweat, it is fine to see That coach, all claret, and gold, and blue, Hop about and slue.

They are scared half out of their wits, poor souls.

For my lord has a casket full of rolls Of minted sovereigns, and silver bars.

I laugh to think how he'll show his scars In London to-morrow. He whines with rage In his varnished cage.

My lady has shoved her rings over her toes.

'Tis an ancient trick every night-rider knows.

But I shall relieve her of them yet, When I see she limps in the minuet I must beg to celebrate this night, And the green moonlight.

There's nothing to hurry about, the plain Is hours long, and the mud's a strain.