Part 15

His body was green with a metal brightness Like an emerald set in a kind of whiteness, And all down his curling length were disks, Evil vermilion asterisks, They paled and flooded As wounds fresh-blooded.

His crest was amber glittered with blue, And opaque so the sun came shining through. It seemed a crown with fiery points. When he quivered all down his scaly joints, From every slot The sparkles shot.

The nuns huddled tightly together, fear Catching their senses. But Clotilde must peer More closely at the beautiful snake, She seemed entranced and eased. Could she make Colours so rare, The dress were there.

The Abbess shook off her lethargy. "Sisters, we will walk on," said she. Sidling away from the snowdrop bed, The line curved forwards, the Abbess ahead. Only Clotilde Was the last to yield.

When the recreation hour was done Each went in to her task. Alone In the library, with its great north light, Clotilde wrought at an exquisite Wreath of flowers For her Book of Hours.

She twined the little crocus blooms With snowdrops and daffodils, the glooms Of laurel leaves were interwoven With Stars-of-Bethlehem, and cloven Fritillaries, Whose colour varies.

They framed the picture she had made, Half-delighted and half-afraid. In a courtyard with a lozenged floor The Virgin watched, and through the arched door The angel came Like a springing flame.

His wings were dipped in violet fire, His limbs were strung to holy desire. He lowered his head and passed under the arch, And the air seemed beating a solemn march. The Virgin waited With eyes dilated.

Her face was quiet and innocent, And beautiful with her strange assent. A silver thread about her head Her halo was poised. But in the stead Of her gown, there remained The vellum, unstained.

Clotilde painted the flowers patiently, Lingering over each tint and dye. She could spend great pains, now she had seen That curious, unimagined green. A colour so strange It had seemed to change.

She thought it had altered while she gazed. At first it had been simple green; then glazed All over with twisting flames, each spot A molten colour, trembling and hot, And every eye Seemed to liquefy.

She had made a plan, and her spirits danced. After all, she had only glanced At that wonderful snake, and she must know Just what hues made the creature throw Those splashes and sprays Of prismed rays.

When evening prayers were sung and said, The nuns lit their tapers and went to bed. And soon in the convent there was no light, For the moon did not rise until late that night, Only the shine Of the lamp at the shrine.

Clotilde lay still in her trembling sheets. Her heart shook her body with its beats. She could not see till the moon should rise, So she whispered prayers and kept her eyes On the window-square Till light should be there.

The faintest shadow of a branch Fell on the floor. Clotilde, grown staunch With solemn purpose, softly rose And fluttered down between the rows Of sleeping nuns. She almost runs.

She must go out through the little side door Lest the nuns who were always praying before The Virgin's altar should hear her pass. She pushed the bolts, and over the grass The red moon's brim Mounted its rim.

Her shadow crept up the convent wall As she swiftly left it, over all The garden lay the level glow Of a moon coming up, very big and slow. The gravel glistened. She stopped and listened.

It was still, and the moonlight was getting clearer. She laughed a little, but she felt queerer Than ever before. The snowdrop bed Was reached and she bent down her head. On the striped ground The snake was wound.

For a moment Clotilde paused in alarm, Then she rolled up her sleeve and stretched out her arm. 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 shines 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.