Part 16

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

The door nearly leapt from its hinges, pushed By the multitude 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 shell, 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 shines 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 shine 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. My gelding's uncommonly strong in the loins, In half an hour I'll bag the coins. 'Tis a clear, sweet night on the turn of Spring. The chase is the thing!

How the coach flashes and wobbles, the moon Dripping down so quietly on it. A tune Is beating out of the curses and screams, And the cracking all through the painted seams. Steady, old horse, we'll keep it in sight. 'Tis a rare fine night!

There's a clump of trees on the dip of the down, And the sky shimmers where it hangs over the town. It seems a shame to break the air In two with this pistol, but I've my share Of drudgery like other men. His hat? Amen!

Hold up, you beast, now what the devil! Confound this moor for a pockholed, evil, Rotten marsh. My right leg's snapped. 'Tis a mercy he's rolled, but I'm nicely capped. A broken-legged man and a broken-legged horse! They'll get me, of course.

The cursed coach will reach the town And they'll all come out, every loafer grown A lion to handcuff a man that's down. What's that? Oh, the coachman's bulleted hat! I'll give it a head to fit it pat. Thank you! No cravat.

They handcuffed the body just for style, And they hung him in chains for the volatile Wind to scour him flesh from bones. Way out on the moor you can hear the groans His gibbet makes when it blows a gale. 'Tis a common tale.

The Shadow