The Spanish Mother.[Supposed to be related by a veteran French officer.]Yes! I have served that[117]noble chief throughout his proud career,And heard the bullets whistle past in lands both far and near—Amidst Italian flowers,[118]below the dark pines of the north,[119]Where’er the Emperor willed[120]to pour his clouds of battle forth.’Twasthena splendid sight to see, though terrible, I ween,How his vast spirit filled[121]and moved the wheels of the machine;Wide sounding leagues[122]of sentient steel, and fires that lived to kill,[123]Were but the echo of his voice, the body of his will.Butnowmy heart is darkened with the shadows[124]that rise and fallBetween the sunlight and the ground to sadden and appall:The woeful things both seen and done we heeded little then,But they return, like ghosts, to shake the sleep of aged men.The German and the Englishman were each an open foe,And open hatred hurled[125]us back from Russia’s blinding snow;Intenser far, in blood-red light, like fires unquenched, remainThe dreadful deeds wrung forth by war from the brooding soul of Spain.I saw a village[126]in the hills, as silent[127]as a dream,Naught stirring but the summer sound[128]of a merry mountain stream;The evening star[129]just smiled from heaven with its quiet silver eye,And the chestnut woods[130]were still and calm beneath the deepening sky.But in that place, self-sacrificed, nor man nor beast we found,Nor fig-tree on the sun-touched slope, nor corn upon the ground;Each roofless hut[131]was black with smoke, wrenched up each trailing vine,Each path was foul[132]with mangled meat and floods of wasted wine.We had been marching, travel-worn, a long and burning way,And when such welcoming we met, after that toilsome day,The pulses in our maddened breasts were human hearts no more,But, like the spirit of a wolf, hot on the scent of gore.We lighted on one dying man, they slew him where he lay;His wife, close-clinging, from the corpse they tore[133]and wrenched away;They thundered in her widowed ears, with frowns and curses grim,“Food, woman—food and wine, or else we tear[134]thee limb from limb.”The woman shaking offhisblood, rose,[135]raven-haired and tall,And our stern glances quailed before one sterner far than all.“Both food and wine,”[136]she said, “I have; I meant them for the dead,[137]But ye are living still, and so let them be yours instead.”The food was brought, the wine was brought out of a secret place,[138]But each one paused aghast, and looked into his neighbor’s face;Her haughty step and settled brow, and chill indifferent mien,Suited so strangely with the gloom and grimness of the scene.She glided here,[139]she glided there,[140]before our wondering eyes,Nor anger showed, nor shame, nor fear, nor sorrow, nor surprise;At every step, from soul to soul a nameless horror ran,And made us pale and silent as that[141]silent murdered man.She sat, and calmly soothed her child into a slumber sweet;Calmly the bright blood on the floor crawled[142]red around our feet.On placid fruits and bread lay soft the shadows of the wine,And we like marble statues glared—a chill, unmoving line.All white, all cold; and moments thus flew by without a breath,A company of living things where all was still—but death;[143]My hair rose up from roots of ice as there unnerved I stoodAnd watched[144]the only thing that stirred—the rippling of the blood.That woman’s voice was heard at length, it broke the solemn spell,And human fear, displacing awe, upon our spirits fell—“Ho![145]slayers of the sinewless! Ho! tramplers of the weak!What! shrink ye from the ghastly meats[146]and life-bought wine ye seek?Feed, and begone![147]I wish to weep—I bring you out my store[148]—Devour[149]it—waste[150]it all—and then—pass[151]and be seen no more.Poison! Is that your craven fear?” She snatched the goblet[152]upAnd raised it to her queen-like head, as if to drain the cup.But our fierce leader grasped her wrist—“No, woman! No!” he said,“A mother’s heart of love is deep—give it your child[153]instead.”She only smiled a bitter smile—“Frenchmen, I do not shrink—As pledge of my fidelity, behold[154]the infant drink!”He fixed on hers his broad black eye, scanning her inmost soul;But her chill fingers trembled not as she returned the bowl.And we with lightsome hardihood, dismissing idle care,Sat down[155]to eat and drink and laugh over our dainty fare.The laugh was loud around the board, the jesting wild and light;ButIwas fevered with the march, and drank no wine that night;I just had filled a single cup, when through my very brain[156]Stung, sharper than a serpent’s tooth, an infant’s cry of pain.Through all that heat of revelry, through all that boisterous cheer,To every heart its feeble moan pierced, like a frozen spear.“Aye,” shrieked the woman, darting up, “I pray you trust againA widow’s hospitality in our unyielding[157]Spain.Helpless and hopeless, by the light of God[158]Himself I sworeTo treat you[159]as you treatedhim[160]—that[161]body on the floor.Yon secret place[162]I filled, to feel, that if ye did not spare,The treasure of a dread revenge was ready hidden there.A mother’s love is deep, no doubt; ye did not phrase it ill,But in your hunger ye forgot, that hate is deeper still.The Spanish woman speaks for Spain;[163]for her butchered love,[164]the wife,To tell you that an hour is allmyvintage leaves of life.I cannot paint the many forms of wild despair put on,Nor count the crowded brave who sleep beneath[165]a single stone;I can but tell you how, before that horrid hour went by,I saw the murderess beneath the self-avengers die.But though upon her wrenched limbs they leaped like beasts of prey,And with fierce hands, like madmen, tore[166]the quivering life away—Triumphant hate and joyous scorn, without a trace of pain,Burned to the last, like sullen stars, in that haughty eye of Spain.And often now it breaks my rest, the tumult vague and wild,Drifting, like storm-tossed clouds,[167]around the mother and her child—While she,[168]distinct in raiment white, stands silently the while,And sheds through torn and bleeding hair the same unchanging smile.—Sir Francis Hastings Doyle.Gestures.[117]H. O.[118]H. O.[119]Left H. O.[120]D. F.[121]b. H. O.[122]H. O. sweep.[123]D. O.[124]V. H. O.[125]b. V. par. H. O.[126]H. O.[127]P. H. O.[128]H. L.[129]Left ind. A. O.[130]H. O.[131]H. O.[132]V. D. O.[133]Sp.[134]b. Cl. H. O. as though tearing apart.[135]Raise hand P.[136]Look to left.[137]D. O.[138]Left H. L.[139]H. F.[140]H. O.[141]Ind. D. O.[142]P. D. sweep.[143]D. O.[144]Look to D. O.[145]Look to left.[146]H. F.[147]H. L.[148]b. H. O.[149]-[150]Impulses.[151]H. sweep.[152]Sp.[153]Left D. O.[154]Inclination of head to D. O.[155]B. H. O.[156]Hand to head.[157]D. F.[158]Point up.[159]H. F.[160]D. O.[161]Ind. D. O.[162]Left H. L.[163]H. sweep.[164]D. O.[165]P. D. O.[166]Sp.[167]H. Sw.[168]H. F.
[Supposed to be related by a veteran French officer.]
Yes! I have served that[117]noble chief throughout his proud career,And heard the bullets whistle past in lands both far and near—Amidst Italian flowers,[118]below the dark pines of the north,[119]Where’er the Emperor willed[120]to pour his clouds of battle forth.’Twasthena splendid sight to see, though terrible, I ween,How his vast spirit filled[121]and moved the wheels of the machine;Wide sounding leagues[122]of sentient steel, and fires that lived to kill,[123]Were but the echo of his voice, the body of his will.Butnowmy heart is darkened with the shadows[124]that rise and fallBetween the sunlight and the ground to sadden and appall:The woeful things both seen and done we heeded little then,But they return, like ghosts, to shake the sleep of aged men.The German and the Englishman were each an open foe,And open hatred hurled[125]us back from Russia’s blinding snow;Intenser far, in blood-red light, like fires unquenched, remainThe dreadful deeds wrung forth by war from the brooding soul of Spain.I saw a village[126]in the hills, as silent[127]as a dream,Naught stirring but the summer sound[128]of a merry mountain stream;The evening star[129]just smiled from heaven with its quiet silver eye,And the chestnut woods[130]were still and calm beneath the deepening sky.But in that place, self-sacrificed, nor man nor beast we found,Nor fig-tree on the sun-touched slope, nor corn upon the ground;Each roofless hut[131]was black with smoke, wrenched up each trailing vine,Each path was foul[132]with mangled meat and floods of wasted wine.We had been marching, travel-worn, a long and burning way,And when such welcoming we met, after that toilsome day,The pulses in our maddened breasts were human hearts no more,But, like the spirit of a wolf, hot on the scent of gore.We lighted on one dying man, they slew him where he lay;His wife, close-clinging, from the corpse they tore[133]and wrenched away;They thundered in her widowed ears, with frowns and curses grim,“Food, woman—food and wine, or else we tear[134]thee limb from limb.”The woman shaking offhisblood, rose,[135]raven-haired and tall,And our stern glances quailed before one sterner far than all.“Both food and wine,”[136]she said, “I have; I meant them for the dead,[137]But ye are living still, and so let them be yours instead.”The food was brought, the wine was brought out of a secret place,[138]But each one paused aghast, and looked into his neighbor’s face;Her haughty step and settled brow, and chill indifferent mien,Suited so strangely with the gloom and grimness of the scene.She glided here,[139]she glided there,[140]before our wondering eyes,Nor anger showed, nor shame, nor fear, nor sorrow, nor surprise;At every step, from soul to soul a nameless horror ran,And made us pale and silent as that[141]silent murdered man.She sat, and calmly soothed her child into a slumber sweet;Calmly the bright blood on the floor crawled[142]red around our feet.On placid fruits and bread lay soft the shadows of the wine,And we like marble statues glared—a chill, unmoving line.All white, all cold; and moments thus flew by without a breath,A company of living things where all was still—but death;[143]My hair rose up from roots of ice as there unnerved I stoodAnd watched[144]the only thing that stirred—the rippling of the blood.That woman’s voice was heard at length, it broke the solemn spell,And human fear, displacing awe, upon our spirits fell—“Ho![145]slayers of the sinewless! Ho! tramplers of the weak!What! shrink ye from the ghastly meats[146]and life-bought wine ye seek?Feed, and begone![147]I wish to weep—I bring you out my store[148]—Devour[149]it—waste[150]it all—and then—pass[151]and be seen no more.Poison! Is that your craven fear?” She snatched the goblet[152]upAnd raised it to her queen-like head, as if to drain the cup.But our fierce leader grasped her wrist—“No, woman! No!” he said,“A mother’s heart of love is deep—give it your child[153]instead.”She only smiled a bitter smile—“Frenchmen, I do not shrink—As pledge of my fidelity, behold[154]the infant drink!”He fixed on hers his broad black eye, scanning her inmost soul;But her chill fingers trembled not as she returned the bowl.And we with lightsome hardihood, dismissing idle care,Sat down[155]to eat and drink and laugh over our dainty fare.The laugh was loud around the board, the jesting wild and light;ButIwas fevered with the march, and drank no wine that night;I just had filled a single cup, when through my very brain[156]Stung, sharper than a serpent’s tooth, an infant’s cry of pain.Through all that heat of revelry, through all that boisterous cheer,To every heart its feeble moan pierced, like a frozen spear.“Aye,” shrieked the woman, darting up, “I pray you trust againA widow’s hospitality in our unyielding[157]Spain.Helpless and hopeless, by the light of God[158]Himself I sworeTo treat you[159]as you treatedhim[160]—that[161]body on the floor.Yon secret place[162]I filled, to feel, that if ye did not spare,The treasure of a dread revenge was ready hidden there.A mother’s love is deep, no doubt; ye did not phrase it ill,But in your hunger ye forgot, that hate is deeper still.The Spanish woman speaks for Spain;[163]for her butchered love,[164]the wife,To tell you that an hour is allmyvintage leaves of life.I cannot paint the many forms of wild despair put on,Nor count the crowded brave who sleep beneath[165]a single stone;I can but tell you how, before that horrid hour went by,I saw the murderess beneath the self-avengers die.But though upon her wrenched limbs they leaped like beasts of prey,And with fierce hands, like madmen, tore[166]the quivering life away—Triumphant hate and joyous scorn, without a trace of pain,Burned to the last, like sullen stars, in that haughty eye of Spain.And often now it breaks my rest, the tumult vague and wild,Drifting, like storm-tossed clouds,[167]around the mother and her child—While she,[168]distinct in raiment white, stands silently the while,And sheds through torn and bleeding hair the same unchanging smile.—Sir Francis Hastings Doyle.
Yes! I have served that[117]noble chief throughout his proud career,And heard the bullets whistle past in lands both far and near—Amidst Italian flowers,[118]below the dark pines of the north,[119]Where’er the Emperor willed[120]to pour his clouds of battle forth.’Twasthena splendid sight to see, though terrible, I ween,How his vast spirit filled[121]and moved the wheels of the machine;Wide sounding leagues[122]of sentient steel, and fires that lived to kill,[123]Were but the echo of his voice, the body of his will.Butnowmy heart is darkened with the shadows[124]that rise and fallBetween the sunlight and the ground to sadden and appall:The woeful things both seen and done we heeded little then,But they return, like ghosts, to shake the sleep of aged men.The German and the Englishman were each an open foe,And open hatred hurled[125]us back from Russia’s blinding snow;Intenser far, in blood-red light, like fires unquenched, remainThe dreadful deeds wrung forth by war from the brooding soul of Spain.I saw a village[126]in the hills, as silent[127]as a dream,Naught stirring but the summer sound[128]of a merry mountain stream;The evening star[129]just smiled from heaven with its quiet silver eye,And the chestnut woods[130]were still and calm beneath the deepening sky.But in that place, self-sacrificed, nor man nor beast we found,Nor fig-tree on the sun-touched slope, nor corn upon the ground;Each roofless hut[131]was black with smoke, wrenched up each trailing vine,Each path was foul[132]with mangled meat and floods of wasted wine.We had been marching, travel-worn, a long and burning way,And when such welcoming we met, after that toilsome day,The pulses in our maddened breasts were human hearts no more,But, like the spirit of a wolf, hot on the scent of gore.We lighted on one dying man, they slew him where he lay;His wife, close-clinging, from the corpse they tore[133]and wrenched away;They thundered in her widowed ears, with frowns and curses grim,“Food, woman—food and wine, or else we tear[134]thee limb from limb.”The woman shaking offhisblood, rose,[135]raven-haired and tall,And our stern glances quailed before one sterner far than all.“Both food and wine,”[136]she said, “I have; I meant them for the dead,[137]But ye are living still, and so let them be yours instead.”The food was brought, the wine was brought out of a secret place,[138]But each one paused aghast, and looked into his neighbor’s face;Her haughty step and settled brow, and chill indifferent mien,Suited so strangely with the gloom and grimness of the scene.She glided here,[139]she glided there,[140]before our wondering eyes,Nor anger showed, nor shame, nor fear, nor sorrow, nor surprise;At every step, from soul to soul a nameless horror ran,And made us pale and silent as that[141]silent murdered man.She sat, and calmly soothed her child into a slumber sweet;Calmly the bright blood on the floor crawled[142]red around our feet.On placid fruits and bread lay soft the shadows of the wine,And we like marble statues glared—a chill, unmoving line.All white, all cold; and moments thus flew by without a breath,A company of living things where all was still—but death;[143]My hair rose up from roots of ice as there unnerved I stoodAnd watched[144]the only thing that stirred—the rippling of the blood.That woman’s voice was heard at length, it broke the solemn spell,And human fear, displacing awe, upon our spirits fell—“Ho![145]slayers of the sinewless! Ho! tramplers of the weak!What! shrink ye from the ghastly meats[146]and life-bought wine ye seek?Feed, and begone![147]I wish to weep—I bring you out my store[148]—Devour[149]it—waste[150]it all—and then—pass[151]and be seen no more.Poison! Is that your craven fear?” She snatched the goblet[152]upAnd raised it to her queen-like head, as if to drain the cup.But our fierce leader grasped her wrist—“No, woman! No!” he said,“A mother’s heart of love is deep—give it your child[153]instead.”She only smiled a bitter smile—“Frenchmen, I do not shrink—As pledge of my fidelity, behold[154]the infant drink!”He fixed on hers his broad black eye, scanning her inmost soul;But her chill fingers trembled not as she returned the bowl.And we with lightsome hardihood, dismissing idle care,Sat down[155]to eat and drink and laugh over our dainty fare.The laugh was loud around the board, the jesting wild and light;ButIwas fevered with the march, and drank no wine that night;I just had filled a single cup, when through my very brain[156]Stung, sharper than a serpent’s tooth, an infant’s cry of pain.Through all that heat of revelry, through all that boisterous cheer,To every heart its feeble moan pierced, like a frozen spear.“Aye,” shrieked the woman, darting up, “I pray you trust againA widow’s hospitality in our unyielding[157]Spain.Helpless and hopeless, by the light of God[158]Himself I sworeTo treat you[159]as you treatedhim[160]—that[161]body on the floor.Yon secret place[162]I filled, to feel, that if ye did not spare,The treasure of a dread revenge was ready hidden there.A mother’s love is deep, no doubt; ye did not phrase it ill,But in your hunger ye forgot, that hate is deeper still.The Spanish woman speaks for Spain;[163]for her butchered love,[164]the wife,To tell you that an hour is allmyvintage leaves of life.I cannot paint the many forms of wild despair put on,Nor count the crowded brave who sleep beneath[165]a single stone;I can but tell you how, before that horrid hour went by,I saw the murderess beneath the self-avengers die.But though upon her wrenched limbs they leaped like beasts of prey,And with fierce hands, like madmen, tore[166]the quivering life away—Triumphant hate and joyous scorn, without a trace of pain,Burned to the last, like sullen stars, in that haughty eye of Spain.And often now it breaks my rest, the tumult vague and wild,Drifting, like storm-tossed clouds,[167]around the mother and her child—While she,[168]distinct in raiment white, stands silently the while,And sheds through torn and bleeding hair the same unchanging smile.—Sir Francis Hastings Doyle.
Yes! I have served that[117]noble chief throughout his proud career,
And heard the bullets whistle past in lands both far and near—
Amidst Italian flowers,[118]below the dark pines of the north,[119]
Where’er the Emperor willed[120]to pour his clouds of battle forth.
’Twasthena splendid sight to see, though terrible, I ween,How his vast spirit filled[121]and moved the wheels of the machine;Wide sounding leagues[122]of sentient steel, and fires that lived to kill,[123]Were but the echo of his voice, the body of his will.
’Twasthena splendid sight to see, though terrible, I ween,
How his vast spirit filled[121]and moved the wheels of the machine;
Wide sounding leagues[122]of sentient steel, and fires that lived to kill,[123]
Were but the echo of his voice, the body of his will.
Butnowmy heart is darkened with the shadows[124]that rise and fallBetween the sunlight and the ground to sadden and appall:The woeful things both seen and done we heeded little then,But they return, like ghosts, to shake the sleep of aged men.
Butnowmy heart is darkened with the shadows[124]that rise and fall
Between the sunlight and the ground to sadden and appall:
The woeful things both seen and done we heeded little then,
But they return, like ghosts, to shake the sleep of aged men.
The German and the Englishman were each an open foe,And open hatred hurled[125]us back from Russia’s blinding snow;Intenser far, in blood-red light, like fires unquenched, remainThe dreadful deeds wrung forth by war from the brooding soul of Spain.
The German and the Englishman were each an open foe,
And open hatred hurled[125]us back from Russia’s blinding snow;
Intenser far, in blood-red light, like fires unquenched, remain
The dreadful deeds wrung forth by war from the brooding soul of Spain.
I saw a village[126]in the hills, as silent[127]as a dream,Naught stirring but the summer sound[128]of a merry mountain stream;The evening star[129]just smiled from heaven with its quiet silver eye,And the chestnut woods[130]were still and calm beneath the deepening sky.
I saw a village[126]in the hills, as silent[127]as a dream,
Naught stirring but the summer sound[128]of a merry mountain stream;
The evening star[129]just smiled from heaven with its quiet silver eye,
And the chestnut woods[130]were still and calm beneath the deepening sky.
But in that place, self-sacrificed, nor man nor beast we found,Nor fig-tree on the sun-touched slope, nor corn upon the ground;Each roofless hut[131]was black with smoke, wrenched up each trailing vine,Each path was foul[132]with mangled meat and floods of wasted wine.
But in that place, self-sacrificed, nor man nor beast we found,
Nor fig-tree on the sun-touched slope, nor corn upon the ground;
Each roofless hut[131]was black with smoke, wrenched up each trailing vine,
Each path was foul[132]with mangled meat and floods of wasted wine.
We had been marching, travel-worn, a long and burning way,And when such welcoming we met, after that toilsome day,The pulses in our maddened breasts were human hearts no more,But, like the spirit of a wolf, hot on the scent of gore.
We had been marching, travel-worn, a long and burning way,
And when such welcoming we met, after that toilsome day,
The pulses in our maddened breasts were human hearts no more,
But, like the spirit of a wolf, hot on the scent of gore.
We lighted on one dying man, they slew him where he lay;His wife, close-clinging, from the corpse they tore[133]and wrenched away;They thundered in her widowed ears, with frowns and curses grim,“Food, woman—food and wine, or else we tear[134]thee limb from limb.”
We lighted on one dying man, they slew him where he lay;
His wife, close-clinging, from the corpse they tore[133]and wrenched away;
They thundered in her widowed ears, with frowns and curses grim,
“Food, woman—food and wine, or else we tear[134]thee limb from limb.”
The woman shaking offhisblood, rose,[135]raven-haired and tall,And our stern glances quailed before one sterner far than all.“Both food and wine,”[136]she said, “I have; I meant them for the dead,[137]But ye are living still, and so let them be yours instead.”
The woman shaking offhisblood, rose,[135]raven-haired and tall,
And our stern glances quailed before one sterner far than all.
“Both food and wine,”[136]she said, “I have; I meant them for the dead,[137]
But ye are living still, and so let them be yours instead.”
The food was brought, the wine was brought out of a secret place,[138]But each one paused aghast, and looked into his neighbor’s face;Her haughty step and settled brow, and chill indifferent mien,Suited so strangely with the gloom and grimness of the scene.
The food was brought, the wine was brought out of a secret place,[138]
But each one paused aghast, and looked into his neighbor’s face;
Her haughty step and settled brow, and chill indifferent mien,
Suited so strangely with the gloom and grimness of the scene.
She glided here,[139]she glided there,[140]before our wondering eyes,Nor anger showed, nor shame, nor fear, nor sorrow, nor surprise;At every step, from soul to soul a nameless horror ran,And made us pale and silent as that[141]silent murdered man.
She glided here,[139]she glided there,[140]before our wondering eyes,
Nor anger showed, nor shame, nor fear, nor sorrow, nor surprise;
At every step, from soul to soul a nameless horror ran,
And made us pale and silent as that[141]silent murdered man.
She sat, and calmly soothed her child into a slumber sweet;Calmly the bright blood on the floor crawled[142]red around our feet.On placid fruits and bread lay soft the shadows of the wine,And we like marble statues glared—a chill, unmoving line.
She sat, and calmly soothed her child into a slumber sweet;
Calmly the bright blood on the floor crawled[142]red around our feet.
On placid fruits and bread lay soft the shadows of the wine,
And we like marble statues glared—a chill, unmoving line.
All white, all cold; and moments thus flew by without a breath,A company of living things where all was still—but death;[143]My hair rose up from roots of ice as there unnerved I stoodAnd watched[144]the only thing that stirred—the rippling of the blood.
All white, all cold; and moments thus flew by without a breath,
A company of living things where all was still—but death;[143]
My hair rose up from roots of ice as there unnerved I stood
And watched[144]the only thing that stirred—the rippling of the blood.
That woman’s voice was heard at length, it broke the solemn spell,And human fear, displacing awe, upon our spirits fell—“Ho![145]slayers of the sinewless! Ho! tramplers of the weak!What! shrink ye from the ghastly meats[146]and life-bought wine ye seek?
That woman’s voice was heard at length, it broke the solemn spell,
And human fear, displacing awe, upon our spirits fell—
“Ho![145]slayers of the sinewless! Ho! tramplers of the weak!
What! shrink ye from the ghastly meats[146]and life-bought wine ye seek?
Feed, and begone![147]I wish to weep—I bring you out my store[148]—Devour[149]it—waste[150]it all—and then—pass[151]and be seen no more.Poison! Is that your craven fear?” She snatched the goblet[152]upAnd raised it to her queen-like head, as if to drain the cup.
Feed, and begone![147]I wish to weep—I bring you out my store[148]—
Devour[149]it—waste[150]it all—and then—pass[151]and be seen no more.
Poison! Is that your craven fear?” She snatched the goblet[152]up
And raised it to her queen-like head, as if to drain the cup.
But our fierce leader grasped her wrist—“No, woman! No!” he said,“A mother’s heart of love is deep—give it your child[153]instead.”She only smiled a bitter smile—“Frenchmen, I do not shrink—As pledge of my fidelity, behold[154]the infant drink!”
But our fierce leader grasped her wrist—“No, woman! No!” he said,
“A mother’s heart of love is deep—give it your child[153]instead.”
She only smiled a bitter smile—“Frenchmen, I do not shrink—
As pledge of my fidelity, behold[154]the infant drink!”
He fixed on hers his broad black eye, scanning her inmost soul;But her chill fingers trembled not as she returned the bowl.And we with lightsome hardihood, dismissing idle care,Sat down[155]to eat and drink and laugh over our dainty fare.
He fixed on hers his broad black eye, scanning her inmost soul;
But her chill fingers trembled not as she returned the bowl.
And we with lightsome hardihood, dismissing idle care,
Sat down[155]to eat and drink and laugh over our dainty fare.
The laugh was loud around the board, the jesting wild and light;ButIwas fevered with the march, and drank no wine that night;I just had filled a single cup, when through my very brain[156]Stung, sharper than a serpent’s tooth, an infant’s cry of pain.
The laugh was loud around the board, the jesting wild and light;
ButIwas fevered with the march, and drank no wine that night;
I just had filled a single cup, when through my very brain[156]
Stung, sharper than a serpent’s tooth, an infant’s cry of pain.
Through all that heat of revelry, through all that boisterous cheer,To every heart its feeble moan pierced, like a frozen spear.“Aye,” shrieked the woman, darting up, “I pray you trust againA widow’s hospitality in our unyielding[157]Spain.
Through all that heat of revelry, through all that boisterous cheer,
To every heart its feeble moan pierced, like a frozen spear.
“Aye,” shrieked the woman, darting up, “I pray you trust again
A widow’s hospitality in our unyielding[157]Spain.
Helpless and hopeless, by the light of God[158]Himself I sworeTo treat you[159]as you treatedhim[160]—that[161]body on the floor.Yon secret place[162]I filled, to feel, that if ye did not spare,The treasure of a dread revenge was ready hidden there.
Helpless and hopeless, by the light of God[158]Himself I swore
To treat you[159]as you treatedhim[160]—that[161]body on the floor.
Yon secret place[162]I filled, to feel, that if ye did not spare,
The treasure of a dread revenge was ready hidden there.
A mother’s love is deep, no doubt; ye did not phrase it ill,But in your hunger ye forgot, that hate is deeper still.The Spanish woman speaks for Spain;[163]for her butchered love,[164]the wife,To tell you that an hour is allmyvintage leaves of life.
A mother’s love is deep, no doubt; ye did not phrase it ill,
But in your hunger ye forgot, that hate is deeper still.
The Spanish woman speaks for Spain;[163]for her butchered love,[164]the wife,
To tell you that an hour is allmyvintage leaves of life.
I cannot paint the many forms of wild despair put on,Nor count the crowded brave who sleep beneath[165]a single stone;I can but tell you how, before that horrid hour went by,I saw the murderess beneath the self-avengers die.
I cannot paint the many forms of wild despair put on,
Nor count the crowded brave who sleep beneath[165]a single stone;
I can but tell you how, before that horrid hour went by,
I saw the murderess beneath the self-avengers die.
But though upon her wrenched limbs they leaped like beasts of prey,And with fierce hands, like madmen, tore[166]the quivering life away—Triumphant hate and joyous scorn, without a trace of pain,Burned to the last, like sullen stars, in that haughty eye of Spain.
But though upon her wrenched limbs they leaped like beasts of prey,
And with fierce hands, like madmen, tore[166]the quivering life away—
Triumphant hate and joyous scorn, without a trace of pain,
Burned to the last, like sullen stars, in that haughty eye of Spain.
And often now it breaks my rest, the tumult vague and wild,Drifting, like storm-tossed clouds,[167]around the mother and her child—While she,[168]distinct in raiment white, stands silently the while,And sheds through torn and bleeding hair the same unchanging smile.—Sir Francis Hastings Doyle.
And often now it breaks my rest, the tumult vague and wild,
Drifting, like storm-tossed clouds,[167]around the mother and her child—
While she,[168]distinct in raiment white, stands silently the while,
And sheds through torn and bleeding hair the same unchanging smile.
—Sir Francis Hastings Doyle.
Gestures.