MARY BEATON. Ah, Lord God, bear with me, Help me to bear a little with my love For thine own love, or give me some quick death. Do not come down; I shall get strength again, Only my breath fails. Looks he sad or blithe? Not sad I doubt yet. MARY CARMICHAEL. Nay, not sad a whit, But like a man who losing gold or lands Should lose a heavy sorrow; his face set, The eyes not curious to the right or left, And reading in a book, his hands unbound, With short fleet smiles. The whole place catches breath, Looking at him; she seems at point to speak: Now she lies back, and laughs, with her brows drawn And her lips drawn too. Now they read his crime-- I see the laughter tightening her chin: Why do you bend your body and draw breath? They will not slay him in her sight; I am sure She will not have him slain. MARY BEATON. Forth, and fear not: I was just praying to myself--one word, A prayer I have to say for her to God If he will mind it. MARY CARMICHAEL. Now he looks her side; Something he says, if one could hear thus far: She leans out, lengthening her throat to hear And her eyes shining. MARY BEATON. Ah, I had no hope: Yea thou God knowest that I had no hope. Let it end quickly. MARY CARMICHAEL. Now his eyes are wide And his smile great; and like another smile The blood fills all his face. Her cheek and neck Work fast and hard; she must have pardoned him, He looks so merrily. Now he comes forth Out of that ring of people and kneels down; Ah, how the helve and edge of the great axe Turn in the sunlight as the man shifts hands-- It must be for a show: because she sits And hardly moves her head this way--I see Her chin and lifted lips. Now she stands up, Puts out her hand, and they fall muttering; Ah! MARY BEATON. Is it done now? MARY CARMICHAEL. For God's love, stay there; Do not look out. Nay, he is dead by this; But gather up yourself from off the floor; Will she die too? I shut mine eyes and heard-- Sweet, do not beat your face upon the ground. Nay, he is dead and slain. MARY BEATON. What, slain indeed? I knew he would be slain. Ay, through the neck: I knew one must be smitten through the neck To die so quick: if one were stabbed to the heart, He would die slower. MARY CARMICHAEL. Will you behold him dead? MARY BEATON. Yea: must a dead man not be looked upon That living one was fain of? give me way. Lo you, what sort of hair this fellow had; The doomsman gathers it into his hand To grasp the head by for all men to see; I never did that. MARY CARMICHAEL. For God's love, let me go.