The white wrap from the bundle in her arms, And, with a smile that would make angels weep, She showed him, pressed against her naked breast, Terrible as Medusa, the grey flesh And shrivelled face, embalmed, the thing that dropped Into the headsman's basket, months agone,-- The head of Raleigh. Half her body lay Bare, while she held that grey babe to her heart; But Judas hid his face.... 'Living,' she said, 'he was not always mine; But--dead--I shall not wean him'-- Then, I too Covered my face--I cannot tell you more. There was a dreadful silence in that room, Silence that, as I know, shattered the brain Of Stukeley.--When I dared to raise my head Beneath that silent thunder of our God, The man had gone-- This is his letter, sirs, Written from Lundy Island: "_For God's love, Tell them it is a cruel thing to say That I drink blood. I have no secret sin. A thousand pound is not so great a sum; And that is all they paid me, every penny. Salt water, that is all the drink I taste On this rough island. Somebody has taught The sea-gulls how to wail around my hut All night, like lost souls. And there is a face, A dead man's face that laughs in every storm, And sleeps in every pool along the coast. I thought it was my own, once. But I know These actions never, never, on God's earth, Will turn out to their credit, who believe That I drink blood._" He crumpled up the letter And tossed it into the fire. "Galen," said Ben, "I think you are right--that one should pity villains." * * * * The clock struck twelve. The bells began to peal. We drank a cup of sack to the New Year. "New songs, new voices, all as fresh as may," Said Ben to Brome, "but I shall never live To hear them." All was not so well, indeed, With Ben, as hitherto. Age had come upon him. He dragged one foot as in paralysis. The critics bayed against the old lion, now, And called him arrogant. "My brain," he said, "Is yet unhurt although, set round with pain, It cannot long hold out." He never stooped, Never once pandered to that brainless hour. His coat was thread-bare. Weeks had passed of late Without his voice resounding in our inn. "The statues are defiled, the gods dethroned, The Ionian movement reigns, not the free soul. And, as for me, I have lived too long," he said. "Well--I can weave the old threnodies anew." And, filling his cup, he murmured, soft and low, A new song, breaking on an ancient shore: I