That Discipline, wire-woven, in ancient days Guest of monastic bed. He snatched it thence: Around his bending neck and shoulders lean In dire revenge he hurled it. Spent at last, Though late, those bleeding hands down dropped: the cheek Sank on the stony pillow. Little birds, Low-chirping ere their songs began, attuned Slumber unbroken. In a single hour He slept a long night's sleep. The rising sun Woke him: but in his heart another sun, New-risen serene with healing on its wings, Outshone that sun in brightness. 'Mid the choir His voice was loudest while they chanted lauds: Brother to brother whispered, issuing forth, 'He walks in stature higher by a head Than in the month gone by!' That day at noon King Eadwald, intent to whiten theft And sacrilege with sanctitudes of law, Girt by his warriors and his Witena, Enthroned sat. 'What boots it?' laughed a thane; 'Laurence has fled! we battle with dead men!' 'Ay, ay,' the King replied, 'I told you oft Sages can brag; your dreamer weaves his dream: But honest flesh rules all!' While thus they spake Confusion filled the hall: through guarded gates A priest advanced with mitre and with Cross, A monk that seemed not monk, but prince disguised: It was Saint Laurence. As he neared the throne The fashion of the tyrant's face was changed: 'Dar'st thou?' he cried, 'I deemed thee fled the realm-- What seek'st thou here?' The Saint made answer, 'Death.' Calmly he told his tale; then ended thus: 'To me that sinful past is sin of one Buried in years gone by. All else is dream Save that last look the Apostle on me bent Ere from my sight he ceased. I saw therein The reflex of that wondrous last Regard Cast by the sentenced Saviour of mankind On one who had denied Him, standing cold Beside the High Priest's gate. Like him, I wept; His countenance wrought my penance, not his hand: I scarcely felt the scourge.' King Eadbald Drave back the sword half drawn, and round him stared; Then sat as one amazed. He rose; he cried, 'Ulf! Kathnar! Strip his shoulders bare! If true His tale, the brand remains!' Two chiefs stepped forth: They dragged with trembling hand, and many a pause, The external garb pontific first removed, Dark, blood-stained garment from the bleeding flesh, The old man kneeling. Once, and only once, The monarch gazed on that disastrous sight, Muttering, 'and yet he lives!' A time it was Of swift transitions. Hearts, how proud soe'er, Made not that boast--consistency in sin, Though dark and rough accessible to Grace As earth to vernal showers. With hands hard-clenched The King upstarted: thus his voice rang out: