Her comrade was a sordid soul, Such as does murder for a meed; Who, but of fear, knows no control, Because his conscience, seared and foul, Feels not the import of his deed; One, whose brute-feeling ne’er aspires Beyond his own more brute desires. Such tools the Tempter ever needs, To do the savagest of deeds; For them no visioned terrors daunt, Their nights no fancied spectres haunt, One fear with them, of all most base, The fear of death—alone finds place. This wretch was clad in frock and cowl, And shamed not loud to moan and howl, His body on the floor to dash, And crouch, like hound beneath the lash; While his mute partner, standing near, Waited her doom without a tear. XXIII. Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek, Well might her paleness terror speak! For there were seen, in that dark wall, Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall; Who enters at such grisly door Shall ne’er, I ween, find exit more. In each a slender meal was laid, Of roots, of water, and of bread: By each, in Benedictine dress, Two haggard monks stood motionless; Who, holding high a blazing torch, Showed the grim entrance of the porch: Reflecting back the smoky beam, The dark-red walls and arches gleam. Hewn stones and cement were displayed, And building tools in order laid. XXIV. These executioners were chose, As men who were with mankind foes, And with despite and envy fired, Into the cloister had retired; Or who, in desperate doubt of grace, Strove, by deep penance, to efface Of some foul crime the stain; For, as the vassals of her will, Such men the Church selected still, As either joyed in doing ill, Or thought more grace to gain, If, in her cause, they wrestled down Feelings their nature strove to own. By strange device were they brought there, They knew not how, nor knew not where. XXV. And now that blind old Abbot rose, To speak the Chapter’s doom On those the wall was to enclose, Alive, within the tomb: But stopped, because that woful maid, Gathering her powers, to speak essayed. Twice she essayed, and twice in vain; Her accents might no utterance gain; Nought but imperfect murmurs slip From her convulsed and quivering lip; ’Twixt each attempt all was so still, You seemed to hear a distant rill— ’Twas ocean’s swells and falls; For though this vault of sin and fear Was to the sounding surge so near, A tempest there you scarce could hear, So massive were the walls. XXVI.