Her comrade was a sordid soul, 415 Such as does murder for a meed; Who, but of fear, knows no control, Because his conscience, sear'd and foul, Feels not the import of his deed; One, whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires 420 Beyond his own more brute desires. Such tools the Tempter ever needs, To do the savagest of deeds; For them no vision'd terrors daunt, Their nights no fancied spectres haunt, 425 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, 430 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! 435 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, 440 Of roots, of water, and of bread: By each, in Benedictine dress, Two haggard monks stood motionless; Who, holding high a blazing torch, Show'd the grim entrance of the porch: 445 Reflecting back the smoky beam, The dark-red walls and arches gleam. Hewn stones and cement were display'd, And building tools in order laid. XXIV. These executioners were chose, 450 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 455 Of some foul crime the stain; For, as the vassals of her will, Such men the Church selected still, As either joy'd in doing ill, Or thought more grace to gain, 460 If, in her cause, they wrestled down Feelings their nature strove to own. By strange device were they brought there, They knew not how, and knew not where. XXV. And now that blind old Abbot rose, 465 To speak the Chapter's doom, On those the wall was to enclose, Alive, within the tomb; But stopp'd, because that woful Maid, Gathering her powers, to speak essay'd. 470 Twice she essay'd, 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, 475 You seem'd 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, 480 So massive were the walls. XXVI.