“‘Tell them to look for virtue, not for gain! Tell them that I can plough a stony plain, Or harrow, or prune vines with any man! Tell them their six yoke, with my guiding, can Plough double! Tell them I revere the old; And, if they part us for the sake of gold, “‘We shall both die, and need but burial.’ Now, Master Ramoun, I have told thee all. Shall I, clad in my rags, for this maid sue, Or leave my son to die of sorrow?”--“Whew!” The other. “To such wind spread thou no sail! Nor he, nor she, will perish of this ail. “So much, good friend, I say in utmost faith. Nor would I, Ambroi, fret myself to death If I were thou; but, seeing him so mad, I would say plainly, ‘Calm your mind, my lad! For if you raise a tempest by your passions, I’ll teach you with a cudgel better fashions!’ “If an ass, Ambroi, for more fodder bray, Throw him none down, but let thy bludgeon play. Provençal families in days bygone Were healthy, brave, and evermore at one, And strong as plane-trees when a storm befell. They had their strifes, indeed,--we know it well; “But, when returned the holy Christmas eve, The grandsire all his children would receive At his own board, under a star-sown tent; And ceased the voice of strife and all dissent, When, lifting hands that wrinkled were and trembled, He blessed the generations there assembled. “Moreover, he who is a father truly Will have his child yield him obedience duly: The flock that drives the shepherd, soon or late, Will meet a wolf and a disastrous fate. When we were young, had any son withstood His father, he, belike, had shed his blood!” “Thou wilt kill me then, father! It is I Whom Vincen worships thus despairingly; And before God and our most holy Mother, I give my soul to him, and to no other!” A deathlike hush followed Mirèio’s word. The wife of Ramoun was the first who stirred. Upspringing with clasped hands and utterance wild, “Your speech is an atrocious insult, child! Your love’s a thorn that long hath stung us deep. Alari, the owner of a thousand sheep, You sent away; and keeper Veran too, Disgusted with your scorn, his suit withdrew; “Also the wealthy herdsman, Ourrias, You treated as a dog and a scapegrace! Tramp through the country with your beggar, then! Herd with strange women and with outcast men! And cook your pot with fortune-telling crones Under a bridge mayhap, upon three stones. “Go, gypsy, you are free!” the mother said; Nor stayed Ramoun her pitiless tirade, Though his eye like a taper burned. But now The lightning flashed under his shaggy brow, And his wrath brake, all barriers overbearing, Like swollen torrent down a mountain tearing.