“Mother of God!” Mirèio’s mother cried In torture, “do thou in thy mantle hide Mine own sweet child!” and on her knees she dropped With lifted eyes and parted lips: yet stopped Ere any word was spoken, for she saw Antéume, shepherd-chief and milker, draw Hurriedly toward them. “And why,” he was panting, “Was she the junipers untimely haunting?” Then, the ring entering, his tale he told. “This morn, as we were milking in the fold,-- So early that above the bare plain showed The sky yet hob-nailed with the stars of God,-- “A soul, a shadow, or a spectre swept Across the way. The dogs all silence kept, As if afraid, and the sheep huddled close. Thought I,--who scarce have time, as master knows, Ever an _Ave_ in the church to offer,-- ‘Speak, soul, if thou art blest. If not, go suffer!’ “Then came a voice I knew,--it never varies,-- ‘Will none go with me to the holy Maries, Of all the shepherds?’ Ere the word was said, Afar over the plain the voice had fled. Wilt thou believe it, master?--it was she, Mirèio!” Cried the people, “Can it be?” “It was herself!” the shepherd-chief replied: “I saw her in the star-light past me glide, Not, surely, as she was in other days, But lifting up a wan, affrighted face; Whereby she was a living soul, I knew, And stung by some exquisite anguish too.” At this dread word, the labourers groan, and wring Each other’s horny palms. “But who will bring,” The stricken mother began wildly shrieking, “_Me_ to the saints? My bird I must be seeking! My partridge of the stony field,” she said, “I must o’ertake, wherever she has fled. “And if the ants attack her, then these teeth Shall grind them and their hill! If greedy Death Dare touch my darling rudely, then will I Break his old, rusty scythe, and she shall fly Away across the jungle!” Crying thus, Jano Mario fled delirious Back to the home; while Ramoun order gave, “Cartman, set up the cart-tilt, wet the nave, And oil the axle, and without delay Harness Moureto. We go far to-day, And it is late.” The mother, in despair, Mounted the cart; and more and more the air Resounded with the transports of her woe: “O pretty dear! O wilderness of Crau! O endless, briny plains! O dreadful sun, Be kind, I pray you, to the fainting one! But for her,--the accursèd witch Taven,-- Who lured my darling into her foul den, And poured before her, as I know right well, Her philters and her potions horrible, And made her drink,--now may the demons all Who lured St. Anthony upon her fall, And drag her body o’er the rocks of Baux!” As the unhappy soul lamented so,