“‘But leave my pretty little fairy sane And sound!’” Here brake Mirèio in again: “There are they, in their linen robes of grace! They come!” and from her mother’s fond embrace Began to struggle wildly to be free, And waved her hand afar toward the sea. Then all the folk turned also to the main, And under shading hands their eyes ’gan strain; Yet, save the pallid limit of the brine, The blending and the separating line ’Twixt wave and vault, they nothing could descry. “Naught cometh,” said they. But the child, “Oh, ay! “Look closer! There’s a bark, without a sail, Wafted toward us by a gentle gale, And they are on it! And the swell subsides Before them, and the bark so softly glides! Clear is the air and all the sea like glass, And the sea-birds do homage as they pass!” “Poor child! she wanders,” murmured they; “for we See only the red sunset on the sea!” “Yet it is they! Mine eyes have told me true,” The sick one panted--“’Tis the boat in view! Now low, now lifted, it is drawing near, Oh, miracle of God!--the boat is here!” Now was she paling, as a marguerite Half-blown and smitten by a tropic heat, While crouching Vincen, horror in his heart, Or ere his well-belovèd quite depart Hath her in charge unto our Lady given, To the Saints of the chapel and of heaven. Lit are the tapers, and, in violet stole Begirt, the priest, to stay the passing soul, Lays angel’s bread to those dry lips of hers, And the last unction so administers; Then of her body the seven parts anoints With holy oil, as holy church appoints. The hour was calm. Upon the tiles no word Save the _oremus_ of the priest was heard. The last red shaft of the declining day Struck on the wall and passed, and heaven turned gray. The sea’s long waves came slowly up the shore, Brake with a murmur soft, and were no more. Beside the maid knelt father, mother, lover, And hoarsely sobbed at intervals above her; Till once again her lips moved, and she spake; “Now is the parting close at hand! So take My hand, and press it quickly, dears. Lo, now The glory grows on either Mary’s brow! “The pink flamingoes flock from the Rhone shore, The tamarisks in blossom all adore. The dear Saints beckon me to them,” she said. “They tell me I need never be afraid: They know the constellations of the skies; Their bark will take us quick to Paradise!” “My little pet,” said Ramoun, quite undone, “You will not go, and leave the home so lone! Why have I felled my oaks with such ado? The zeal that nerved me only came of you. If the hot sun on sultry glebe o’ertook me, I thought of you, and heat and thirst forsook me.”