The weird pathetic scarlet of day dawning, More kin to death of night than birth of morn, Peered o'er yon hill bristling with spires of pine. I heard the crying of the men condemned, Men racked, that should be martyr'd presently, And my great grief met theirs with might; I held All our poor earth's despairs in my poor breast, The choking reek, the faggots were all mine. Ay, and the partings they were all mine--mine. Father, it will be very good methinks To die so, to die soon. It doth appease The soul in misery for its fellows, when There is no help, to suffer even as they. Father, when I had lost her, when I sat After my sickness on the pallet bed, My forehead dropp'd into my hand, behold Some one beside me. A man's hand let down With that same action kind, compassionate, Upon my shoulder. And I took the hand Between mine own, laying my face thereon. I knew this man for him who spoke with me, Letting me see my Delia. I looked up. Lo! lo! the robed ecclesiastic proud, He and this other one. Tell you his name? Am I a fiend? No, he was good to me, Almost he placed his life in my hand. Father, He with good pitying words long talked to me, 'Did I not strive to save her?' 'Ay,' quoth I. 'But sith it would not be, I also claim Death, burning; let me therefore die--let me. I am wicked, would be heretic, but, faith, I know not how, and Holy Church I hate. She is no mother of mine, she slew my love.' What answer? 'Peace, peace, thou art hard on me. Favour I forfeit with the Mother of God, Lose rank among the saints, foresee my soul Drenched in the unmitigated flame, and take My payment in the lives snatched at all risk From battling in it here. O, an thou turn And tear from me, lost to that other world My heart's reward in this, I am twice lost; Now have I doubly failed.' Father, I know The Church would rail, hound forth, disgrace, try, burn, Make his proud name, discover'd, infamy, Tread underfoot his ashes, curse his soul. But God is greater than the Church. I hope He shall not, for that he loved men, lose God. I hope to hear it said 'Thy sins are all Forgiven; come in, thou hast done well.' For me My chronicle comes down to its last page. 'Is not life sweet?' quoth he, and comforted My sick heart with good words, 'duty' and 'home.' Then took me at moonsetting down the stair To the dark deserted midway of the street, Gave me a purse of money, and his hand Laid on my shoulder, holding me with words A father might have said, bad me God speed, So pushed me from him, turned, and he was gone.