“But it is sweet to hear it, all the same. It is a language little heard by me Alone, in that man’s keeping, with my shame. I never thought such miseries could be. I was so happy in you, Michael. He Came when I felt you changed from what I thought you. Even now it is not love, but jealousy that brought you.” “That is untrue,” he said. “I am in hell. You are my heart’s beloved, Mary, you. By God, I know your beauty now too well. We are each other’s, flesh and soul, we two.” “That was sweet knowledge once,” she said; “we knew That truth of old. Now, in a strange man’s bed, I read it in my soul, and find it written red.” “Is he a brute?” he asked. “No,” she replied. “I did not understand what it would mean. And now that you are back, would I had died; Died, and the misery of it not have been. Lion would not be wrecked, nor I unclean. I was a proud one once, and now I’m tame; Oh, Michael, say some word to take away my shame.” She sobbed; his arms went round her; the night heard Intense fierce whispering passing, soul to soul, Love running hot on many a murmured word, Love’s passionate giving into new control. Their present misery did but blow the coal, Did but entangle deeper their two wills, While the brown brook ran on by buried daffodils. THE END OF THE TROUBLE. Lion lay still while the cold tides of death Came brimming up his channels. With one hand He groped to know if Michael still drew breath. His little hour was running out its sand. Then, in a mist, he saw his Mary stand Above. He cried aloud, “He was my brother. I was his comrade sworn, and we have killed each other. “Oh desolate grief, beloved, and through me. We wise who try to change. Oh, you wild birds, Help my unhappy spirit to the sea. The golden bowl is scattered into sherds.” And Mary knelt and murmured passionate words To that poor body on the dabbled flowers: “Oh, beauty, oh, sweet soul, oh, little love of ours-- “Michael, my own heart’s darling, speak; it’s me, Mary. You know my voice. I’m here, dear, here. Oh, little golden-haired one, listen. See, It’s Mary, Michael. Speak to Mary, dear. Oh, Michael, little love, he cannot hear; And you have killed him, Lion; he is dead. My little friend, my love, my Michael, golden head. “We had such fun together, such sweet fun, My love and I, my merry love and I. Oh, love, you shone upon me like the sun. Oh, Michael, say some little last good-bye.” Then in a calm voice Lion called, “I die. Go home and tell my people. Mary. Hear. Though I have wrought this ruin, I have loved you, dear.