Clotilde lay still in her trembling sheets. Her heart shook her body with its beats. She could not see till the moon should rise, So she whispered prayers and kept her eyes On the window-square Till light should be there. The faintest shadow of a branch Fell on the floor. Clotilde, grown staunch With solemn purpose, softly rose And fluttered down between the rows Of sleeping nuns. She almost runs. She must go out through the little side door Lest the nuns who were always praying before The Virgin's altar should hear her pass. She pushed the bolts, and over the grass The red moon's brim Mounted its rim. Her shadow crept up the convent wall As she swiftly left it, over all The garden lay the level glow Of a moon coming up, very big and slow. The gravel glistened. She stopped and listened. It was still, and the moonlight was getting clearer. She laughed a little, but she felt queerer Than ever before. The snowdrop bed Was reached and she bent down her head. On the striped ground The snake was wound. For a moment Clotilde paused in alarm, Then she rolled up her sleeve and stretched out her arm. She thought she heard steps, she must be quick. She darted her hand out, and seized the thick Wriggling slime, Only just in time. The old gardener came muttering down the path, And his shadow fell like a broad, black swath, And covered Clotilde and the angry snake. He bit her, but what difference did that make! The Virgin should dress In his loveliness. The gardener was covering his new-set plants For the night was chilly, and nothing daunts Your lover of growing things. He spied Something to do and turned aside, And the moonlight streamed On Clotilde, and gleamed. His business finished the gardener rose. He shook and swore, for the moonlight shows A girl with a fire-tongued serpent, she Grasping him, laughing, while quietly Her eyes are weeping. Is he sleeping? He thinks it is some holy vision, Brushes that aside and with decision Jumps--and hits the snake with his stick, Crushes his spine, and then with quick, Urgent command Takes her hand. The gardener sucks the poison and spits, Cursing and praying as befits A poor old man half out of his wits. "Whatever possessed you, Sister, it's Hatched of a devil And very evil. It's one of them horrid basilisks You read about. They say a man risks His life to touch it, but I guess I've sucked it Out by now. Lucky I chucked it Away from you. I guess you'll do." "Oh, no, Francois, this beautiful beast Was sent to me, to me the least Worthy in all our convent, so I Could finish my picture of the Most High And Holy Queen, In her dress of green.