Now all through this commotion the beautiful maid Veiled her face in her hands, as if really afraid To encounter the gaze of the numbers of eyes Which she felt stared upon her with unfeigned surprise. So reclining she sat on the brick-covered floor, And so mournfully sobbed, 'twould have made your heart sore To behold one so tender, so young, and so fair Almost broken in heart, and nigh crushed by despair; Nearly out of her mind, and without an idea Of what she should do, now she's found them out here. Then again silence reigned, And each tongue still remained, Till the monks back returned With their captive, held tight, Who seemed breathless with fright, While his face fiercely burned, Like a red-hot coal blowed, Which to all plainly showed He had punishment earned. For the Abbot was one who but rarely had missed The least chance that he had of his toe getting kissed. Not exactly saluting his bunions, I mean, But of causing his sway to be visibly seen. By all other folks humbling he thought he should rise, So had made it a point all the world to despise; Ev'ry small fault exposing which hidden might pass, Was tracked out like a snake by the trail in the grass. "Sir, I'm sorry," he said, in a sarcastic tone, "If from other appointments I keep you: unknown To my sight till this hour you perhaps may have been, Still your character now I have readily seen; And would say a few words ere we part for the night, On a subject perhaps you can give us some light. Be so kind as to give that young lady a seat." But before he could move Joan had rose to her feet, And exclaimed, "Oh, base man! you might well flee with shame! 'Twas to warn these good people I hitherward came. Oh, how could you thus serve me, who lov'd you so dearly! Whom you promised to wed once or twice--very nearly. Is it thus all our kindness and trust you repay? Such ingratitude never I met till to-day. Still I'll wish you no worse, but your heart may relent, And for all the grief caused me may quickly repent." Then again into tears she was melting away, Having said all she had for the present to say. While her beautiful hair (dark and soft as black silk) Trickled down her fair neck (whiter far than new milk) In the greatest disorder, without comb or pin; For to be in good time, such a haste she was in; And unto the dame to support her she clung-- With her head on her shoulder, her face downward hung; For the crimson tide rising rushed through ev'ry vein, With a pang piercing sharper than actual pain.