Who bore His cross against the hill!-- By Him who died a death of shame, That I might live, and ye might die,-- By Christ the Martyr!"--As a flame Leaps sideways when the wind is high, The bright one bounded from my side, At that dread name, without reply; And Death drew in his mantle wide, And shuddered, and grew ghastly pale, As if his dart had pricked his side. There came a breath, a lonely wail, Out of the silence o'er the land; Whether from souls of bliss or bale, What mortal brain may understand? Only I marked the phantoms went Closely together, hand in hand, As if upon one errand bent. * * * * * THE TRUE STORY OF LUIGI. A white dove flew down into the market-place one summer morning, and, undisturbed among all the wheels and hoofs, followed the footsteps of Luigi. He carried in one hand a sunflower, and thoughtlessly, while it hung there, with nervous fingers scattered the seeds as he went his way. So that the dove cooed in her little swelling throat, gathered what Luigi spilled, and, startled at last by a frisking hound, flew up and alighted on the tray which Luigi's other hand poised airily on his head, and was borne along with all the company of fair white things there in the sunshine. The street-urchins warned Luigi of the intruder among his wares, and then, slyly putting up his hand, the boy tossed the seeds in a shower about the tray. Off flew the dove, and back with the returning gust she fluttered, and, pausing only to catch her seed, she came and went, wheeling in flashing circles round his head as he pursued his path. It was at the pretty picture he thus presented, as, having left the market-place, he came upon the higher streets of the town, that a lady, looking from her window, made exclaim. The kind face, the pleasant voice, attracted him; in a moment after, while she was yet thinking of it, the door was pushed partly open, a dark boy, smiling, appeared, followed by the unslung tray, and a voice like a flute said,-- "_Sono io_,--it is I. Will the lady buy?" And then the image-vender showed his wares. The lady chaffered with him a moment, and at its close he was evidently paying no attention to what she said, but was listening to a voice from the adjoining room, the clear voice of a girl singing her Italian exercises. His face was in a glow, he bent to catch the words with signalling finger and glittering eyes; it was plainly neither the deftly sweet accompaniment nor the melody that charmed him, but the language: the language was his own.