"Judge if you must, but understand it first. We are old friends, and townsmen, Shropshire born, Under the Wrekin. You believe the worst. You have no knowledge how the heart is torn, Trying for duty up against the thorn. Now say I’ve broken Mary’s heart: begin. Break hers, or hers and mine, which were the greater sin?" "Michael," said Lion, "I have heard you. Now Listen to me. Three years ago you made With a most noble soul a certain vow. Now you reject it, saying that you played. She did not think so, Michael, she has stayed, Eating her heart out for a line, a word, News that you were not dead; news that she never heard. "Not once, after the first. She has held firm To what you counted pastime; she has wept Life, day by weary day throughout the term, While her heart sickened, and the clock-hand crept. While you, you with your woman here, have kept Holiday, feasting; you are fat; you smile. You have had love and laughter all the ghastly while. "I shall be back in England six weeks hence, Standing with your poor Mary face to face; Far from a pleasant moment, but intense. I shall be asked to tell her of this place. And she will eye me hard and hope for grace, Some little crumb of comfort while I tell; And every word will burn like a red spark from hell, "That you have done with her, that you are living Here with another woman; that you care Nought for the pain you’ve given and are giving; That all your lover’s vows were empty air. This I must tell: thus I shall burn her bare, Burn out all hope, all comfort, every crumb, End it, and watch her whiten, hopeless, tearless, dumb. "Or do I judge you wrongly?" He was still. The cigarette-end glowed and dimmed with ash; A preying night bird whimpered on the hill. Michael said "Ah!" and fingered with his sash, Then stilled. The night was still; there came no flash Of sudden passion bursting. All was still; A lonely water gurgled like a whip-poor-will. "Now I must go," said Lion; "where’s the horse?" "There," said his friend; "I’ll set you on your way." They caught and rode, both silent, while remorse Worked in each heart, though neither would betray What he was feeling, and the moon came grey, Then burned into an opal white and great, Silvering the downs of grass where these two travelled late, Thinking of English fields which that moon saw, Fields full of quiet beauty lying hushed At midnight in the moment full of awe, When the red fox comes creeping, dewy-brushed. But neither spoke; they rode; the horses rushed, Scattering the great clods skywards with such thrills As colts in April feel there in the daffodils. V The river brimming full was silvered over By moonlight at the ford; the river bank Smelt of bruised clote buds and of yellow clover. Nosing the gleaming dark the horses drank, Drooping and dripping as the reins fell lank; The men drooped too; the stars in heaven drooped; Rank after hurrying rank the silver water trooped