Like to a cry of pain after a shot. Swinging, it clicked, it clicked again, it swung Until the iron latch bar hit the slot. Mary had gone, and Lion held his tongue. Old Mother Occleve sobbed; her white head hung Over her sewing while the tears ran down Her worn, blood-threaded cheeks and splashed upon her gown. "Yes, it is true," said Lion, "she must go. Michael is back. Michael was always first, I did but take his place. You did not know. Now it has happened, and you know the worst. So passion makes the passionate soul accurst And crucifies his darling. Michael comes And the savage truth appears and rips my life to thrums." Upon Old Occleve’s face the fury changed First to contempt, and then to terror lest Lion, beneath the shock, should be deranged. But Lion’s eyes were steady, though distressed. "Father, good-night," he said, "I’m going to rest. Good-night, I cannot talk. Mother, good-night." He kissed her brow and went; they heard him strike a light, And go with slow depressed step up the stairs, Up to the door of her deserted bower; They heard him up above them, moving chairs; The memory of his paleness made them cower. They did not know their son; they had no power To help, they only saw the new-won bride Defy their child, and faith and custom put aside. * * * * * After a time men learned where Mary was: Over the hills, not many miles away, Renting a cottage and a patch of grass Where Michael came to see her. Every day Taught her what fevers can inhabit clay, Shaking this body that so soon must die. The time made Lion old: the winter dwindled by. Till the long misery had to end or kill: And "I must go to see her," Lion cried; "I am her standby, and she needs me still; If not to love she needs me to decide. Dear, I will set you free. Oh, my bright bride, Lost in such piteous ways, come back." He rode Over the wintry hills to Mary’s new abode. And as he topped the pass between the hills, Towards him, up the swerving road, there came Michael, the happy cause of all his ills; Walking as though repentance were the shame, Sucking a grass, unbuttoned, still the same, Humming a tune; his careless beauty wild Drawing the women’s eyes; he wandered with a child. Who heard, wide-eyed, the scraps of tales which fell Between the fragments of the tune; they seemed A cherub bringing up a soul from hell. Meeting unlike the meeting long since dreamed. Lion dismounted; the great valley gleamed With waters far below; his teeth were set His heart thumped at his throat; he stopped; the two men met. The child well knew that fatal issues joined; He stood round-eyed to watch them, even as Fate Stood with his pennypiece of causes coined Ready to throw for issue; the bright hate Throbbed, that the heavy reckoning need not wait. Lion stepped forward, watching Michael’s eyes. "We are old friends," he said. "Now, Michael, you be wise,