"And I," said Occleve; but the sick man seemed Still ill at ease. "My friends," he said, "my friends, Michael may come to all that I have dreamed, But he’s a wild yarn full of broken ends. So far his life in France has made amends. God grant he steady so; but girls and drink Once brought him near to hell, aye, to the very brink. "There is a running vein of wildness in him: Wildness and looseness both, which vices make That woman’s task a hard one who would win him: His life depends upon the course you take. He is a fiery-mettled colt to break, And one to curb, one to be curbed, remember." The dying voice died down, the fire left the ember. But once again it flamed. "Ah me," he cried; "Our secret sins take body in our sons, To haunt our age with what we put aside. I was a devil for the women once. He is as I was. Beauty like the sun’s; Within, all water; minded like the moon. Go now. I sinned. I die. I shall be punished soon." The two friends tiptoed to the room below. There, till the woman came to them, they told Of brave adventures in the long ago, Ere Nick and they had thought of growing old; Snipe-shooting in the marshlands in the cold, Old soldiering days as yeomen, days at fairs, Days that had sent Nick tired to those self-same chairs. They vowed to pay the schooling for his son. They talked of Michael, testing men’s report, How the young student was a lively one, Handsome and passionate both, and fond of sport, Eager for fun, quick-witted in retort. The girls’ hearts quick to see him cocking by, Young April on a blood horse, with a roving eye. And, as they talked about the lad, Keir asked If Occleve’s son had not, at one time, been Heartsick for Mary, though with passion masked. "Ay," Occleve said: "Time was. At seventeen. It took him hard, it ran his ribs all lean, All of a summer; but it passed, it died. Her fancying Michael better touched my Lion’s pride." Mice flickered from the wainscot to the press, Nibbling at crumbs, rattling to shelter, squeaking. Each ticking in the clock’s womb made life less; Oil slowly dropped from where the lamp was leaking. At times the old nurse set the staircase creaking, Harked to the sleeper’s breath, made sure, returned, Answered the questioning eyes, then wept. The great stars burned. "Listen," said Occleve, "listen, Rowland. Hark." "It’s Mary, come with Lion," answered Keir: "They said they’d come together after dark." He went to door and called "Come in, my dear." The burning wood log blazed with sudden cheer, So that a glowing lighted all the room. His daughter Mary entered from the outer gloom. The wind had brought the blood into her cheek, Heightening her beauty, but her great grey eyes Were troubled with a fear she could not speak. Firm, scarlet lips she had, not made for lies. Gentle she seemed, pure-natured, thoughtful, wise, And when she asked what turn the sickness took, Her voice’s passing pureness on a low note shook.