In sequel of communings such as these Held with himself, Krishna recalled the thought Of the rejected proffer made him late By Paul, of Mary's story of the Christ. He now would hear it, if but still he might; And so one calm bright day when winter smiled As if in dream and vision of the spring, With proud repression of his natural pride He brought himself to say to Paul: "O Paul, If thy friend Mary Magdalené yet Will deign so great a grace to me, who own My scant desert of it, I with all thanks Would hear her tell the story of her Lord," A group of those who, loving and honoring her, Loved from her lips again and yet again To hear the story, old but ever new, Of their belovéd Lord, were gathered then, With Sergius Paulus welcomed of their band And Krishna and the kindly Julius too, In a recess sequestered of the shore Where the sun shining from the open south Made a sweet warmth at noon, and whence the sea, So capable of fierceness, now was seen With many-sparkling wavelets beautiful And gentle in demeanor as a lamb. Cast in no mould of outward loveliness To lure the eye, but of a native worth Such that her person noble seemed, and tall Her stature--all instinct with stately grace Her gesture and behavior--Mary sat That vernal winter noon amid her friends, Throneless and crownless, an unconscious queen: Yet over all in her that made her state Seem regal there presided the effect, Other and finer, of a lofty mind Arrived through sorrow to serenity, And in the heart of pathos finding peace. Such, Mary; who now thus took up her tale: "The story of my knowledge of the Lord Begins in shadow, shadow of shame for me; At least I feel it for a kind of shame To have been chosen of demons their abode; The recollection is a pang to me. I sometimes dare compare it in my mind With what Paul suffers"--and she glanced toward Paul A holy look of reverence understood-- "'Thorn in the flesh,' he calls it, but my thorn, Within my spirit rather, rankles there, As messenger of Satan buffeting me Lest I should be exalted above measure-- I, to whom Christ the Lord used first His voice Uttering that 'Mary!' when He from the dead Rose in His glory. Surely I well should heed How Mary, honored so, was the abode Once of seven demons. Why this should have been I cannot tell, unless to humble me. Sometimes my pride--or is it sense of worth, Sacred and not rebukable as pride?-- Whispers me, 'Mary, thou wert therefore choice Of demons for their dwelling-place on earth, Because thou wert pure found and they desired A refuge that should least resemble hell.'