They dragged him before the Alcayde; A hasty Judge was he, "The theft," he said, "was plain and proved, And hang'd the thief must be." So to the gallows our poor Pierre Was hurried instantly. If I should now relate The piteous lamentation, Which for their son these parents made, My little friends, I am afraid You'd weep at the relation. But Pierre in Santiago still His constant faith profess'd; When to the gallows he was led, "'Twas a short way to Heaven," he said, "Though not the pleasantest." And from their pilgrimage he charged His parents not to cease, Saying that unless they promised this, He could not be hanged in peace. They promised it with heavy hearts; Pierre then, therewith content, Was hang'd: and they upon their way To Compostella went. PART II. Four weeks they travel'd painfully, They paid their vows, and then To La Calzada's fatal town Did they come back again. The Mother would not be withheld, But go she must to see Where her poor Pierre was left to hang Upon the gallows tree. Oh tale most marvelous to hear, Most marvelous to tell! Eight weeks had he been hanging there, And yet was alive and well! "Mother," said he, "I am glad you're return'd, It is time I should now be released: Though I can not complain that I'm tired, And my neck does not ache in the least. "The Sun has not scorch'd me by day, The Moon has not chilled me by night; And the winds have but helped me to swing, As if in a dream of delight. "Go you to the Alcayde, That hasty Judge unjust, Tell him Santiago has saved me, And take me down he must!" Now, you must know the Alcayde, Not thinking himself a great sinner, Just then at table had sate down, About to begin his dinner. His knife was raised to carve The dish before him then; Two roasted fowls were laid therein, That very morning they had been A Cock and his faithful Hen. In came the Mother, wild with joy: "A miracle!" she cried; But that most hasty Judge unjust Repell'd her in his pride. "Think not," quoth he, "to tales like this That I should give belief! Santiago never would bestow His miracles, full well I know, On a Frenchman and a thief." And pointing to the Fowls, o'er which He held his ready knife, "As easily might I believe These birds should come to life!" The good Saint would not let him thus The Mother's true tale withstand; So up rose the Fowls in the dish, And down dropt the knife from his hand. The Cock would have crow'd if he could: To cackle the Hen had a wish; And they both slipt about in the gravy Before they got out of the dish.