“Come onward yet,” they said; and down Damp, broken stairs they went; Down, down to hidden vaults of stone, Through vapours pestilent. And then with sullen iron keys They opened doors of stone; And heavy chained captives there They showed her, one by one. Old, white-haired men; men middle-aged, That had been strong of limb; But each, now pallid, hollow-eyed, Like spectres worn and dim. And many, as the dull door oped, Ne’er lifted up the head;-- Heart-broken victims of long pain, Whose very hope was dead. Others with feverish restlessness Sprang up, and with quick cry, That thrilled the hearer to the soul, Demanded liberty. With bleeding heart went Marien on; And her conductors spake, “These are our victims; these await The rack, the cord, the stake. “And as these are, so shalt thou be If thou our will gainsay; Accept our service, pride, and power; Or, on this very day, Racked, prisoned, poor, and miserable, Thou shalt be, even as they!” Down on the floor sank Marien, And, “Oh, dear Lord!” she cried, “Assist thy poor and trembling one This awful hour to bide; Let me be strong to do thy will, Like him who bowed, and died!” “They took her:--of that prison house The secrets who may say?-- Racked, fettered, captived, in their power, The gentle Marien lay; Captive within their torture-halls A long night and a day! PART VII. Then forth they brought her; gave her wine And pleasant food to eat; And “rest thee, Marien, in our arms,” Sung syren voices sweet. “Rest thee within our arms; refresh Thy fainting soul with wine; Eat and be glad; forget the past, And make all pleasure thine!” “Tempt me not!” said the feeble child, “Take hence your spiced bowl; Is’t not enough to rack my limbs, But you must vex my soul? “Look at my flesh, which ye have torn; Look at your bloody rack;-- Take hence your gifts, and let me go To my own people back. “To my own people let me go, A bruised and broken reed; I for your purpose am unmeet; Let me go hence with speed.” So, in her weakness, prayed the child; But those remorseless men, More dead than living, bore her back Unto their prison-den. Into a noisome prison-house, With iron-doors made fast, ’Mong felons and ’mong murderers, Was gentle Marien cast. Upon the hard, cold prison-floor Sick unto death she lay, As if God had forsaken her, For many a weary day. She thought of her sweet forest life, And of those creatures small, Weak, woodland creatures, tamed by love, That came unto her call.