O well it is I am seeing, Woman of the Shrouds, That you have not for me any whirling of the Sword: I have lost my gods, O woman, so what will the name be Of thee and thy gods, O woman that art Washer of the Ford? But the woman did not look up from the dark water, nor did she cease from washing the shrouds made of the woven moonbeams. But he heard this song above the sighing of the water: It is Mary Magdalene my name is, and I loved Christ. And Christ is the son of God, and Mary the Mother of Heaven. And this river is the river of death, and the shadows Are the fleeing souls that are lost if they be not shriven. Then Torcall drew nigher unto the stream. A melancholy wind was upon it. "Where are all the dead of the world?" he said. But the woman answered not. "And what is the end, you that are called Mary?" Then the woman rose. "Would you cross the Ford, O Torcall the Harper?" He made no word upon that. But he listened. He heard a woman singing faint and low far away in the dark. He drew more near. "Would you cross the Ford, O Torcall?" He made no word upon that. But once more he listened. He heard a little child crying in the night. "Ah, lonely heart of the white one," he sighed, and his tears fell. Mary Magdalene turned and looked upon him. It was the face of Sorrow she had. She stooped and took up the tears. "They are bells of joy," she said. And he heard a wild sweet ringing in his ears. A prayer came out of his heart. A blind prayer it was, but God gave it wings. It flew to Mary, who took and kissed it, and gave it song. "It is the Song of Peace," she said. And Torcall had peace. "What is best, O Torcall?" she asked, rustling-sweet as rain among the leaves her voice was--"What is best? The sword, or peace?" "Peace," he answered: and he was white now, and was old. "Take your harp," Mary said, "and go in unto the Ford. But lo, now I clothe you with a white shroud. And if you fear the drowning flood, follow the bells that were your tears: and if the dark affright you, follow the song of the Prayer that came out of your heart." So Torcall the Harper moved into the whelming flood, and he played a wild strange air, like the laughing of a child. Deep silence there was. The moonshine lay upon the obscure wood, and the darkling river flowed sighing through the soundless gloom. The Washer of the Ford stooped once more. Low and sweet, as of yore and for ever, over the drowning souls, she sang her immemorial song. MUIME CHRIOSD