And sweetly then she bowed her thanks, and smiled, and spoke aloud her thanks; When lo, behind her back there, in the room, a man appeared. I knew him—one from Woolcomb way—Giles Swetman—honest as the day, But eager, hasty; and I felt that some strange trouble neared. VI “How comes he there? . . . Suppose,” said we, “she’s wed of late! Who knows?” said we. —“She married yester-morning—only mother yet has known The secret o’t!” shrilled one small boy. “But now I’ve told, let’s wish ’em joy!” A heavy fall aroused us: John had gone down like a stone. VII We rushed to him and caught him round, and lifted him, and brought him round, When, hearing something wrong had happened, oped the window she: “Has one of you fallen ill?” she asked, “by these night labours overtasked?” None answered. That she’d done poor John a cruel turn felt we. VIII Till up spoke Michael: “Fie, young dame! You’ve broke your promise, sly young dame, By forming this new tie, young dame, and jilting John so true, Who trudged to-night to sing to ’ee because he thought he’d bring to ’ee Good wishes as your coming spouse. May ye such trifling rue!” IX Her man had said no word at all; but being behind had heard it all, And now cried: “Neighbours, on my soul I knew not ’twas like this!” And then to her: “If I had known you’d had in tow not me alone, No wife should you have been of mine. It is a dear bought bliss!” X She changed death-white, and heaved a cry: we’d never heard so grieved a cry As came from her at this from him: heart-broken quite seemed she; And suddenly, as we looked on, she turned, and rushed; and she was gone, Whither, her husband, following after, knew not; nor knew we. XI We searched till dawn about the house; within the house, without the house, We searched among the laurel boughs that grew beneath the wall, And then among the crocks and things, and stores for winter junketings, In linhay, loft, and dairy; but we found her not at all. XII Then John rushed in: “O friends,” he said, “hear this, this, this!” and bends his head: “I’ve—searched round by the—_well_, and find the cover open wide! I am fearful that—I can’t say what . . . Bring lanterns, and some cords to knot.” We did so, and we went and stood the deep dark hole beside. XIII And then they, ropes in hand, and I—ay, John, and all the band, and I Let down a lantern to the depths—some hundred feet and more; It glimmered like a fog-dimmed star; and there, beside its light, afar, White drapery floated, and we knew the meaning that it bore.