Her comrade was a sordid soul,                            415

        Such as does murder for a meed;

      Who, but of fear, knows no control,

      Because his conscience, sear’d and foul,

        Feels not the import of his deed;

      One, whose brute-feeling ne’er aspires                    420

      Beyond his own more brute desires.

      Such tools the Tempter ever needs,

      To do the savagest of deeds;

      For them no vision’d terrors daunt,

      Their nights no fancied spectres haunt,                    425

      One fear with them, of all most base,

      The fear of death, – alone finds place.

      This wretch was clad in frock and cowl,

      And ‘shamed not loud to moan and howl,

      His body on the floor to dash,                            430

      And crouch, like hound beneath the lash;

      While his mute partner, standing near,

      Waited her doom without a tear.

      Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek,

      Well might her paleness terror speak!                      435

      For there were seen in that dark wall,

      Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall; -

      Who enters at such grisly door,

      Shall ne’er, I ween, find exit more.

      In each a slender meal was laid,                          440

      Of roots, of water, and of bread:

      By each, in Benedictine dress,

      Two haggard monks stood motionless;

      Who, holding high a blazing torch,

      Show’d the grim entrance of the porch:                    445

      Reflecting back the smoky beam,

      The dark-red walls and arches gleam.

      Hewn stones and cement were display’d,

      And building tools in order laid.

      These executioners were chose,                            450

      As men who were with mankind foes,

      And with despite and envy fired,

      Into the cloister had retired;

        Or who, in desperate doubt of grace,

        Strove, by deep penance, to efface                      455

          Of some foul crime the stain;

        For, as the vassals of her will,

        Such men the Church selected still,

        As either joy’d in doing ill,

          Or thought more grace to gain,                        460

      If, in her cause, they wrestled down

      Feelings their nature strove to own.

      By strange device were they brought there,

      They knew not how, and knew not where.

      And now that blind old Abbot rose,                        465

        To speak the Chapter’s doom,

      On those the wall was to enclose,

        Alive, within the tomb;

      But stopp’d, because that woful Maid,

      Gathering her powers, to speak essay’d.                    470

      Twice she essay’d, and twice in vain;

      Her accents might no utterance gain;

      Nought but imperfect murmurs slip

      From her convulsed and quivering lip;

        Twixt each attempt all was so still,                    475

        You seem’d to hear a distant rill-

          ‘Twas ocean’s swells and falls;

        For though this vault of sin and fear

        Was to the sounding surge so near,

        A tempest there you scarce could hear,                  480

          So massive were the walls.

      At length, an effort sent apart

      The blood that curdled to her heart,

        And light came to her eye,

      And colour dawn’d upon her cheek,                          485

      A hectic and a flutter’d streak,

      Like that left on the Cheviot peak,

        By Autumn’s stormy sky;

      And when her silence broke at length,

      Still as she spoke she gather’d strength,                  490

        And arm’d herself to bear.

      It was a fearful sight to see

      Such high resolve and constancy,

        In form so soft and fair.

      ‘I speak not to implore your grace,                        495

      Well know I, for one minute’s space

        Successless might I sue:

      Nor do I speak your prayers to gain;

      For if a death of lingering pain,

      To cleanse my sins, be penance vain,                      500

        Vain are your masses too. -

      I listen’d to a traitor’s tale,

      I left the convent and the veil;

      For three long years I bow’d my pride,

      A horse-boy in his train to ride;                          505

      And well my folly’s meed he gave,

      Who forfeited, to be his slave,

      All here, and all beyond the grave. -

      He saw young Clara’s face more fair,

      He knew her of broad lands the heir,                      510

      Forgot his vows, his faith forswore,

      And