University of Virginia Library

AT THE DOOR OF THE JUSTICE MILITAIRE.

VERSAILLES, JUNE 1871.

Slowly the hours pass by for the weary wives of the prisoners,
Who since the earliest morn sit on the staircase of stone,
Patiently waiting their turn, at the door of the dreaded court-martial,
Which at Versailles is engaged sorting the captives new made.
Vast is the number of prisoners, thirty thousand and upwards.
Slowly the sorting proceeds, great though the diligence be.
Slowly the hours pass by, for the women who sit on the staircase.
Longer and longer the shades grow on the opposite wall.
Many from Paris have walked, in the dust, with a load of provisions;
Some with a child at the breast—all with a load at their hearts.
Great is the love of these women, and given in noble repayment
Often for years of neglect, often perhaps for a blow.
Ugly are most of the prisoners, and uglier still since their capture,
Covered with dust and unshaved, stinted of food and of sleep;
Yet there are women who love them, and who in the moment of danger
Bravely come to their help, thinking but little of self;
Bringing them linen and bread, and collecting in haste testimonials,
Which their guilt to disprove, or to extenuate, tend.
Fast is the sun disappearing behind the tall roof of the palace;
Soft through the window it shines on to the women who wait.
Lightly the twilight is spreading its mantle of grey o'er the landscape;
Yet are the women still there, bent on their mission of good.
Little by little their number has dwindled to scarcely a dozen;
Less than an hour remains, then will no more be received;
See, they are growing uneasy and frequently asking the sentry;
Little he knows or will tell, save that it closes at eight.
Those who have not had a hearing must take up their places to-morrow,
Waiting again on the steps, as they have waited to-day.
Gently the sentry explains that the doors are about to be fastened;
Slowly the women move off, bearing their burden of woe.