University of Virginia Library

V.

So Ranolf stepped upon the strand;
His foot scarce craunched the gritty sand;
A flax-rope wound his waist around—
Revolver ready in his hand.
With eye and ear alert and keen
For dimmest sight or faintest sound,
In that lone, dark and silent scene
His stealthy way he quickly found:
That way he oft before had been;
That cottage lone had been his own;
Each woody rolling spur and dell
And wavy cliff to which they fell,
Cut off below,—he knew full well.
With noiseless pace he neared the place—
Stood listening hid by shrubs thick-grown.
No sign of life he saw or heard
But distant murmurs; nothing stirred.
On tiptoe to the hut he went;
Close to the wall his ear he leant,
And while his own light breathing ceased
Could hear the breathing of the Priest;
Could hear his sighs—his mutterings low
And restless shiftings to and fro.—
“Awake—then; and too dark 'twould be
Inside for me my work to see!”
Thought Ranolf—“how to bring him out?
The foe so near, their noise I hear;
He must be left no time to shout.”
A rustling noise along the thatch
Like stealthy rats that creep and scratch,
He made—“his ear 'twill surely catch!
With sounds like these along the wall
The Atuas come at priestly call.”—
Small notice seemed the Priest to take:—
The muttering voice a moment dropped;
The train of sad reflections stopped;
He listened—then the gloomy train
Of muttered thoughts began again;
More certain sign the Gods must make
Their votary's dull regard to wake!
His pistol stuck in that rope-belt,—
Then Ranolf lifted up with care
A heavy cooking-stone he felt
About his feet—left always there—
And pitched it full upon the roof;
The stealthy rustling noise renewed;
His pistol drew, and ready stood:
“Against a summons so divine,
Of present Gods so sure a sign,
His priestly ear will ne'er be proof!—”
—Bewildered—wondering—all subdued
By strange and superstitious fright,
Out rushed the Priest into the night—
Rushed into Ranolf's gripe that clutched
About his throat his mat so tight
While his scared brow the pistol touched—
Of Ranolf's threat was little need:
“Hist, wretch! the pistol's at your head—
The slightest noise—and you are dead!”
He could not speak, scarce breathe indeed,
Till from that rivet somewhat freed.