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Chronicles and Characters

By Robert Lytton (Owen Meredith): In Two Volumes
  

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IV.

The woman, stone-cold 'neath the stony looks
Of this rag-robed Medusa, shrank away
Abasht; not daring, at the first, to say
Such words as, meant for comfort, might have been
Too much like insult to that grim-faced Queen,
Or King, whiche'er it was, of Wretchedness.
Her own much misery seem'd so much less
Than this, flung down before her,—by God sent,
It may have been, for her admonishment.
But, at the last, she timidly drew near
And whisper'd faintly in the creature's ear
‘Have you no home?’
No look even made reply,
Much less a word. But on the stolid sky
The stolid face stared ever.
‘Are you cold?’
A sort of inward creepy movement roll'd
The rustled rags. And still the stolid face
Perused the stolid sky. Perhaps the case
Supposed was too self-evident to claim
More confirmation than what creeping came

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To crumble those chill rags; subsiding soon,
As tho' to be unnoticed were a boon,
All kinds of notice having proved unkind.
Such creatures as men hunt are loth to find
The hole discovered where they hide; and, when
By chance you stir them out of it, they then
Make haste to feign to be already dead,
Hoping escape that way.
The woman said
More faintly ‘Are you hungry?’
There, at once
Finding intensest utterance for the nonce,
With such a howl 'twould chill your blood to hear
The wolf-jaws wail'd out ‘Hungry? ha, look here!’
And, therewith, fingers of a skeleton claw
Tearing asunder those foul rags, you saw
. . . . Was it a woman's breast? It might be so.
It look'd like nothing human that I know.
She, whose faint question such shrill response woke,
Stood stupified, stunn'd, sick.