“So I perceive. Ah!” was the pilot’s word,
“I tell thee we’ve an evil freight on board.”
No more. And all the while the vessel old
Staggered and pitched and like a drunkard rolled.
A crazy craft! Rotten its timbers all.
“Thunder of God!” Ourrias began to call,
Seizing the helm his tottering feet to stay.
Whereon the boat in some mysterious way
Seemed moved to writhing, as a wounded snake
Whose back a shepherd with a stone doth break.
“Doth all this tumult, comrades, bode disaster?”
Appealed the brander, growing pale as plaster.
“And will you drown me?” Brake the pilot out,
“I cannot hold the craft! She springs about
And wriggles like a carp. Villain, I know
You’ve murdered some one, and not long ago!”
“Who told you that? May Satan if I have
Thrust me with his pitch-fork beneath the wave.”
“Ah!” said the livid pilot, “then I err!
I had forgot the cause of all this stir.
’Tis Saint Medard’s to-night, when poor drowned men
Come from their dismal pits to land again,
“How deep and dark soe’er their watery prison.
Look! Even now hath from the wave arisen
The long procession of the weeping dead!
Barefoot, poor things! the shingly shore they tread,
The turbid water dripping, dripping, see,
From matted hair and stained clothes heavily.
“See them defile under the poplars tall,
Carrying lighted tapers, one and all.
While up the river’s bank, now and anon,
Eagerly clambereth another one.
’Tis they who toss our wretched craft about
So like a raging storm, I make no doubt.
“Their cramped legs and their mottled arms—ah, see!—
And heavy heads they from the weeds would free.
Oh, how they watch the stars as on they go,
Quaff the fresh air and thrill at sight of Crau,
And scent the harvest odours the winds bring,
In their brief hour of motion revelling!
“And still the water from their garments raineth,
And still another and another gaineth
The river-bank. And there,” the boatman moans,
“Are the old men, women, and little ones:
They spurn the clinging mud. Ah me!” he said,
“Yon ghastly things abhor the fisher’s trade.
“The lamprey and the perch they made their game,
And now are they become food for the same.
But what is this? Another piteous band,
Travelling in a line along the sand?
Ah, yes! the poor deserted maids,” quoth he,
“Who asked the Rhône for hospitality,
“And sought to hide their shame in the great river.
Alas! alas! They seem to moan for ever.
And, oh, how painfully, fond hearts, ill fated,
Labour the bosoms by the dank weeds weighted!
Is it the water dripping that one hears
From their long veils of hair, or is it tears?”
He ceased. The wending souls bare each a light,
Intently following in the silent night
The river-shore. And those two listening
Might even have heard the whirr of a moth’s wing.
“Are they not, pilot,” asked the awe-struck brander,
“Seeking somewhat in the gloom where they wander?”
“Ah, yes, poor things!” the master-boatman said.
“See how from side to side is turned each head.
’Tis their good works they seek—their acts of faith
Sown upon earth ere their untimely death.
And when they spy the same, ’tis said moreover,
They haste thereto, as haste the sheep to clover,
“The good work or the act of faith to cull.
And when of such as these their hands are full,
Lo, they all turn to flowers! And they who gather
Go tender them with joy to God the Father,
Being by the flowers to Peter’s gate conveyed.
Thus those who find a watery grave,” he said,
“The gracious God granteth a respite to,
That they may save themselves. But some anew
Ere the day dawn will bury their good deeds
Deep underneath the surging river-weeds.
And some,” the pilot whispered—“some are worse,
Devourers of the needy, murderers,
“Atheists, traitors, that worm-eaten kind.
These hunt the river-shore, but only find
Their sins and crimes like great stones in the gravel
Whereon their bare feet stumble as they travel.
The mule when dead is beaten never more;
But these God’s mercy shall in vain implore
“Under the roaring wave.” Here, sore afraid,
Ourrias a hand upon the pilot laid,
Like robber at a turning. “Look!” he cries,
“There’s water in the hold!” Whereon replies
The pilot, coolly, “And the bucket’s there!”
The herdsman bales for life in his despair.
Ay, bale, brave Ourrias! But there danced that night,
On Trincataio bridge, the water-sprite.59
Madly the white mare strove to break her halter.
“What ails you, Blanco?” Ourrias ’gan falter.
“Fear you the dead yonder upon the verge?”
Over the gunnel plashed the rising surge.
“Captain, the craft sinks, and I cannot swim!”
“I know no help,” the pilot answered him.
“We must go down. But, presently,” he said,
“A cable will be heaved us by the dead—
The dead you fear so—on the river-bank.”
And even as he spake the vessel sank.
The tapers gleaming far and fitfully
In the poor ghostly hands flared forth so high,
They sent a shaft of vivid brilliance
Across the murky river’s broad expanse;
Then, as a spider in the morn you see
Glide o’er his late-spun thread, the boatmen three,
Being all spirits, leaped out of the stream,
And caught and swooped along the dazzling beam.
And Ourrias, too, the cable sought to seize
Amid the gurgling waters, even as these;
But sought it vainly. And the water-sprite
Danced upon Trincataio bridge that night.
Canto VI
The Witch
The merry birds, until the white dawn showeth
Clear in the east, are silent every one.
Silent the odorous Earth until she knoweth
In her warm heart the coming of the Sun,
As maiden in her fairest robes bedight
Breathless awaits her lover and her flight.
Across La Crau three swineherds held their way
From St. Chamas the wealthy, whither they
Had to the market gone. Their herds were sold,
And o’er their shoulders pouches full of gold
Were hung, and by their hanging cloaks concealed:
So, chatting idly, they attained the field
Of the late strife. Suddenly one cried, “Hush!
Comrades, I hear a moaning in the bush.”
“ ’Tis but a tolling bell,” the rest averred,
“From Saint Martin’s or from Maussano60 heard,
Or the north wind the dwarf-oak limbs a-swaying.”
But, ere they spake, all were their steps delaying,
Arrested by so piteous a groan
It rent the very heart. And every one
Cried, “Holy Jesus! Here has been foul play!”
Then crossed themselves, and gently took their way
Toward the sound. Ah, what a sight there was!
Vincen, supine upon the stony grass—
The grass blood-stained, the trampled earth besprent
With willow rods. His shirt to ribbons rent,
Stabbed
