a heart of unbelief!--
This guilt must sure unmeasured be, save haply by this grief!'
The abbot's brows were sternly bent an instant on his guest:
'Dost thou--thou dost not, sure!--invite this traitor to thy breast?'
'The livelong day, though sore assailed, true watch and ward I keep,--
Keep vigils long as flesh can bear,--but in my helpless sleep--
Thronged heaven, canst thou no angel spare, to sit by me by night
And drive away the hell-sent dreams, that drive me wild with fright?--
I seem to spill with frantic hands, and spurn the piteous blood,
To trample on the blessed bread, and spit upon the rood!'
The abbot's cheer grew calm and clear: 'Now, Master, tell me true:
For aught that Satan proffers thee, such trespass wouldst thou _do_?'
'From his poor thrall he taketh all, and offers nought instead.
The Father's grace,--the Son's mild face,--are all I crave,' he said.
'For any threat of any fate, wouldst follow his commands?'
'The fiery stake I'd rather make my portion at his hands!'
The abbot's mien was bright, I ween, as 'twere a saint's in bliss:
'O fiend, 'tis well to seek for hell so pure a gem as this!
O cunning foe, that round dost go these heavenward birds to snare,
When every brighter line is vain, wouldst tempt them with despair?
Bethink thee, Master. War doth rage 'twixt Britain's king, we know,
And ours. Now tell me unto whom most thanks our liege shall owe,
When war is o'er? To him who, oft assailed but never quelled,
The castle of Rochelle upon the dangerous Marches held,--
Whose battlements must bristle still with halberd, bow, and lance,--
Or Montl'hery's, that nestles safe close to the heart of France?'
'Unto the warden of Rochelle. Thou'rt answered easily!'
'That stronghold is thy heart, but mine the keep of Montl'hery,
For He who giveth gifts to all, hath given me to believe
So steadfastly, that strife like thine my wit can scarce conceive.
From th' Enemy God keepeth me,--He knows my weaker strength,--
But suffers thee assayed to be for higher meed at length.
Then let us at our different posts His equal mercies own;
But they the sharpest thorns who bear may wear the brightest crown.'
Beside the kneeling penitent the abbot bent his knee,
Sent his own praise and prayers to heaven forth on an embassy,
Then raised him up, and saw that God had sent him answering grace;
The shadow of the Enemy had left his heart and face.
Calmly