s of the sky, issued the hour
Of midnight. Then I wrought magnetic force
With waving hands; and set my swerveless will
That Veera should approach me, and that none
Should harm or see her as she passed the streets.
At last I heard her footstep on the stair--
The patter of her feet as soft as rain,
And then she turned the hinge and entered in.
A long white wrapper made of satin, bound
With lace of gold, and fastened at the throat
With buttons of cut diamond, clad her form.
A band of opals was around her neck--
A hundred little worlds with central fires.
Her feet were naked, and her hair was down.
Her large eyes, wide and staring, took no heed
Of anything before them; thus she slept.
I bade her sit beside me, and I placed
The Bible on her knee, and laid her hand
Upon the verse that names the tree of life.
"Tell me," I said, "where may this tree be found."
"The way is long," she answered me at last,
"And I am worn and weary. I have tracked
The shore of one long river, many a mile.
The sun scorches like fire. I am athirst.
I cannot find the tree; my search is done."
"Look down the past, and find if any knew
Where grows this tree, or how it might be found."
Again her lips made answer: "One I see,
Long dead, who bends above a written scroll,
And therein makes strange characters, which hold
Some hidden sense pertaining to this tree.
In Milan, in the Ambrosian library there,
I see this scroll to-night; 'tis worn with age."

"Now seek thy home again," I said, "sweet soul.
Thou art as meek and pure as him whose hand
First wrote God's words." So she arose, and passed
Along the dark, deserted street, and I
Followed her closely, till I saw her cross
The threshold of her cottage; then I turned,
And found my home, and calmly slept till dawn.

VIII.

THE PALIMPSEST.

In Milan, in the Ambrosian library there,
Among Pinellian writings seared with age,
I found a prophet's palimpsest--a scroll
That Angelo Maio had brought to light.
And on the margin of this scroll, I found
Mysterious signs which baffled me at first.
After a full week's search I chanced to find
The mongrel dialect of which they were.
I thus translated: _Gihon is the Nile.
A perfect soul may find long life and gold._
Surely, I thought, Veera the maid is pure.
Her life's blue sky has not one cloud of sin.
If her feet press the soil where Eve first trod,
I can but follow and attain. So I
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