Xxxii

Wheeled, pale, in a chair, and shattered, the wreck of their hero was seen; The ghost of Tom drawn slow o'er the orchard's shadowy green. Could this be the martial darling they joyed in a moment ago? 'He knows it?' to Mary Tom murmured, and closed his weak lids at her 'No.' 'Beloved!' she said, falling by him, 'I have been a coward: I thought You lay in the foreign country, and some strange good might be wrought.