Jean. 'Tis a fine blade, this one. Do you remember

Jean. 'Tis a fine blade, this one. Do you remember? I sold its fellow when we were in France To buy you a ring.

Dorette. I had forgotten.

Jean. Turn Your face this way. Look toward me, not the door. What see you? There is only sun outside, Harsh elder drops, ripe fields and ripening hours, Soft birth of wings among the woven shadows, And a Southward-crying thrush. Do you remember? They built and sang what time we built this house. I left the elder thicket for their sake, Who also built for love.

Dorette. Shagonas ... where?

Jean. What do you say? Are you sick? You speak so low.

Dorette. O, sick of heart! Jean, Jean, I cannot bear it.

Jean. If you move more, I will bind you to the chair As the Indians bind a prisoner to the stake Lest they miss one shuddering nerve, one eyelid's droop Before the lifting fires.... Your pardon, wife. Was I so fierce? There's fire in me to-day. Would close a burning grip on the whole earth And break it into ash... Your face, your face. That's beautiful. Why, almost here's the look I crave to lend Our Lady, yet too quick With life and dread. Will you not mend your eyes That yet lay hold on Love, and teach your lips Too eager for that cup, and school your heart That yet strains after him the way he went That he returns no more? O, two rode home,—

"Two rode home by the foam and the sand Between the night and the day, But one has stayed in Holy Land,—"

One always stays, one always stays behind Where the heart made Holy Land. This king of song Was worshipful, just, and mighty, His great place Knew him no more. He cast it all away,— The pity of it!—so he might serve till death God's Mother. But she did not wear your face.

Dorette. This heat ... I am dying.

Jean. What is it you say? If I should gash this sacred brow I smoothe Would you break blood? If I should pierce your heart Would she of the sevenfold sorrows leap and cry? I cannot part you. O the grief of it, That Mary should sit there with you, and you Climb heaven with her. I am grown old with grief In a short hour. To work, to work,—your face.

Dorette. Call, call Shagonas.

Jean. Has he the art to heal you? What do you fear? I would not have you fear. I would have you like poor Mary here, who passed Beyond it, of a Friday.

Dorette. O my heart.

Jean. Broken like mine? And so you had a heart, As well as those round limbs, those prosperous lips. The bloom of bosom and hair? O, he hath stayed,—

"O, he hath stayed to watch her face And make his prayer thereto, And to lay down for her soul's grace His life beneath her shoe,—"

Why, I have changed the song. What's come to it? An ill song for the Mother o' God to hear. Well, well, your pardon. Keep your face to me.

Dorette. Pity, O Saviour.

Jean. I am saving you, Your soul alive, a brand in a great burning Here in my breast. I saw where you will sit Years in the little forest-scented church, And lives like peaceful waves will break in foam Of praise before you. Then I turned me home. I saw—I saw—O, God, the chisel slipt And I have scarred you! I will heal the wound, Thus, thus. Be still. I am saving you. Now, Shagonas.