The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 10, No. 61, November, 1862. Various

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      Neither yet had the will of the sinner yielded an answer;

      But from his lips there broke a cry of unspeakable anguish,

      Wild and fierce and shrill, as if some demon within him

      Rent his soul with the ultimate pangs of fiendish possession,

      And with the outstretched arms of bewildered imploring toward them,

      Death-white unto the people he turned his face from the darkness.

      Out of the sedge by the creek a flight of clamorous killdees

      Rose from their timorous sleep with piercing and iterant challenge,

      Wheeled in the starlight and fled away into distance and silence.

      White on the other hand lay the tents, and beyond them glided the river,

      Where the broadhorn1 drifted slow at the will of the current,

      And where the boatman listened, and knew not how, as he listened,

      Something touched through the years the old lost hopes of his

      childhood,—

      Only his sense was filled with low monotonous murmurs,

      As of a faint-heard prayer, that was chorused with deeper responses.

      Not with the rest was lifted her voice in the fervent responses,

      But in her soul she prayed to Him that heareth in secret,

      Asking for light and for strength to learn His will and to do it:

      "Oh, make me clear to know, if the hope that rises within me

      Be not part of a love unmeet for me here, and forbidden!

      So, if it be not that, make me strong for the evil entreaty

      Of the days that shall bring me question of self and reproaches,

      When the unrighteous shall mock, and my brethren and sisters shall

      doubt me!

      Make me worthy to know Thy will, my Saviour, and do it!"

      In her pain she prayed, and at last, through her mute adoration,

      Rapt from all mortal presence, and in her rapture uplifted,

      Glorified she rose, and stood in the midst of the people,

      Looking on all with the still, unseeing eyes of devotion,

      Vague, and tender, and sweet, as the eyes of the dead, when we dream

      them

      Living and looking on us, but they cannot speak, and we cannot:

      Knowing only the peril that threatened his soul's unrepentance,

      Knowing only the fear and error and wrong that withheld him,

      Thinking, "In doubt of me, his soul had perished forever!"

      Touched with no feeble shame, but trusting her power to save him,

      Through the circle she passed, and straight to the side of her lover,—

      Took his hand in her own, and mutely implored him an instant,

      Answering, giving, forgiving, confessing, beseeching him all things,—

      Drew him then with her, and passed once more through the circle

      Unto her place, and knelt with him there by the side of her father,

      Trembling as women tremble who greatly venture and triumph,—

      But in her innocent breast was the saint's sublime exultation.

      So was Louis converted; and though the lips of the scorner

      Spared not in after-years the subtle taunt and derision,

      (What time, meeker grown, his heart held his hand from its answer,)

      Not the less lofty and pure her love and her faith that had saved him,

      Not the less now discerned was her inspiration from heaven

      By the people, that rose, and embracing, and weeping together,

      Poured forth their jubilant songs of victory and of thanksgiving,

      Till from the embers leaped the dying flame to behold them,

      And the hills of the river were filled with reverberant echoes,—

      Echoes that out of the years and the distance stole to me hither,

      While I moved unwilled in the mellow warmth of the weather,—

      Echoes that mingled and fainted and fell with the fluttering murmurs

      In the hearts of the hushing bells, as from island to island

      Swooned the sound on the wide lagoons into palpitant silence.