"Now die, base wretch!" the victor fiercely cries, His heart of hate outflashing from his eyes. "Never again, by the all-righteous Lord, Shalt thou with life escape this trusty sword! Revenge is sweet!" And upward flash'd the steel, But e'er it fell--dear Lord! a silvery peal Of voices, chanting in the town below, Rose, like a fountain's spray, from spires of snow, And chimed, and chimed, to die in echoes slow.
In the sweet silence following the sound, Gualberto and the man upon the ground Glared at each other with bewildered eyes. And then the latter, struggling to rise, Made one last effort, while his face grew dark With pleading agony: "Gualberto! hark! The chant--the hour--you know the olden fashion-- The monks below intone Our Lord's dear Passion. Oh! by this cross"--and here he caught the hilt Of Gualbert's sword--"and by the blood once spilt Upon it for us both long years ago, Forgive--forget--and spare your fallen foe!"
The face that bent above grew white and set, The lips were drawn, the brow bedew'd with sweat, But on the grass the harmless sword was flung, And, stooping down, the generous hero wrung The outstretched hand. Then, lest he lose control Of the but half-tamed passions of his soul, Fled up the pathway, tearing casque and coat, To ease the throbbing tempest at his throat-- Fled up the crags, as if a fiend pursued, Nor paused until he reached the chapel rude.
There, in the cool, dim stillness, on his knees, Trembling, he flings himself, and, startled, sees Set in the rock a crucifix antique, From which the wounded Christ bends down to speak: "_Thou hast done well, Gualberto. For my sake Thou didst forgive thine enemy; now take My gracious pardon for thy years of sin, And from this day a better life begin._"
White flash'd the angels' wings above his head, Rare subtile perfumes thro' the place were shed; And golden harps and sweetest voices pour'd Their glorious hosannas to the Lord, Who, in that hour and in that chapel quaint, Changed, by his power, by his sweet love's constraint, Gualbert the sinner into John the saint.
The enemies of "superstition" had lost a good deal of ground in their desperate struggle against the events which for the last ten or twelve weeks had scandalized their distressed philosophy. As it had become impossible to deny the existence of the fountain whose pure streams were flowing before the eyes of the amazed people, so it was becoming impossible to continue denying the reality of the cures which were being worked, continually and in many places, by the use of this mysterious water.