sea lay sharply edge to edge. The purple melted, changed to violet, And that to every delicate sea-shell tinge, Blush-pink, deep cinnabar; then no change was, Save that the air had in it sense of wings, Till suddenly the heavens were all aflame, And it was morning. O great miracle! O radiance and splendor of the Throne, Daily vouchsafed to us! Yet saith the fool,      “There is no God!”  And now a level gleam, Thrust like a spear-head through the tangled boughs, Smote Wyndham's turrets, and the spell was broke. And one by one, on pallet stretched or floor, The sleepers wakened; each took up afresh His load of life; but two there were woke not, Nor knew 't was daybreak. From the rusty nail The gateman snatched his bunch of ancient keys, And, yawning, vowed the sun an hour too soon; The scullion, with face shining like his pans, Hose down at heel and jerkin half unlaced, On hearthstone knelt to coax the smouldering log; The keeper fetched the yelping hounds their meat; The hostler whistled in the stalls; anon, With rustling skirt and slumber-freshened cheek, The kerchief'd housemaid tripped from room to room      (Sweet Gillian, she that broke the groom his heart), While, wroth within, behind a high-backed chair The withered butler for his master waited, Cursing the cook. That day the brewis spoiled. That day came neither kinsman to break bread. When it was seen that both had lain abroad, The wolf-skins of their couches made that plain As pike-staff, or the mole on Gillian's cheek, The servants stared. Some journey called them hence; At dead of night some messenger had come Of secret import, may be from the Queen, And they paused not for change of raiment even. And yet, in faith, that were but little like; Sir Richard had scant dealings with the Court. Still—if Northumberland were in arms again.      'T was passing strange. No beast had gone from rack. How had they gone, then? Who looked on them last? Up rose the withered butler, he it was:      They supped together, of no journey spoke, Spoke little, 't was their custom; after meal The master's brother sallied forth alone, The master stayed within.  “That did he not,”       Quoth one, “I saw Sir Richard in the close I' the moonrise.”  “'T was eleven on the stroke,”       Said Gillian softly, “he, or 't was his ghost—      Methought his face was whiter than my smock—      Passed through the courtyard, and so into house. Yet slept he not there!”  And that other one, The guest unwelcome, kinsman little loved      (How these shrewd varlets turn us inside out At 

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