Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/129

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"Nowise too sound." And he who spake once more
Lay foot to stretcher, bent the supple oar.
"So I perceive. Ah!" was the pilot's word,
"I tell thee we've an evil freight on board."
No more. And all the while the vessel old
Staggered and pitched and like a drunkard rolled.

A crazy craft! Rotten its timbers all.
"Thunder of God!" Ourrias began to call,
Seizing the helm his tottering feet to stay.
Whereon the boat in some mysterious way
Seemed moved to writhing, as a wounded snake
Whose back a shepherd with a stone doth break.

"Doth all this tumult, comrades, bode disaster?"
Appealed the brander, growing pale as plaster.
"And will you drown me?" Brake the pilot out,
"I cannot hold the craft! She springs about
And wriggler like a carp. Villain, I know
You 've murdered some one, and not long ago!"

"Who told you that? May Satan if I have
Thrust me with his pitch-fork beneath the wave."
"Ah!" said the livid pilot, "then I err!
I had forgot the cause of all this stir.
'Tis Saint Medard's to-night, when poor drowned men
Come from their dismal pits to land again,