Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/141

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"Yet art thou one of God's own signs for good!"
Therewith Mirèio, trembling where she stood,
Was fain to tell why they had sought her thus.
"I knew it!" cried the witch, impervious,
The brome addressing still, with bended head.
"Thou poor field-flower! The trampling flock," she said,

"Browse on thy leaves and stems the whole year long;
But all the more thou spreadest and art strong,
And north and south with verdure deckest yet."
She ceased. A dim light, in a snail-shell set,
Danced o'er the dank rock-wall in lurid search:
Here hung a sieve ; there, on a forkèd perch,

Roosted a raven, a white hen beside.
Suddenly, as if drunken, rose and cried
The witch, "And what care I whoe'er you be?
Faith walketh blindfold, so doth Charity,
Nor from her even tenor wandereth.
Say, Valabregan weaver, have you faith?"

"I have." Then wildly, their pursuit inviting,
Like a she-wolf her flanks with her tail smiting,
Darted the hag into a deeper shaft,
While the fowl cackled and the raven laughed
Before her footsteps ; and the boy and maid
Followed her through the darkness, sore afraid.