‘Sainted Mother, oh, pray for me!’ it murmured in piteous prayer, ‘and leave sweet mercy upon my soul.’
Now, when the Black Earl heard the voice of his lady coming from the waters in such sorrow, he rose with a cry, and, his heart being full of fear, he knew at last the greatness of his love.
‘Where art thou, then?’ he cried, in his woe. ‘Whither shall I seek thee?’
But the little stream passing his feet murmured its prayer in going; no other sound did he hear save the far-away laughter of his little brother.
‘Oh, Mary, Mother, pray my soul to rest! Take mercy, Lord, on a soul afraid.’
‘Where are the lips from which thou hast stolen that cry?’ said the Black Earl; and, like an old man bent with trouble, he sought the banks, seeking for the white form of his bride. ‘Now,’ quoth he, ‘well do I know this stream hath carried her last cry to my feet, and her drowning lips have been forced to sinful death to-night by my long cruelty.’
