Atta Troll Part 8

'Tis a wild and desert place.

Curst perchance? I seem to see On the crippled roots of yonder Tree a crimson smear of blood.

This tree shades a little hut Cowering humbly in the earth, And the wretched roof of thatch Pleads for pity in your sight.

Cagots are the denizens Of this hut--the last remains Of a tribe which sunk in darkness Bides its bitter destiny.

In the heart of every Basque You will find a rooted hate Of the Cagots. 'Tis a foul Relic of the days of faith.

In the minster at Bagneres You may see a narrow grille, Once the door, the s.e.xton told me, Which the herded Cagots used.

In that day all other gates Were forbidden them. They crawled Like to thieves into the blest House of G.o.d to worship there.

There these wretched beings sat On their lowly stools and prayed, Parted as by leprosy, From all other worshippers.

But the hallowed lamps of this Later century burn bright, And their light destroys the black Shadows of that cruel age!

While Lascaro waited there, Entered I the lonely hut Of the Cagot, and I clasped Straight his hand in brotherhood.

Likewise did I kiss his child Which unto the shrivelled breast Of his wife clung fast and sucked Like some spider sick and starved.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CANTO XVI

Shouldst thou see these mountain peaks From the distance thou wouldst think That with gold and purple they Flamed in splendour to the sun.

But at closer hand their pomp Vanishes. Earth's glories thus With their myriad light-effects Still beguile us artfully.

What to thee seemed blue and gold Is, alas, but idle snow, Idle snow which, lone and drear, Bores itself in solitude.

There upon the heights I heard How the hapless crackling snow Cried aloud its pallid grief To the cold and heartless wind:

"Ah," it sobbed, "how slow the hours Crawl within this awful waste!

All these many endless hours, Like eternities of ice!

"Woe is me, poor snow! I would I had never seen these peaks-- Might I but in vales have fallen Where a myriad flowers bloom!

"To some little brook would I Then have melted, and some maid-- Fairest of the land! with smiles Would in me have laved her face.

"Yea, perchance, I might have fared To the sea and changed betimes To a pearl and gleamed at last In some royal coronet!"

When I heard this plaint, I spake: "Dearest Snow, indeed I doubt Whether such a brilliant fate Had been thine within the world.

"Comfort take. Few, few, indeed, Ever grow to pearls. No doubt Thou hadst fallen in the mire And become a clod of mud."

As in kindly wise I spoke Thus unto the joyless snow, Came a shot--and from the skies Plunged a hawk of brownish wing.

It was just a hunter's joke Of Lascaro's. But his face Was as ever stark and grim, And his rifle barrel smoked.

Silently he tore a plume From the hawk's erected tail, Stuck it in his pointed hat And resumed his silent way.

'Twas an eerie sight to see How his shadow black and thin With the nodding feather moved O'er the slopes of drifted snow.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CANTO XVII

Lo, a valley like a street!

'Tis the Hollow Way of Ghosts: Dizzily the cloven crags Tower up on every side.

There upon the sheerest slope Hangs Uraka's little shack Like some outpost over chaos-- Thither fared her son and I.

In a secret dumb-show speech He took counsel with his dam, How great Atta Troll might best Be ensnared and safely slain.

We had found his mighty spoor.

Never more canst thou escape From our hands! thine earthly days All are numbered--Atta Troll!

Never could I well determine If Uraka, ancient hag, Was in truth a potent witch, As within these Pyrenees

It was rumoured. But I know That in truth her very looks Were suspicious. Most suspicious Were her red and running eyes.

Evil is her look and slant.

It is said whene'er she stares At some hapless cow, its milk Dries, its udder withers straight.

It is said that stroking with Her thin fingers, many a kid She had slaughtered, many a huge Ox had stricken unto death.

Oft within the local court For such crimes arraigned she stood, But the Justice of the Peace Was a true Voltairean.

Quite a modern worldling he, Shallow and devoid of faith,-- So the plaintiffs he dismissed Both in mockery and scorn.

The alleged official trade Of Uraka's honest quite, For she deals in mountain-herbs And in birds that she has stuffed.

Her entire hut was crammed With such relics. Horrible Was the smell of cuckoo-flowers, Fungi, henbane, elder-blooms.

There a fine array of hawks To advantage was displayed, All with pinions stretching wide And with grim enormous bills.

Was it but the breath of these Maddening plants that turned my brain?

Still the vision of these birds Filled me with the strangest thoughts.