The Blue Arras

'Twas the night of a bitter frost
In the vale of Bishop's Praise,
And the face of the moon was lost
In the gray of a spectral haze.

The voice of the wind was whist
Where the Hall hung over the lake,
But the logs on the fire-dogs hissed
Like a serpent roused in a brake.

Rich were the walls of the room
With the trophies of wealth and fame,
But the Bishop cowered in the gloom
Back from the searching flame.

Never an eye he cast
On all that the years had won,
But he shrank from the sight, aghast
At a deed that was like to be done.

Though it stung his touch like a thorn,
At a tiny script clutched he
That read — "Come thou at the morn,
Or I die on the gallows-tree!"

And the sign that was set thereto
Was his only brother's sign.
The sputtering flame burned blue,
And the wolf-hound gave a whine,

But still did the Bishop brood,
As the moments sped amain,
And his o'erwrought outer mood
Showed the battle within his brain.

"Tarry!" the Tempter cried;
"Why save what has little worth?
'Twere better that such should bide
Under six warm feet of earth!

"When rancor and strife are rife,
Forsooth, 'twere a foolish thing
To rescue the worthless life
Of a rebel against the King!

"His leagues of land shall be thine
From the plain to the eagle perch,
And brighter thy name shall shine
On the brow of the Mother Church!"

Then, born of an old desire,
The Bishop saw, as he sat,
Take form in the core of the fire
The red of a cardinal's hat.

So he said to his soul — "'Tis done!"
And it seemed, for a breathing space,
That the Tempter's words had won
By the look on the Bishop's face.

But sudden the flame shot up
Till it set the room ashine
Like the bowl of a crystal cup
Aflood with the gold of wine.

And the hangings, one and all,
The marvel of Artois skill,
Wavered upon the wall
Like boughs when the wind hath will.

Wrought on a blue as bland
As the softest sky of spring,
At the Bishop's own command,
There was many a sacred thing

All of the saints most fair
Who had fought for the faith and bled,
From Jesus, the Christ, were there,
With a halo about the head.

And lo, as the Bishop gazed,
With the firelight still at flood,
Each raptured face grew hazed
With a blurring mist of blood!

But every eye was clear,
And burned like a living coal,
And the wrathful rays pierced sheer
To the depths of the Bishop's soul;

While the red lips seemed to frame
A word that stabbed like a blade,
For he thought it the hated name
Of him who the Christ betrayed.

Froze in his throat the prayer
So glib on his tongue before,
And down from his carven chair
Slipped the Bishop upon the floor;

Groveled, abashed, abased,
Shorn of each shred of pride,
And he lay there, craven-faced,
Till the glowing firelight died.

But when, with their clear "God-speed,"
Rang the bells to the day new-born,
Astride of his swiftest steed
Rode the Bishop to meet the morn.