Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/256

230 At last the maiden murmured, but how weak The voice! how vague the words! "On either cheek I seem to feel a breeze,—one from the sea, One from the land: and this refreshes me Like morning airs; but that doth sore oppress And burn me, and is full of bitterness."

So ceased. The people of Li Santo turn Blankly from plain to ocean: then discern A lad who nears them, at so fleet a pace The dust in clouds is raised; and, in the race Outstripped, the tamarisks are growing small, And far behind the runner seem to fall.

Vincen it was. Ah, poor unhappy youth! When Master Ambroi spake that sorry truth, "My son, the pretty little lotus-spray Is not for you!" he turned, and fled away; From Valabrègo like a bandit fled, To see her once again. And when they said

In Crau, "She in Li Santo must be sought," Rhone, marshes, weary Crau, withheld him not; Nor stayed he ever in his frantic search Till, seeing that great throng inside the church, He rose on tiptoe deadly pale, and crying, "Where is she!" And they answered, "She is dying