Page:Weird Tales Volume 02 Number 2 (1937-02).djvu/31

 "Sweet devil—dearest Fra Diavolo!"

Hand clasped in hand they faced each other, and in their eyes there shone reflection of the breaking dawn in Paradise.

"I say, Montagu, I've found something that belongs to you, and had it mended!" Mr. Trotter, bulging with officiousness and fairly fizzing with champagne, came up to them, a newly ironed silk hat extended in his pudgy, well-kept hand.

But Anne and Albert—Fulvia and Fra Diavolo—took no notice.

They had found something that belonged to them—and it was mended.

 

He is gone Like the ghost of the dew on the mountain, Like the dawn That gleamed a red flame on the fountain.

He has heard The song of the mystical river And the bird That has sung in Saharin for ever.

He was here— Lo, he was the white-fire bringer! You drew near But to mock and revile the sweet singer.

Oh, he came And he laid his white soul on the altar, A pale flame That blazed and knew not how to falter!

Now you mourn— Far too late is your wailing and weeping; For your scorn You have his dead day in your keeping.