shall be cut off from his people. Henceforth let him have no name among us, nor family, nor kin. From now forever let no flesh touch his flesh. Let no tongue speak to him. Let no eye look on him. If he should be an-hungered, let none give him meat. When he shall be sick let none minister to him. When his death shall come, let no man bury him. Alone let him live, alone let him die, and among the beasts of the field let him hide his unburied bones."

A great hoarse groan arose from the people, such as comes from the bosom of a sullen sea. They looked up at the mount, and the gaunt figure standing there above the vast multitude of moving heads seemed to be something beyond

nature.

The sergeant removed the fetters from the prisoner's hands and feet, and turned him about with his face toward the south. Not at first did the man seem to realize that he was no longer a prisoner, but an outcast, and free to go whither he would, save where other men might be. Then, recovering some partial consciousness, he moved a pace or two forward, and instantly the crowd opened for him, and a long, wide way was made through the dense mass, and he walked through it, slow, yet strong, of step, with head bent and eyes that looked into the eyes of no man. And the people looked after him, and the Bishop on the mount and the clergy below followed him with their eyes. The man was accursed, and none might look upon him with pity; but there were eyes that grew dim at that sight.

The smoke still rose in a long, blue column from the side. of Greeba, and the heavy cloud that had hung at poise had changed its shape to the outlines of a mighty bird, luminous as a seagull, but of a sickly saffron. So still was the crowd, and so reverberant the air, that they could hear the man's footsteps on the stony hillside. When he reached the topmost point of the path, and was about to descend to the valley, he was seen to stop, and presently to turn his face, gazing backward for a moment. While he stood the people held their breath. When he was gone, and the mountain had hidden him, the crowd breathed audibly.

At the next moment all eyes were turned back to the mount. There the Bishop, a priest of God no longer, but only a poor human father now, had fallen to his knees and lifted his two trembling arms. Then the pent-up anguish of the wretched heart that had steeled itself to a mighty sacrifice of duty burst forth in a prayer of great agony.

"O Lord, if through the trial of this day Thou hast been strength of my strength, woe is me now, aged and full of days, feeble of body and weak of faith, that Thou hast brought this heavy judgment upon me. God of Goodness and Righteous Judge of all the Earth, have mercy and forgive if we weep for him who goeth away and shall return no more, nor see his home and kindred. Follow him with Thy Spirit, touch him with Thy finger of fire, pour upon him the healing of Thy grace, so that after death's great asundering, when all shall stand for one judgment, it may not be said of Thy servant,' Write ye this old man childless.'”

It was the cry of a great shattered soul, and the terrified people dropped to their knees while the voice pealed over their heads. When the Bishop was silent the clergy lifted him to his feet and helped him down the pathway to the chapel. There was then a dull murmur of distant thunder from across the sea. The people fell apart in confusion. Before the last of them had left the green the cloud of pale saffron had broken into lightning, and the rain was falling heavily.

"Ask Me No More"

BY LORD TENNYSON.

From "The Princess.”

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape
With fold to fold, of mountain, or of cape;
But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee?
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:

Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd;
I strove against the stream and all in vain;
Let the great river take me to the main;
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more.

The Land of Heart's Desire..

BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS.

CHARACTERS:

Maurteen Bruin.

Shawn Bruin.

Father Hart.

Bridget Bruin.
Maire Bruin.
A Faery Child.

(The scene is laid in the Barony of Kilmacowen, in the County of Sligo, and the characters are supposed to speak in Gaelic. They wear the costume of a century ago.)

SCENE. The kitchen of Maurteen Bruin's house. An open grate, with a turf fire, is at the left side of the room, with a table in front of it. There is a door leading to the open air at the back, and another door a little to its left, leading into an inner room. There is a window, a settle, and a large dresser on the right side of the room, and a great bowl of primroses on the sill of the window. Maurteen Bruin, Father Hart, and Bridget Bruin are sitting at the table. Shawn Bruin is setting the table for supper. Maire Bruin sits on the settle reading a yellow manuscript.

BRIDGET. Because I bade her go and feed the calves,
She took that old book down out of the thatch
And has been doubled over it all day.
We would be deafened by her groans and moans
Had she to work as some do, Father Hart,
Get up at dawn like me, and mend and scour;
Or ride abroad in the boisterous night like you,
The рух and blessed bread under your arm.

SHAWN. You are too cross.

BRIDGET. The young side with the young.
MAURTEEN. She quarrels with my wife a bit at times,
And is too deep just now in the old book.
But do not blame her greatly; she will grow
As quiet as a puff-ball in a tree

When but the moons of marriage dawn and die
For half a score of times.

FATHER HART.

Their hearts are wild

As be the hearts of birds, till children come.

She would not mind the griddle, milk the cow,
Or even lay the knives and spread the cloth.
I never saw her read a book before;
What may it be?

MAURTEEN.

I do not rightly know;

It has been in the thatch for fifty years.

My father told me my grandfather wrote it,
Killed a red heifer and bound it with the hide.
But draw your chair this way-supper is spread;
And little good he got out of the book,

Because it filled his house with roaming bards,
And roaming ballad-makers and the like,
And wasted all his goods.-Here is the wine;
The griddle bread's beside you, Father Hart.
Colleen, what have you got there in the book
That you must leave the bread to cool? Had I,
Or had my father, read or written books

There were no stocking full of silver and gold
To come, when I am dead, to Shawn and you.

FATHER HART. You should not fill your head with foolish dreams.

What are you reading?

MAIRE.

How a Princess Adene,
A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard
A voice singing on a May eve like this,
And followed, half awake and half asleep,
Until she came into the land of faery,
Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,
Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,
Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue;
And she is still there, busied with a dance,
Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood,

Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.
MAURTEEN. Persuade the colleen to put by the book;
My grandfather would mutter just such things,
And he was no judge of a dog or horse,

And any idle boy could blarney him.

Just speak your mind.

FATHER HART.

colleen.

Put it away, my
God spreads the heavens above us like great wings,
And gives a little round of deeds and days,
And then come the wrecked angels and set snares,
And bait them with light hopes and heavy dreams,
Until the heart is puffed with pride and goes,

Half shuddering and half joyous, from God's peace;
And it was some wrecked angel, blind from tears,
Who flattered Adene's heart with merry words.
My colleen, I have seen some other girls
Restless and ill at ease, but years went by
And they grew like their neighbors and were glad
In minding children, working at the churn,
And gossiping of weddings and of wakes;
For life moves out of a red flare of dreams
Into a common light of common hours,
Until old age bring the red flare again.

SHAWN. Yet do not blame her greatly, Father Hart,
For she is dull while I am in the fields,
And mother's tongue were harder still to bear,
But for her fancies; this is May Eve, too,
When the good people post about the world,
And surely one may think of them to-night.
Maire, have you a primrose to fling
Before the door to make a golden path
For them to bring good luck into the house?
Remember, they may steal new-married brides

After the fall of twilight on May Eve.

(Maire goes over to the window and takes flowers from the bowl and strews them outside the door.) FATHER HART. You do well, daughter, because God permits Great power to the good people on May Eve.

SHAWN. They can work all their will with primroses;
Change them to golden money, or little flames
To burn up those who do them wrong.

MAIRE (in a dreamy voice).

I had no sooner flung them by the door

Than the wind cried and hurried them away;

And then a child came running in the wind
And caught them in her hands and fondled them;
Her dress was green; her hair was of red gold;
Her face was pale as water before dawn.
FATHER HART. Whose child can this be?
MAURTEEN.

No one's child at all.

She often dreams that some one has gone by
When there was nothing but a puff of wind.
MAIRE. They will not bring good luck into the house,
For they have blown the primroses away;
Yet I am glad that I was courteous to them,
For are not they, likewise, children of God?