Page:Poems Jackson.djvu/326

Next morning when the judges dread
Cross-questioned Boon, she simply said,
"My Lords, what can a poor slave know?'
Weary at last, the fearful blow
Of lashes on her naked feet
They ordered. Blood ran down the sweet
Soft flesh: still came the answer low,
"My Lords, what can a poor slave know?
Be pitiful!" The swift blows fell
Again: no cry, no sound, to tell
That it was pain, Boon gave; no sign
Of faltering. They poured down wine
To stay her strength, and then again,—
Oh, surely fiends they were, not men!—
Again, from slender neck to waist,
The cutting blows in angry haste
With tenfold violence they laid.
Each blow a line of red blood made;
Yet, when they paused, the answer came
Steadfast, heroic, in the same
Pathetic words, more feeble, slow,
"My Lords, what can a poor slave know?"
Then in the torture of the screw,
Whose pain has led strong men to do
Dishonor to their souls and God,
They bound this woman's hands. Sweat stood
In bloody drops along her brow,
Yet from her lips not even now
Was heard one syllable.
Was heard one syllable.In rage,
The baffled tyrants to assuage
Her sufferings tried every art