“The boon is yours.” The student bows again:
“I have a son, a gentle youth and good,
Who seeks the Church.” The Bishop lifts his eyes,
“To him I hold the hand of brotherhood.
“Soon I shall call him, but to-day my time
Is thick with thought, because a rumour came
The great Archbishop at the door of Death
Doth knock—the air is heavy with my name.”
••••••
A year goes by, and the Archbishop wakes,
Springs from his bed, and “Hussein, you!” he cries,
To find strange eyes upon him. Bows the Moor,
“My master waits your message,” he replies.
“Then bid him enter, take up his abode
Within my Palace, wait until I come.
To-day my mind is busy with such things
That bid me to all other thoughts be dumb.
“Go, tell your master, he will understand.
The Cardinal is dying. What I His son
Begs for a hope I What better hope than this—
The Cardinal is dying?—I have done.”
••••••
The Cardinal upon his throne reclines,
And at his feet the student, bowing low,
“A boon, my lord, a boon—let me begone.
Back to my solitude I fain would go.
“Here comes the world between me and my art,
My soul is weary and my body ill,
My study broken, and my time misspent;
You have forgotten what was once your will.”
