Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/145

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"Hear!" shrieked the imp: "now hear the old hag talk!
'Tis like the creak of an ill-greasèd block!
No doubt, my withered olive," the thing said,
"I twitch the bedclothes off a sleeping maid
Sometimes at midnight, and she starts with fear
And trembles, and her breast heaves. Oh, I see her!"

And with its whinnying laugh the sprite was gone;
Then, for a brief space, as they journeyed on
Under the grots, the witcheries were stayed;
And in the gloomy silence, long delayed,
They heard the water drop from vaulted roof
To crystal ground. Now there had sat aloof,

Upon a ledge of rock, a tall, white thing,
Which rose in the half-light as menacing
With one long arm. Then stiff as a quartz rock
Stood Vincen; while, transported by the shock,
Mirèio would have leaped a precipice,
Had such been there. "Old scare-crow, what is this?

"What mean you," cried Taven, "by swaying so
Your limp head like a poplar to and fro?"
Then turning to the stricken twain, "My dears,
You know the Laundress? Oft-times she appears
On Mount Ventour, and then the common crowd
Are wont to take her for a long, white cloud.