All kissed that face, like a silver wedge
        ’Mid the yellow wealth, nor disturbed its hair;
    E’en the priest allowed death’s privilege,
        As he planted the crucifix with care
    On her breast, ’twixt edge and edge.

    And thus was she buried, inviolate
        Of body and soul, in the very space
    By the altar,—­keeping saintly state
        In Pornic church, for her pride of race,
    Pure life, and piteous fate.

    And in after-time would your fresh tear fall,
        Though your mouth might twitch with a dubious smile,
    As they told you of gold both robe and pall,
        How she prayed them leave it alone awhile,
    So it never was touched at all.

    Years flew; this legend grew at last
        The life of the lady; all she had done,
    All been, in the memories fading fast
        Of lover and friend, was summed in one
    Sentence survivors passed: 

To wit, she was meant for heaven, not earth;
Had turned an’ angel before the time: 
Yet, since she was mortal, in such dearth
Of frailty, all you could count a crime
Was—­she knew her gold hair’s worth.

* * * * *

At little pleasant Pornic church,
It chanced, the pavement wanted repair,
Was taken to pieces:  left in the lurch,
A certain sacred space lay bare,
And the boys began research.

’T was the space where our sires would lay a saint,
A benefactor,—­a bishop, suppose;
A baron with armor-adornments quaint;
A dame with chased ring and jewelled rose,
Things sanctity saves from taint: 

    So we come to find them in after-days,
        When the corpse is presumed to have done with gauds,
    Of use to the living, in many ways;
        For the boys get pelf, and the town applauds,
    And the church deserves the praise.

    They grubbed with a will:  and at length—­O cor
        Humanum, pectora coeca, and the rest!—­
    They found—­no gauds they were prying for,
        No ring, no rose, but—­who would have guessed?—­
    A double Louis-d’or!

    Here was a case for the priest:  he heard,
        Marked, inwardly digested, laid
    Finger on nose, smiled, “A little bird
        Chirps in my ear!”—­then, “Bring a spade,
    Dig deeper!” he gave the word.

    And lo! when they came to the coffin-lid,
        Or the rotten planks which composed it once,
    Why, there lay the girl’s skull wedged amid
        A mint of money, it served for the nonce
    To hold in its hair-heaps hid: 

    Louis-d’ors, some six times five;
        And duly double, every piece. 
    Now do you see?  With the priest to shrive,—­
        With parents preventing her soul’s release
    By kisses that keep alive,—­