When thus her face was given to view,
(Although so pallid was her hue,
It did a ghastly contrast bear
To those bright ringlets glistering fair),
Her look composed, and steady eye, 405
Bespoke a matchless constancy;
And there she stood so calm and pale,
That, bur her breathing did not fail,
And motion slight of eye and head,
And of her bosom, warranted 410
That neither sense nor pulse she lacks,
You might have thought a form of wax,
Wrought to the very life, was there;
So still she was, so pale, so fair.

XXII.

Her comrade was a sordid soul, 415
  Such as does murder for a meed;
Who, but of fear, knows no control,
Because his conscience, sear’d and foul,
  Feels not the import of his deed;
One, whose brute-feeling ne’er aspires 420
Beyond his own more brute desires. 
Such tools the Tempter ever needs,
To do the savagest of deeds;
For them no vision’d terrors daunt,
Their nights no fancied spectres haunt, 425
One fear with them, of all most base,
The fear of death,—­alone finds place. 
This wretch was clad in frock and cowl,
And ’shamed not loud to moan and howl,
His body on the floor to dash, 430
And crouch, like hound beneath the lash;
While his mute partner, standing near,
Waited her doom without a tear.

XXIII.

Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek,
Well might her paleness terror speak! 435
For there were seen in that dark wall,
Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall;—­
Who enters at such grisly door,
Shall ne’er, I ween, find exit more. 
In each a slender meal was laid, 440
Of roots, of water, and of bread: 
By each, in Benedictine dress,
Two haggard monks stood motionless;
Who, holding high a blazing torch,
Show’d the grim entrance of the porch:  445
Reflecting back the smoky beam,
The dark-red walls and arches gleam. 
Hewn stones and cement were display’d,
And building tools in order laid.

XXIV.

These executioners were chose, 450
As men who were with mankind foes,
And with despite and envy fired,
Into the cloister had retired;
  Or who, in desperate doubt of grace,
  Strove, by deep penance, to efface 455
    Of some foul crime the stain;
  For, as the vassals of her will,
  Such men the Church selected still,
  As either joy’d in doing ill,
    Or thought more grace to gain, 460
If, in her cause, they wrestled down
Feelings their nature strove to own. 
By strange device were they brought there,
They knew not how, and knew not where.