’The little schooner “Patriot”—­ I can’t forget the vessel’s name; We met her rounding Naggs Head Bank; We made her people walk the plank, Twelve men whose faces I forgot.

But there was one sweet lady there, With lovely eyes and lovely hair, Whose face has stayed like pain and care. For every man she made a prayer; And when the last had found the sea, I cried to her to pray for me.

She prayed—­and took this ring, and said: "Wear this for me when I am dead." She bowed her head, then steadfastly She walked into the hungry sea. But silent words were on her lips, And there was comfort in her hand; It was as if she walked a bridge That led into a pleasant land. All that was long and long ago, So long ago this ring has grown To be a very part of me, One with my finger and the bone:’ His voice went trailing in a moan.

’This is her ring—­ This is her ring! I dare not die and wear the thing!’ His hand plucked at his finger thin As if to ease him of his sin.  I gave a sudden gasping shout—­ The wind that blew the window in Had blown the candle out.

’Quick, father, quick! The ring ... her name....’ There came a jagged spurt of flame; The window seemed a furnace door That gave upon a bed of ore; The thunder rumbled out the muttered Words that his failing tongue had uttered—­ Another flash, a rending crack—­ The old man crumpled like a sack; I felt his stringy arms go slack.  How could he sit so dead, so still!  While wind snouts snuffed along the sill?

    White shone his glimmering face, and dull
    The sodden silence of the lull,
    For when he died the wind had dropt;
    And with his heart the storm had stopt,
    All but a far-off mouthing sound
    That seemed to sough from underground;
    While silence paused to plan some ill,
    Thwarted by thunder growling still. 
    All in the darkness of the place
    With lightning playing on its face,
    I fumbled with the corpse’s ring
    To which the dead hands seemed to cling;
    The stiffening joints were loth to play—­
    After awhile it came away!

    Out, like a sneak-thief through the gloom,
    I tiptoed from the dead man’s room;
    The door behind me like a hatch
    Banged—­the white splash of my match
    Made shadow shapes dance on the wall
    As if the devil pulled the string. 
    The light ran melting round the ring;
    Inside the worn script scrawled a-blur: 
      ’J.A. to Theodosia Burr’
    Confession is a sacred thing! 
    I’ll keep his secret like the sea;
    The ring goes to the grave with me.”

H.A.

[5] See the note at the back of the book.