“Good Heaven!” the Justice cried, and being distraught
  He called not to her, but he looked again: 
She wore a tattered cloak, but she had naught
  Upon her head; and she did quake amain,
And spread her wasted hands and poor attire
To gather in the brightness of his fire.

“I know you, woman!” then the Justice cried;
  “I know that woman well,” he cried aloud;
“The shepherd Aveland’s widow:  God me guide! 
  A pauper kneeling on my hearth”:  and bowed
The hag, like one at home, its warmth to share! 
“How dares she to intrude?  What does she there?

“Ho, woman, ho!”—­but yet she did not stir,
  Though from her lips a fitful plaining broke;
“I’ll ring my people up to deal with her;
  I’ll rouse the house,” he cried; but while he spoke
He turned, and saw, but distant from his bed,
Another form,—­a Darkness with a head.

Then in a rage, he shouted, “Who are you?”
  For little in the gloom he might discern. 
“Speak out; speak now; or I will make you rue
  The hour!” but there was silence, and a stern,
Dark face from out the dusk appeared to lean,
And then again drew back, and was not seen.

“God!” cried the dreaming man, right impiously,
  “What have I done, that these my sleep affray?”
“God!” said the Phantom, “I appeal to Thee,
  Appoint Thou me this man to be my prey.” 
“God!” sighed the kneeling woman, frail and old,
“I pray Thee take me, for the world is cold.”

Then said the trembling Justice, in affright,
  “Fiend, I adjure thee, speak thine errand here!”
And lo! it pointed in the failing light
  Toward the woman, answering, cold and clear,
“Thou art ordained an answer to thy prayer;
But first to tell her tale that kneeleth there.”

“Her tale!” the Justice cried.  “A pauper’s tale!”
  And he took heart at this so low behest,
And let the stoutness of his will prevail,
  Demanding, “Is’t for her you break my rest? 
She went to jail of late for stealing wood,
She will again for this night’s hardihood.

“I sent her; and to-morrow, as I live,
  I will commit her for this trespass here.” 
“Thou wilt not!” quoth the Shadow, “thou wilt give
  Her story words”; and then it stalked anear
And showed a lowering face, and, dread to see,
A countenance of angered majesty.

Then said the Justice, all his thoughts astray,
  With that material Darkness chiding him,
“If this must be, then speak to her, I pray,
  And bid her move, for all the room is dim
By reason of the place she holds to-night: 
She kneels between me and the warmth and light.”

“With adjurations deep and drawings strong,
  And with the power,” it said, “unto me given,
I call upon thee, man, to tell thy wrong,
  Or look no more upon the face of Heaven. 
Speak! though she kneel throughout the livelong night,
And yet shall kneel between thee and the light.”