shall say. But to whom shall I say it?--Yes, I will find her whom
you love. I will carry balm across the sea to heal her breaking heart.
_I_ will join together whom,"--here for an instant she hesitated,
then began again,--"whom God has joined, whom man dared separate.
Direct me, Sir."

And there she stood, waiting. Who sighing beholds her? No
pusillanimity there; but on the very heights of danger, which none
other than the bravest could have gained, dauntless and safe, let her
stand and fight her battle. So strong, yet so defenceless, so
conspicuous for purpose and position there, the arrows rain upon her,
--yet not one is poisoned to the power of hurting her sacred life.
Listen, Elizabeth, while he speaks of _her_! Deeply can his voice
grave every word of direction; not one wilt thou lose! Chosen of the
few from among the many called, go, woman to love, and hero to endure,
--yea, if thou must, as gentle and dauntless martyr, to die before
the stronghold thou wouldst summon to surrender!

Later in the day the prisoner heard Elizabeth singing, as not rarely
he heard her,--for, knowing that the sound of her voice was pleasant
to him, and that its cheerfulness cheered him, she had the habit of
frequenting with her songs that part of the house in which his room
was. The prisoner heard her singing later in the day, and thanked
her for the grace, but did not catch the words whose sound swept
past him. It was an ancient hymn she sang,--one that she often sang;
and that she sang it this day of all days, I copy here the first
verse:--

"Sing, my tongue, the glorious battle,
With completed victory rife,