In a night that is darker than doom on the famishing face of despair.
And they lurk and they tremble and cower, and stab as they lurk from behind,
Like shapes from a pit Acherontic by hatred and horror made blind.
These are not the soldiers of Freedom; the hearts of her lovers grow faint
When the name of assassin is chanted as one with the name of a saint.
And thou the pale poet of Passion, who art wanton to strike and to kill,
Lest her wrath and her splendour abash thee and scorch thee and crush thee, be still.

* * * * *

A VERY SHORT HOLIDAY.

(_BY ONE WHO ENJOYED IT._)

It having occurred to me that within a few days I might get an entire
change by visiting some thoroughly French seaside places on the coast
of Normandy, I started _viâ_ Southampton for Havre.

I started mysteriously at midnight. Lights down. We glided out, almost
sneaked out, as if ashamed of ourselves. I had pictured to myself
sitting out on deck, enjoying the lovely air and the picturesque
view. _L'homme propose, la mer dispose._ I retired early, and
enjoyed neither the lovely air nor the picturesque view. "The rest
is--silence," or as much silence as possible, and as much rest as
possible.

[Illustration: The "Screen Scene," as played on a gusty night on the
covered terrace at Frascati's, Le Havre.]

8'30 A.M.--Le Havre. Consul's chief attendant,--_Lictor_, I