With all their small necks cut in two.

I see them lying, half a score,
In a long row upon the floor,
Their cold, white bosoms marked with gore.
I know the sweet Fatima would
Have put their heads on if she could;
And made them live--she was so good;

And washed their faces at the sink;
But Blue Beard was not sane, I think:
I wonder if he did not drink!

For no man in his proper mind
Would be so cruelly inclined
As to kill ladies who were kind.

_Ruth_.

[_Stepping forward with_ DAVID.]

Story and comment alike are bad;
These little fellows are raving mad
With thinking what they should do,
Supposing their sunny-eyed sister had
Given her heart--and her head--to a lad
Like the man with the Beard of Blue.
Each little jacket
Is now a packet
Of murderous thoughts and fancies;