He stood in silence there.
Thrice he essayed to speak, and thrice in vain,
And then his voice came back,
Vibrating in a deep, triumphal strain
That it was wont to lack.

"My children, we must part. My task is done.
God calls me to His rest,
And though my labors seem scarce yet begun,
Surely He knoweth best.
I have grown old in laboring for Him,
My hair with age is white,
My footsteps feeble, and my eyesight dim--
But all shall change to-night.

"When strikes the hour of twelve, my weary soul
On earth shall cease to dwell,
As sign of which the chapel bell shall toll
Its slow funereal knell.
Then seek me, if you will, and you shall find
Upon the altar stair
The prison-house my soul will leave behind,
Kneeling as though in prayer.

"Seek, then, Pere Compain, on the Isle aux Coudres,
Nor fear the rising gale,
For Heaven will guide you through the angry flood,
And it shall not prevail.
He will be waiting for you on the sands,
Amid the morning gloom,