X.

Low-murmuring round the turret's base Wave glides on wave its gentle chase; Lone on the rock, the warder hears The oar's faint music--hark! it nears-- It gains the rock; the rower's hand Aids a gray, time-worn form to land. "Behold the comrade sent to thee!" He said--then went. And in that place The Twain were left; and Misery And Guilt stood face to face!