Her comrade was a sordid soul, 415
Such as does murder for a meed;
Who, but of fear, knows no control,
Because his conscience, sear'd and foul,
Feels not the import of his deed;
One, whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires 420
Beyond his own more brute desires.
Such tools the Tempter ever needs,
To do the savagest of deeds;
For them no vision'd terrors daunt,
Their nights no fancied spectres haunt, 425
One fear with them, of all most base,
The fear of death,--alone finds place.
This wretch was clad in frock and cowl,
And 'shamed not loud to moan and howl,
His body on the floor to dash, 430
And crouch, like hound beneath the lash;
While his mute partner, standing near,
Waited her doom without a tear.