X4LEa*^ from ten 
 POETS
 
 AT LOS ANGELES 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 MAY TREAT MORRISON 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 
 ALEXANDER F MORRISON
 
 BY THB AUTHOR OF THIS VOLUME. 
 
 IN THE YULE-LOG GLOW. Christ- 
 mas Tales from Round the World. Four 
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 WHERE MEADOWS MEET THE 
 SEA. A Collection of Sea Songs and 
 Pastoral Lays. With Illustrations by 
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 T^ALES F 
 
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 .eW\\WWO'A?i A'AAft.O'A 
 
 philad:
 
 A'OBEK'T BKO^'NIN^:^
 
 ALES FROM TEN 
 POETS. BY HAR- 
 RISON S. MORRIS 
 
 I ( 
 
 IN THREE BOOKS 
 
 WITH PORTRAITS 
 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
 J. B. LiPPINCOTT COMPANY 
 1898 
 
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 Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company. Philadeiphia. 
 

 
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 A WORD TO THE READER. 
 
 There is a docp-grained love in humanity for 
 a story pure and Himple. The fireside gossip 
 who dishes up the sweet morsels of the past, 
 has little art at his command. He can give 
 nothing save the bare skeleton of a tradition, 
 a tragedy, or a bit of drollery. His are the 
 broadest and ruggedest of touches, and he has 
 gained his end and pleased his audience if 
 he has only sketched, in boldest outline, facts 
 whose interest lies solely in themselves and 
 their relative arrangement. 
 
 Art, however, is quite another and a nobler 
 thing. The simple facts which jut up from 
 human intercourse like rough boulders, become, 
 after a while, covered and softened with the 
 foliage and minute mosses of art. The prosaic 
 outlines pass away into something no less true, 
 but lovelier and finer. The rock beneath gives 
 endurance. The grass above brings appealing 
 beauty, and this renders the endurance forever 
 precious. 
 
 In the pages to come, the reader who loves 
 
 3
 
 4 A Word to the Reader. 
 
 a story for its own sake may find, if he pleases, 
 the enduring rock stripped of its verdurous 
 robe, the story laid bare of its artistic medium 
 and made to stand by itself. He may see what 
 durable foundations lie beneath the great 
 achievements of poetic art which belong to 
 our own century and our own tongue; and 
 he will, moreover, — for the thing is assured to 
 the man or woman of taste who enters even 
 in so rudimentary a manner upon the perusal 
 of these noble masterpieces, — he will perforce 
 find himself led by their indestructible charm 
 into an elevating desire to know the poems 
 themselves. 
 
 In needless apology for re-immortalizing the 
 old story of Endymion, Keats wrote, " I hope I 
 have not at too late a day touched the beautiful 
 mythology of Greece and dulled its brightness." 
 I, likewise, but in needed apology, hope that I 
 have not dulled the brightness of these beauti- 
 ful creations of the age of Victoria by render- 
 ing them into unsympathetic prose. To one 
 who cares for them and holds them dear as 
 among the most lasting and subtile products of 
 our contemporary life, it is an irreverent act to 
 sever them from their natural settings. Yet 
 Mr. Andrew Lang finds it in his heart to justify 
 the act. " So determined are we not to read 
 tales in verse," says he, " that prose renderings,
 
 A Word to the Reader. 5 
 
 even of the epics, nay, even of the Attic dramas, 
 have come more or less into vogue." 
 
 With this genial endorsement, then, and with 
 the hope that these prose versions may lead 
 every reader who is not already acquainted with 
 them to a knowledge of the famous originals, I 
 submit them to an age which has been called 
 scientific because it too often disregards what is 
 beautiful simply for being so. 
 
 I have tried to adhere to the central idea, and 
 even the detail, of each poem, as strictly as was 
 consistent with the production of a well-rounded 
 and complete tale in prose. Entertainment and 
 diversion must be the chief aim in such a collec- 
 tion as this, and where the more complex effects 
 allowed to a poem have hindered the develop- 
 ment of the prose story, I have, but with a 
 reverent touch, endeavored to disengage the 
 story and let it tell itself straight on to the 
 climax. 
 
 Much is lost by such a process to those who 
 love poetry ; but to those who care for the rea- 
 son without the rhyme there is — should the 
 teller have done justice to the tale — infinite 
 store of delight still left. 
 
 H. S. M. 
 
 1*
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 BOOK 1. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The King and the Book. Robert Browning . 13 
 
 The Princess. Alfred, Lord Tennyson 83 
 
 Rose Mary. Dante Gabriel Rossetti ...... 145 
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. William Morris ... 167 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 Enoch Arden. Alfred, Lord Tennyson 7 
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. Robert Browning . 41 
 
 Aurora Leigh. Elizabeth Barrett Browning . . 95 
 
 Sohrab and Rustum. Matthew Arnold .... 191 
 
 The Two Babes. Robert Buchanan 218 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. Algernon Charles Swin- 
 burne 7 
 
 LuciLE. Lord Lytton {Oiven Meredith) 67 
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. George Eliot 185
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 BOOK 1. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Robert Browning Frontispiece. 
 
 Dantk Gabriel Rossetti 145 
 
 William Morris 167 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 Alfred, Lord Tennyson Frontispiece. 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning 95 
 
 Matthew Arnold 191 
 
 Robert Buchanan 213 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 Algernon Charles Swinburne . . Frontispiece. 
 
 Lord Lytton (Owen Meredith) G7 
 
 George Eliot 186 
 
 8
 
 THE FIRST BOOK.
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING.
 
 
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 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 The Comparini, man and wife, Pietro and Vio- 
 lante, were yesterday as happy as any prosper- 
 ous couple in Rome. To-day they lie dead in 
 the church of San Lorenzo in Lucina. 
 
 Crowds from the populous Corso have 
 streamed into the aisles all day long to have 
 a look at the murdered pair, where they rest 
 on either side of the altar. There is an endless 
 buzz of question and counter-question, of curi- 
 osity and 8ymj)athy, and of hot vengeance 
 uttered against Count Guido Franceschini, who 
 is known to have done the deed. 
 
 It is a motley throng inside the old church. 
 Here the scarlet robe of a cardinal moves down 
 the midst of dark-cloaked idlers from the streets ; 
 over there, in faded homespun, lounges some 
 peasant come into town for the holiday. They 
 push on to the chancel, throw up their eyes, 
 cross themselves, look hastily at the dead and 
 the notched triangular dagger lying at their 
 
 13
 
 14 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 ''',', ' c c c t , , 
 
 < ' € t «t<«'«c * 
 
 feet,' and tHcR 'jviV^ place to the pressing lines 
 , bq hind, AH the world know the old i^air, and 
   all the world hass come to talk the tragedy over. 
 Once within, they find it hard to leave. They 
 have climbed the columns, and perched them- 
 selves on the chapel-rail, jumped over and 
 broken the painted wood-work, crammed the 
 organ-loft, and literally packed every corner of 
 the sacred place. 
 
 " Not in seventy years," says toothless Luca 
 Cini, bending on his staff, — " not in all the 
 seventy years I have seen bodies set forth has 
 there been a day like it." 
 
 Now this is the story of those two, lying there 
 with faces stabbed out of recognition by an 
 enemy who thus vindicated his honor, according 
 to the wont of the noblemen of his day. 
 
 It was the year of our Lord 1679, and Eome 
 was the religious centre of the world. Pope 
 Innocent the Twelfth sat upon the papal throne, 
 a feeble old man who ruled benignly but firmly 
 the great realm, both spiritual and temporal, 
 which belonged to the church. In his service 
 were numberless prelates high and low, and a 
 throng of nuns and monks and friars, who car- 
 ried the ecclesiastical power into every rank 
 of society. They were the judges in the city 
 courts, the officers of the municipal govern-
 
 The Ring and the Book. 15 
 
 ment, the scholars who preserved and taught 
 the older learning, and they led, moreover, the 
 social world of Eonie, whether it dwelt in the 
 palaces of the Corso or lived a simpler life in 
 the Via Vittoria. 
 
 And in the Via Vittoria, plain, substantial, the 
 abode of good citizens who had wealth enough 
 to bring them leisure, even if too little to in- 
 dulge in many luxuries, — in this pleasant thor- 
 oughfare lived Pietro and Violante Comparini. 
 They had been born in that quarter of the city 
 seventy-odd years before, and remained there 
 throughout their lives. They, like all the rest 
 around them, married young, but they were 
 childless, and this was a disappointment to 
 Pietro and a distress to his good wife, for 
 Pietro's wealth, such as it was, belonged to him 
 only during his life, and would pass into the 
 hands of some distant heir when he should die. 
 Yet they had led a careless and happy existence 
 in their city house and in the villa out in the 
 Pauline district just beyond the walls. This 
 rural place Pietro had bought to retire to for 
 little frolics such as men in his condition loved 
 to plan with congenial friends who had a tooth 
 for good wine and loved free laughter. But with 
 its dark sides hidden in foliage and thick trees 
 overhanging its roof, the villa was after all just 
 the place to put murder into an enemy's head.
 
 16 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Such idle living is, however, a costly thing 
 even if one have an ample income to draw upon, 
 and the funds of the Comparini were not by 
 any means inexhaustible. As the years went 
 by they began to feel the drain upon their re- 
 sources, and before very long they actually found 
 themselves in debt. So, like most people who 
 have gained a distinction for liberality among 
 neighbors and friends, they clung blindly to the 
 reputation, and continued to load their board for 
 flattering guests even while they held out their 
 hands for the papal bounty, which in that day 
 was dispensed to the needy who were too re- 
 spectable to beg. 
 
 But the sole way out of the dilemma was to 
 secure an heir. Pietro's income was exhausted, 
 that was plain enough. The original wealth 
 whence it was drawn, however, remained in the 
 custody of the law, and should the miracle ever 
 occur that he and Violante might still have born 
 to them an heir, then the coveted money would 
 fall into their hands and all would be well. So 
 Pietro pi'aycd earnestly for an heir to his fallen 
 house, but Violante, more practical though less 
 nice in honor, went secretly to work to fulfil 
 the pious yearning of her husband. 
 
 There was a place in Eome down past San 
 Lorenzo, beyond labyrinths of ancient dwell- 
 ings, where, at the end of a certain black and
 
 The Ring and the Book. 17 
 
 dingy court, stood a house which Violante one 
 day sought and entered. She had left the Via 
 Vittoria book in hand as if to hear mass, as was 
 her daily wont, in San Lorenzo church ; but book 
 and pious face were assumed to deceive Pietro, 
 who must not know of her secret errand into 
 the dark places of the city. There was a light 
 at the top of the house, and she mounted by the 
 filthy steps, holding tight to the cord which did 
 service for baluster, until she had reached the 
 last landing. She groped towards the half-open 
 door where the dim light fell through, and en- 
 tered on her hidden quest. A half-clad woman 
 started up at her footsteps. 
 
 " "What, you back already !" she cried. " Have 
 mercy on me, poor sinner that I am !" But see- 
 ing only a woman, her voice changed from terror 
 to entreaty, and " What may your pleasure be ?" 
 she civilly asked of the undaunted Violante. 
 
 Now, Violante had long kept in mind the ob- 
 ject of her present visit, and she had noticed 
 this woman over her open-air washing at the 
 cistern by Citorio, noticed and envied her 
 shapely figure, and had tracked her home to 
 her forlorn house-top, whither she had now 
 come to tempt her by proposing an unlawful 
 bargain. The talk was short between them, for 
 the wretched washerwoman was only too will- 
 ing to earn an addition to her scanty wages, 
 ,1 b 2*
 
 18 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 and Yiolante was disinclined to linger long in 
 such compromising intercourse. They parted 
 at the stairway, and as Yiolante descended into 
 the darkness below the woman repeated, in a 
 loud whisper above her on the landing, the 
 terms of the agreement, — 
 
 " Six months hence, then, a person whom you 
 trust is to come and fetch the babe away, no 
 matter what its sex. The price is to be kept 
 secret, and the child to be yours." 
 
 Violante was triumphant. Here was the 
 whole trouble solved by a single deft stroke of 
 diplomacy. To be sure, it was an unworthy sub- 
 terfuge and weighed a trifle on her conscience, 
 but the heirs to Pietro's wealth must look out 
 for themselves, and as for the stain of such a 
 compact as she had just made, that must be 
 atoned for by redoubled fervor in devotion; 
 and, so thinking, she hurried off to church, gain- 
 ing her place just in time for the Magnificat, 
 which she uttered with unusual energy. 
 
 When she arrived at home Violante revealed 
 to Pietro a startling and joyous piece of news. 
 Her constant orisons, she said, and charitable 
 work had brought her a fulfilment of her great 
 longing. She must keep in-doors for the next 
 half-year, and then, maybe, — and she coupled 
 the news with an elderly caress, — maybe they 
 might at last be blessed with an heir to restore
 
 The Ring and the Book. 19 
 
 their fortunes and brighten their fast-approach- 
 ing age. 
 
 So one day Pietro found himself the father 
 of a little black-eyed girl, and with the conscious 
 pride of mature paternity, as well as the inward 
 satisfaction that now his financial troubles were 
 likely to be mended, at least for a time, he and 
 his wife bore the infant to San Lorenzo church 
 where the Curate Ottoboni christened it, with 
 the prodigality of names then in vogue, Fran- 
 cesca Vittoria Pompilia Comparini. 
 
 Violante played her part well, and no shadow 
 of suspicion crossed the mind of her husband 
 or of the gossips of the Yia Vittoria. Whether 
 or not the dangerous secret preyed upon her 
 mind, she bore herself as a mother should, and 
 did with unfaltering assurance what was need- 
 ful in the ceremony of baptism. Hers was a 
 calculating mind, and she had carefully planned 
 and now as carefully executed a hazardous 
 scheme, which, she reflected, had for its end a 
 justifying benefit both for her husband and her- 
 self Moreover, was it not a worthy act to rescue 
 from squalid surroundings and degrading influ- 
 ences a child that might prove a delight to 
 their barren age and grow to useful and per- 
 haps beautiful womanhood ? Such thoughts ran 
 through her mind as she stood beside her hus- 
 band at the font, and with them her common-
 
 20 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 place nature postponed for a time the inevitable 
 reassertion of conscience. 
 
 But Pietro in all the luxury of his new father- 
 hood was a vain and delighted man. He bore 
 the little Pompilia home with a thousand ca- 
 resses, and from that day forth he was her play- 
 mate and her slave. He romped with her on 
 the floor, taught her, as she grew, many a child- 
 ish game, and year by year measured her in- 
 creasing height against the walls of the shaded 
 villa beyond the gates. 
 
 Poverty, however, had always of late lurked 
 at Pietro's heels, and one day, with scarce a 
 warning, he found himself in absolute need. 
 He had squandered his inherited income, had 
 idled away his opportunities to repair it, and 
 now in his old age he was destitute and help- 
 less. But Yiolante was a wife of many re- 
 sources, and her busy mind went to work with 
 all its old vigor to solve the new difficulty. They 
 still had one possession which might retrieve 
 their fortunes. Pompilia was now a grown girl, 
 with great dark eyes and a bounty of black 
 hair. She had,, moreover, the sweet touch of that 
 first youth which is a potent charm to most 
 men, but which appeals with a peculiar zest to 
 the jaded taste of a man of the world. She 
 was over-young, to be sure, for marriage, but in 
 the Italy of that day a young girl stepped out
 
 The Ring and the Book. 21 
 
 of childhood directly into wedlock, and imma- 
 turity of mind and of character was overlooked 
 by wooers who sought only beauty or wealth. 
 
 It was the crafty Violante's plan, then, to 
 carry her attractive goods to the most favorable 
 market. She had grown attached to the child, 
 because of its loving traits and infantile charm, 
 and because it had so well served her pui-pose, 
 but the family need weighed heavily on her 
 now, and, like many another ambitious dame 
 with only half her motives, she set deliberately 
 to work to secure at one stroke for Pompilia a 
 wealthy husband and for herself and Pietro a 
 snug fireside protective against want, with even 
 a little luxury thrown in if that were possible. 
 
 Now, the desperate state of Pietro's affairs 
 was unknown as yet to his neighbors, and he 
 had managed thus far with the remnants of his 
 credit to eke out a respectable appearance. No 
 whisper of the inward anxiety was allowed to 
 mar the customary outward thrift, and the old 
 rej)utation for fortune and prosperity was un- 
 touched by rumor. This being the case, Pom- 
 pilia, with fresh young beauty and the repute 
 of considerable wealth, was an eligible match 
 likely to be snapped at by a suitor whose own 
 fortunes while not exhausted still needed re- 
 plenishing, or by some elderly seeker after a 
 youthful spouse.
 
 22 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Pompilia herself was just thirteen years old, 
 and knew nothing of the trials which beset her 
 parents. She had lived a careless and happy 
 life in the garden of the villa, and scarcely ever, 
 save when she went to San Lorenzo church, saw 
 the great world outside its walls. She had a 
 sole friend in the early times, Tisbe, a neighbor's 
 child, whom Violante brought in to play with 
 her on rainy afternoons; and the two would 
 trace each other's fortunes in the woven stories 
 of the household tapestry. 
 
 "Tisbe, that's you, there, with a half-moon 
 on your hair-knot and a spear in your hand, — a 
 huntress. See. you are following the stag, and 
 a great blue scarf blows out at your back." 
 
 "And there you are, Pompilia, with green 
 leaves growing from your finger-ends and all 
 the rest of you turned into a sort of tree." 
 
 Then they would laugh together and play out 
 the tales pictured for them through the folds of 
 the dim old hangings ; or they would often run 
 off to the vineyard and sit in the shade of the 
 vine-leaves for whole mornings together. 
 
 Such childish happiness had wrought in little 
 Pompilia a thoughtful and sympathetic nature, 
 but she had grown up without mental training 
 and unconscious of the simplest experiences of 
 life. She could neither read nor write ; she had 
 scarcely known one of the opposite sex save
 
 The Ring and the Book. 23 
 
 the fatherly old Pietro, and she was entirely 
 ignorant that such a thing as giving in mar- 
 riage existed. 
 
 But one day as Pietro was taking an after- 
 dinner doze and Pompilia, in some far-away 
 chamber, was busy at her broider-frame, there 
 came a priest to the "Via Yittoria: a smooth- 
 mannered and sleek-faced personage in the 
 habit of an Abate, who asked for Yiolante with 
 a conscious air of knowing that she was within 
 and alone. 
 
 " Might he speak ?" 
 
 " Yes," came promptly from in-doors, with a 
 flutter of skirts, and he entered and seated him- 
 self with the suave grace of one used to more 
 elevated interviews. He begged leave to present 
 himself as the Abate Paolo, the younger brother 
 of a Tuscan house, whose actual representative 
 was the Count Guido Franceschini ; and then, 
 glossing his great flap hat with the palm of his 
 hand or reaching down to smooth the wrinkles 
 from his shapely stocking, but always keeping 
 a keen gray eye fixed on the flattered dame, he 
 descanted on the house of the Franceschini, 
 how old they were, what ancestors they boasted 
 of, and a score of other notable things fit to 
 turn the head of a much wiser mother than 
 the susceptible Yiolante. 
 
 " But we are not rich," he said, with an ap-
 
 24 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 parent burst of candor, — " that is, not so poor 
 either. One can't have everything, you know. 
 We are well enough off to support the reputa- 
 tion of the house, and then we are in the way 
 to fortune," — and he leaned forward with a con- 
 fidential lowering of the voice, as if to speak 
 into Violante's ravished ear, — " and to fortune 
 better than the best. Well, my good madam, 
 you see, if we could but keep Count Guido 
 patient for a little while, constant to his own 
 interests and friendly with the Cardinal whom 
 he serves, we should one day wear — it is prom- 
 ised us — the red cloth that keeps a whole house- 
 hold warm. But he is restless, dissatisfied, and, 
 moreover, he's slipping on into years, and years 
 make men want certainties, — not promises alone, 
 not promises." And the Abate emphasizing the 
 word, Violante also said, seriously, — 
 
 " Quite right, quite right, your Eeverence ; 
 promises make poor living." 
 
 "What I was about to say," continued the 
 Abate. " Promises make poor living indeed ; and, 
 in truth, my brother Guido is home-sick, — longs 
 for the old sights and usual faces again ; he has, 
 poor fellow, no ecclesiastical tastes ; he's a cold 
 nature, humble but self-sustaining. Ah, poor 
 brother Guido ! he cares little enough for the 
 pomp of Rome. Dear me ! he'd rather live in 
 his dingy palace, as vast almost as a quarry and
 
 The Ring and the Booh 25 
 
 nearly as bare, or up at his villa on the hill-side 
 by Vittiano." 
 
 Violante interjected here a pleased " Indeed !" 
 to signify her sense of the honor done her by 
 such explicit revelations of family affairs, and 
 then the Abate went on : 
 
 " Yes, he talks of nothing else ; it's the palace 
 and the villa, the villa and the palace, all day 
 long, — enough to make one's ears ache. And 
 lately nothing will do but he must fly away 
 from Eome post-haste to cheer his mother's old 
 age by domesticating with her in the palace ; 
 and a new idea has struck him too. He must 
 not go back alone ; he must carry a wife with 
 him to enliven his mother's declining years and 
 inspire her with hope and gayety, — so he says." 
 
 Violante was hardly able to suppress her de- 
 sire to offer Pompilia then and there, and to 
 sing her praises as a wife, but she had a glim- 
 mering sense that a slight resistance would be 
 seemly, and she merely betrayed the wish by a 
 sharp little movement forward in her chair and 
 a Hfting of her hands from her lap. 
 
 " La, now," she said, " and a very good thing 
 for him to do." 
 
 " True, true," continued the Abate, " a very 
 
 rational thing to do," and he smiled gayly at 
 
 the pleased old dame. " Ought now a man to 
 
 interpose if his brother contemplates so wise 
 
 B 3
 
 26 TaUs from Ten Poets. 
 
 a step ? There's no making Guido great ; that's 
 out of the question. Why, then, not let him 
 for once be happy ? But he must be protected 
 from designing matrons who covet the distinc- 
 tion of such an alliance without being able to 
 give sufficient in return. Yes, Guido needs the 
 watchful interest of his brothers," — the Abate 
 here cast down his eyes in humble deprecation 
 of his own merits : " he must not be allowed to 
 make a mesalliance. That at least we must 
 forestall." 
 
 "Little danger," said the discreet Violante, 
 "with so experienced a hand to guide him." 
 The Abate made a profound bow and pro- 
 ceeded : 
 
 "No, signora, we are not anxious for name 
 and fame ; we have sufficient of them already. 
 But if some pure and charming woman, un- 
 tainted by the world, and all tenderness and 
 truth, could be found, — some girl, not too wealthy, 
 .to match with Guido's own moderate fortune, — 
 but, of course, with a sufficient dowry, — if such 
 a girl could be discovered, she would indeed be 
 the ideal wife for Count Guido." 
 
 Violante said nothing, but she showed by con- 
 scious interest that she had taken the bait so 
 craftily suggested by the Abate, and was ready 
 when he had twitched the line to be hand- 
 somely landed.
 
 The Ring and the Book. 27 
 
 " And now," he began, with an assumption of 
 ignorance and an insinuating voice, " is it not 
 true that you, Signora Yiolante, keep hidden 
 here in this very house a lily of a daughter 
 such as we seek for Count Guido ? Ah, I have 
 guessed your secret !" he laughed, with mock- 
 threatening finger raised. "You conceal here 
 under your sheltering mother-wing a wife 
 worthy of Guido's house and heart." 
 
 " By no means, your Reverence," said Vio- 
 lante, with becoming humility ; " merely my 
 little daughter Pompilia, unworthy, believe me, 
 such an honor." 
 
 "Ah," said the gallant Abate, "you cannot 
 long hide such a beauty from the light. But I 
 merely came to see. I have spoken frankly 
 and openly. I could do no less." Here he 
 patted his well-shaped calf again, and then, 
 straightening up with a shrug, said, "If any 
 harm's done — well, the matter's at least off my 
 mind, and I humbly ask your pardon, signora, 
 for the intrusion." 
 
 He rose now with a clerical dignity abandoned 
 during their conversation and grandly kissed 
 the devout Violante's hand. Then he bowed 
 low and left her. 
 
 When he was quite gone, Yiolante rubbed her 
 eyes awhile in sheer bedazzlement, and then ran 
 off to waken Pietro and tell him the wonderful
 
 28 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 news. Her more practical husband rubbed his 
 eyes in turn, looked very knowing, and indeed 
 not a little puzzled too, took up his cane and 
 hat, and then sallied forth to the Square of 
 Spain, towards the Boat-fountain, where his 
 gossips were wont to lounge and exchange the 
 news. He made some display of his latest 
 honor, and expected to be congratulated on 
 such good fortune, but he only got well laughed 
 at for his pains. They told him with blunt 
 jocosity just who his visitor was : the brother 
 of Count Guido Franceschini, whose paternal 
 acres were a stubble-field and brick-heap. There 
 used to be a palace, but it was long ago 
 burned down. To be sure, he was a count, 
 but he hadn't a coin in his pouch, — nothing 
 left to support a noble name but sloth, pride, 
 and rapacity. Wanted to go home, did he? 
 Well, let Pietro help him ; he'd not get home 
 without assistance. 
 
 " As for this Abate Paolo," said an old gray- 
 beard who sat on the fountain-step, " he's a 
 shrewder mouse. He's done well here in Kome, — 
 fattened on the church and made a comfortable 
 nest. But Guido's had to shift for himself, and 
 now his Cardinal's cast him off, and his last 
 shift's this of yours. He's snuffed your snug 
 little annuity, and in return would make your 
 girl a lady, forsooth ! There," and he looked
 
 The Ring and the Book. 29 
 
 with a derisive smile up at Pietro, " don't brag 
 to us. Do you suppose Count Guido 'd stoop to 
 you and yours if lie had one coin to chink 
 against another ? Bah !" 
 
 So Pietro went home again disenchanted and 
 rueful, yet glad that the matter had ended where 
 it did and no harm done. 
 
 The marriage being thus impossible, all else 
 followed in due course : Paolo serenely heard 
 his fate; Count Guido bore the blow with resig- 
 nation ; and poor disappointed Violante wiped 
 away a tear or two, renouncing her golden 
 dreams with bitter reluctance. But she praised 
 through her tears Pietro' s prompt sagacity and 
 aifected to acquiesce in his wiser decree. 
 
 Thus all went well for a day or so ; then Vio- 
 lante, as she one night fondled Pompilia in her 
 arms, whispered to her, — 
 
 " And what if a gay cavalier should come to- 
 morrow to see my little Pompilia ?" And she 
 held the girl off and looked smilingly into her 
 great dark eyes. " And if he does come, Pom- 
 pilia must let him take her hand and kiss it ; 
 and then some fine night we shall all go off to 
 San Lorenzo church, and you and he will be 
 married at the altar; and after that we will 
 come home again and leave the cavalier, and — 
 that's all. But, you naughty girl, you must say 
 nothing about it, — not even to papa Pietro, — 
 
 3*
 
 80 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 now, do you hear? Girl-brides must not tell 
 secrets. And won't it be a gay lark to steal away 
 and never let him know ?" 
 
 So on the morrow Count Guido came and 
 paid his devoirs to his intended bride. He was 
 in pitiable contrast with the young and beauti- 
 ful girl he was to marry. Hook-nosed and yel- 
 low, with a great bush of a beard, he looked like 
 an ancient owl clad in the garb of a Eoman 
 nobleman. But Pompilia was ignorant of the 
 commonest usages of life, and wedlock for her, 
 even with such a groom, had none of the ter- 
 rors which it would have had for a more mature 
 and exjierienced woman. 
 
 The next night, through a driving December 
 storm, the girl and her mother, well cloaked 
 and veiled, set out for San Lorenzo, and there 
 met the Abate Paolo at the altar-side. Two 
 tapers shivered in the damp chill of the church, 
 and Pompilia, standing in mute expectancy, 
 heard the outer doors locked behind her, as if 
 barring out help and hope. 
 
 " Quick, lose no time !" cried the priest, and 
 straightway down from behind the altar, where 
 he was in hiding, stepped Count Guido, who 
 caught Pompilia's hand. The Abate then went 
 hurriedly through the service, and at last pro- 
 nounced them man and wife. Then the two 
 brothers drew aside and talked together, while
 
 The Ring and the Book. 31 
 
 Pompilia, trembling and dismayed, crept down 
 and joined her mother, who was weeping. They 
 were noticed no further, and stole on tiptoe to 
 the door, which was now unlocked. It had 
 stopped raining, and they hastened through the 
 dark wet streets for home. At the house-door 
 Yiolante turned, and, placing a finger across 
 Pompilia's lips, whispered, — 
 
 "Not a word to papa Pietro. Girl-brides 
 never breathe a word. You hear ?" 
 
 Cheerily Pietro welcomed them home with 
 not a little banter. 
 
 " What do these priests mean," he said, " by 
 praying folks to death in such weather as this ? 
 Christmas at hand, too, to wash off our sins 
 without need of rain." 
 
 Yiolante gave Pompilia's hand a timely 
 squeeze, and the young bride kissed the old 
 man and said not a word. 
 
 II. 
 
 Three weeks of Pompilia's life had unevent- 
 fully passed, when one morning as she sat sing- 
 ing alone in her chamber at her embroidery- 
 frame two or three loud voices, with now and 
 then a sob and the names " Guido," " Paolo," 
 angrily spoken, broke the silence and startled 
 her to her feet. She ran into the room where 
 the voices came from, to see what was the mat-
 
 32 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 ter, and there stood the Count and his brotheT 
 the Abate with his sly face nowise dismayed, 
 while Pietro seemed all red and angry, scarce 
 able to stutter out his wrath. Violante stood 
 by sobbing as he reproached her, — 
 
 "You have murdered us, — me and yourself 
 and the poor child!" 
 
 " Murdered or not, Signor Pietro Comparini," 
 Guido interposed, " your child is now my wife. 
 I claim her, and have come to take her." 
 
 But Paolo, with more dexterity, put suavely 
 in : " Consider, Signor Pietro — or — kinsman, if 
 I may call you so, what is the good of all your 
 sagacity except to give you wisdom in such a 
 strait as this ? The two are irrevocably man 
 and wife ; that I guarantee, whether it please 
 you or not. Now, we look to you for counsel, 
 not violence, since the thing cannot be undone. 
 Tell us what to do and we will gladly follow 
 your advice," and Paolo smiled craftily, sensible 
 that the game was wholly in his own hands ; 
 the while Violante, sobbing all the faster, mur- 
 mured, " Yes, all, all murdered. Oh, my sin, 
 my secret !" and other such contrite fragments, 
 consolatory to no one in particular. 
 
 Then Pompilia began to surmise the truth. 
 Something false and underhand had happened, 
 for which Violante was to blame and she to be 
 pitied, for they all spoke of her, though none
 
 The Ring and the Book. 33 
 
 addressed her. She stood there mute until 
 Pietro embraced her and said, — 
 
 "Withdraw, my child!" then turning to the 
 rest, " She is not likely at this stage to be help- 
 ful to the sacrifice. Do you want the victim by 
 while you estimate its value ? For her sake I 
 consent, then, to hear you talk ; but she must 
 retire. Go, child, and pray God to help the 
 innocent !" 
 
 Pompilia went away then and knelt to pray ; 
 but soon Violante came in to her with swol- 
 len eyes and hushful movements of the mouth, 
 to make believe matters were coming right 
 again. 
 
 " You are too young," she sobbed, " and can- 
 not understand yet. Your father did not under- 
 stand at first. I wanted to benefit us all three, 
 and when he failed to see my meaning, why, I 
 tried to do it without his aid; but now he 
 confesses he was wrong, and the trouble's half 
 over. To be sure it was right to give you a 
 husband with a noble name and a palace and 
 no end of other pleasant things! What do 
 you care about youth and good looks ? — this is 
 the kind of a man to keep the house and love 
 his wife. We lose a daughter, to be sure, but 
 we gain a son, that's all, and now Pieti^o begins 
 to be reasonable." 
 
 Pompilia strove to pacify her agitated mother 
 I.— c
 
 34 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 and made cheerful assent to all she asked, then 
 Violante went on : 
 
 " It's to be ari'anged, my dear child, so that 
 we shall never separate. Papa Pietro and I 
 are to go to Arezzo to live with you and the 
 Count, in a fine palace where you will be the 
 queen ; and you'll forgive your unhappy old 
 mother, now, won't you, — there's a sweet ?" 
 
 " Forgive her ! what for ?" exclaimed Pompilia. 
 " Everything is right, mother, if only you will 
 stop crying. There, there, you have done no 
 harm, and it was all for the best after all!" 
 
 Then Violante kissed her fervently and took 
 her back to where her father leaned opposite 
 Count Guido, who stood eying him as a butcher 
 might eye a cast ox that accepts its fate and 
 ceases to struggle. Paolo looked archly on, 
 touching his brow with the pen-point now and 
 then to subdue a look of triumph, and when 
 Pompilia came up to them he said impressively^ 
 with a dignified gesture towards her and the 
 Count, — 
 
 " Count Guido, take your lawful wife until 
 death do part you." 
 
 "While Violante was absent with Pompilia 
 the terms of the marriage contract had been 
 agreed upon. Pietro was induced, partly by 
 coercion, partly by persuasion, but more than 
 all else by the inward consciousness of his own
 
 The Ring and the Book. 35 
 
 ruined condition, to assign to his son-in-law, 
 Count Guido, all his possessions of every kind 
 whatever, in return for which the Count 
 promised to support Pietro and his wife during 
 the rest of their lives in his palace at Arezzo. 
 The Eoman household was to strike fresh roots 
 into Tuscan soil. Pompilia was to pay her por- 
 tion of the charge with her dowry, and the rest 
 was to come out of the empty purse of Pietro. 
 
 There was a chuckle of satisfaction in Pietro's 
 throat upon making terms so helpful to his 
 broken fortunes at so opportune a moment, and 
 the inward gratification he derived from this 
 went far to heal the woimd made by the dis- 
 obedience of his wife and the risk it involved 
 to his daughter's happiness. On their part, 
 Paolo and Guido were equally gleeful over so 
 favorable a settlement. Paolo's eyes twinkled 
 with insuppressible exultation at having so far 
 achieved his dearest hope of inveigling old Com- 
 parini into an agreement which should restore 
 the noble house of Franceschini. They had, in 
 short, each outwitted the other, and laid up an 
 endless store of rancor for the bitter future that 
 was approaching. 
 
 Thus, with only the twilight of their lives still 
 to spend, Pietro and his spouse went to Arezzo, 
 eager to enjoy the lord- and ladyship gained by 
 their doubtful bargain. Guido, on his part,
 
 36 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 longed for the tranquillity purchased by his new 
 venture, and looked with relief towards a future 
 free from display and ambitions. But the Com- 
 parini were anxious to begin where he had left 
 off. This was not a promising state in which to 
 enter upon such an arrangement as theirs ; and 
 a woful want of harmony was apparent even 
 during the first week of their common residence 
 at the so-called palace. 
 
 "This," cried Pietro and Violante in a breath, 
 — " this the Count, the palace, the privilege and 
 luxury that were promised us ! For this have 
 we exchanged our liberty, our competence, and 
 our darling child ! Why, this is a sepulchre, a 
 mere stone-heap, a disgrace to the very street 
 it stands in, and that the vilest street in the 
 whole town as it is." 
 
 They harped in turn upon their wrongs. Now 
 it was Yiolante who mourned the loss of her 
 accustomed diet and inveighed against the mea- 
 greness of Guido's fare ; then Pietro, with a plaint 
 for the Via Vittoria and the pleasant villa in 
 the Pauline. 
 
 " "Where is the neighborliness and feasts and 
 holidays," ruefully asked Yiolante, — " ay, even 
 the cheerful sun that used to shine for us 
 in Eome ? Where are they ? We are robbed 
 and starved and frozen. We will have justice. 
 We will go to the courts." And because Count
 
 The Bbig and the Book. 37 
 
 Guide's mother, old Lady Beatrice, made an 
 effort to placate the enraged dame, but was slow 
 to abdicate her post of mistress, she was called 
 a score of hard names, devil and dragon and 
 what not, too severe for frail humanity to bear ; 
 but the elderly noblewoman stood upon her 
 ancestral dignity and only infuriated her op- 
 ponent the more with her provoking contempt. 
 
 All this Count Guido suffered with assumed 
 forbearance, for he did not relish a rupture with 
 the Comparini before he should be blessed with 
 an heir as an additional pledge of his title to 
 Pietro's fortune. But after four months' expe- 
 rience of such a life, with Pietro trumpeting his 
 wrongs at church and in the market-place, and 
 Violante pouring hers into any pair of ears 
 that would listen, — after the exhaustion of all 
 his calculating and wary patience the Count 
 was glad at last to get rid of them, even at the 
 risk of endangering his nicely-plotted scheme. 
 
 So, their worst done, saving the final breach, 
 the Comparini one day renounced their share 
 of the bargain ; flung in Guido' s face the debt 
 due them for maintenance never rendered ; left 
 their heart's darling, as they said, at the mercy 
 of her husband's cruelty ; bade Arezzo to rot, 
 and cursed it one and all; then travelled on 
 vociferating and enraged to Rome. 
 
 Now, it was Jubilee week in Rome when Pietro 
 
 4 
 
 ^ oon^i*l
 
 38 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 and Violante arrived there. The good old Pope 
 Innocent the Twelfth had ordained a celebration 
 of his eightieth birthday, and the city was given 
 over to festivities. He had also benignly de- 
 creed a pardon for minor offences of conscience, 
 and a leniency towards baser crimes, provided 
 the offender confessed and was shriven of his 
 guilt during the week of Jubilee. This set the 
 injured Violante to brooding over her long-hid- 
 den sin against Pietro. She had never quite 
 been able to clear her conscience of the stain 
 of having entered into the unrighteous bargain 
 for the purchase of Pompilia. JSTo evil had, she 
 tried to believe, ever arisen from it. Pietro 
 was still alive, and the distant relatives who 
 would have inherited his money were in no 
 wise defrauded of their due. On the other hand, 
 the child had been reclaimed, and much good 
 had thus actually been accomplished. Never- 
 theless the sense of guilt clung to her through 
 the years, though she had tried to throw it off 
 by making Pompilia happy, by marrying her 
 into a noble family, and by sacrificing all she 
 possessed for the girl's sake. Now, however, 
 that she found herself in Eome with such bitter 
 experiences rankling in her mind and a deep 
 hatred of Guido inciting her to any extreme 
 for the sake of revenge, now that she might so 
 easily gain the good Pope's absolution, and at
 
 The Ring and the Book. 89 
 
 the same time deal a deadly blow at Count 
 Guide, by imperilling his wife's dowry, she be- 
 gan to think more constantly of her sin and 
 more seriously and deeply to repent of it. 
 
 So she muffled and veiled herself and went 
 one day to church, where she entered with the 
 straggling throngs and made her way to the 
 confessional. There she knelt down, with beat- 
 ing heart, and in a hushed and broken voice re- 
 vealed to the listening ear all the odious details 
 of her plot : how she had bought Pompilia, 
 palmed her off on the unsuspecting Pietro, and 
 then married her to Count Gruido. The reply 
 came like a note from the trump of fate. Be- 
 fore she could be absolved of guilt she must 
 make restitution. 
 
 " Do your part," said the measured voice. 
 " Tell your husband's defrauded heirs. Tell 
 your husband himself, who has been entrapped 
 into paternal love for a child not his own. Tell 
 Count Guido, your son-in-law, — tell him, and 
 bear his just anger. Then, when you have duly 
 done penance, come hither, and you may be par- 
 doned ; not before." 
 
 When Violante arose from her knees her mind 
 was firmly made up. She went directly home 
 and made a contrite avowal of her wrong-doing 
 to Pietro, who listened in astonishment, yet 
 with no visible emotion, to her startling revela-
 
 40 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 tion. He was stunned by the news, but there 
 was a mitia-atinjT note which sounded through it 
 all and made it bearable. He loved Pompilia 
 truh^ and to have been told this about her six 
 months ago would have wounded him hke cold 
 steel, but now all was different. If Pompilia 
 were not their child, then the disastrous bargain 
 with Count Guido was cancelled and the rem- 
 nant of his means was still his own. Perhaps, 
 too, he thought, with the leap at a hoped-for 
 conclusion common to us all when the clouds of 
 misfortune seem about to break, perhaps when 
 the Count hears that he has married a base-born 
 waif he will cast her off, and we shall then have 
 our dear Pompilia back again as well as her 
 dowry. 
 
 There was only one way in which Pietro 
 might bring this new turn of affairs to Guido's 
 notice, and that lay through the civil courts. 
 The Comparini were now actually destitute, 
 and had been obliged, since their return to 
 Eome, to live upon the indulgence of old friends 
 who were little enough inclined thus to pay 
 for past hospitalities. Hence on the morrow 
 Pietro began an action to recover his pledge 
 from Count Guido, and Violante blushingly ap- 
 peared and made public declaration of her fault. 
 She renounced her motherhood, and prayed the 
 law of Home to interpose and redress the injury
 
 The Ring and the Book. 41 
 
 which had resulted from her misdeed to her and 
 hers. 
 
 Guide, on his part, made answer that tlie 
 story was one long falsehood invented to rob 
 him of his own and gain a shameless revenge 
 for fancied wrongs. And thus, with crimina- 
 tion and recrimination, bitter reproach and fierce 
 reply, they fought out the cause before the ec- 
 clesiastical judges who tried, in those times, all 
 the cases within the jurisdiction of the Church. 
 
 At last the trial was finished and the court 
 gave its verdict. The wise judges inclined to 
 the moderate middle course. They held the 
 child to be a waif; but, lest Guido should suf- 
 fer by such a decision, they adjudged him the 
 dowry even while they acknowledged it not to 
 belong to her. It was to be looked upon as a 
 partial repayment for the injury done him, not 
 his by right of marriage. As for Pietro's con- 
 tract of renunciation of his own estate, that 
 was to be annulled, for he, at least, was no 
 party to the misdoing. 
 
 Such a decree was satisfactory neither to 
 Guido nor to Pietro, and each pleaded immedi- 
 ately for a reinvestigation of the case. This 
 proceeding necessarily caused delay, and the 
 matter therefore rested for the time in an un- 
 settled condition. 
 
 Hence the bitterness on all sides was deepened, 
 
 4*
 
 42 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 and Guido, whose sinister disposition had been 
 intensified by disappointment and ridicule, began 
 to vent upon his wife the rage he could not visit 
 upon her parents. He was left alone in the 
 grim ruin of a palace with his brooding hatred 
 of Pietro and Violante, and the only subject 
 with which to satisfy his longing for revenge 
 was his innocent wife. Suppose he should cast 
 her otf, turn her out of doors ? But the dowiy 
 was in the way. He must not part from her 
 or repudiate her, or his right to the one thing 
 for which he married her would come into 
 question. No, he must not be foolish. But she 
 could be made to suffer. There was nothing to 
 hinder that. And suffer she should, if his pent- 
 up malice could torture her or bring her into 
 shame. Oh, how he hated her ! Every accent 
 of her childlike voice, every movement of her 
 tender lips, made him think of the deep insult, 
 the cruel wrong to his noble house inflicted by 
 her plebeian kin. 
 
 He laid his plans with cool deliberation. If 
 Pompilia could be induced in some way to fly 
 from his house and follow her parents to Eome, 
 if she should break forth in open revolt and 
 voluntarily leave him, then there would be no 
 question of his ownership in the dowry. He 
 would be rid of her and confirmed in his posses- 
 sion of her money at one fortunate stroke. His
 
 The Ring and the Book. 43 
 
 •would be the universal sympathy, hers the gen- 
 eral reproach, and thus he might enjoy the dear 
 boon of revenge upon the whole three at once. 
 Everything was to gain by this method, and he 
 went craftily to work upon it. 
 
 To Pompilia, the news that she was not the 
 daughter of Pietro and Violante had come with 
 little effect. Her love for them was undimin- 
 ished, and she felt sure of their love for her. 
 It was simply one of the phases of the endless 
 wrangle with her husband, and she could not 
 understand it any better than she understood 
 all the rest of the puzzling and distressing quar- 
 rel. But one day as she sat alone, musing, per- 
 haps, upon the old childish pleasures of her 
 home, and longing to be with her parents again, 
 Guido came in to her with a conciliatory look 
 and bent over her, reaching a paper for her to 
 see, on which were pencilled some faint lines of 
 writing. " Look," he said, pointing to the text 
 with a long finger, " I have written you a letter 
 here to my brother the Abate. He will want 
 to know how we get on together, the household 
 news, and this and that. Mere compliment and 
 courtesy. You cannot write, you say ? But it 
 would please Paolo to hear from you, and you 
 can easily re-trace those pencil lines in ink. 
 Sign it so," and he pointed to her name at the 
 end, " and let me send it when you have finished.
 
 44 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 It will be a kindly thing, a sisterly act, in truth, 
 and Paolo will be pleased." 
 
 He watched her and guided her pen some- 
 times as she wrote, and when she had reached 
 the end he took the letter from her and went 
 to his own apartment, chuckling to himself as 
 he read what she had been made to say. She 
 was rejoiced, so the letter ran, that her vile 
 kinsfolk at last were gone. She revealed, piece 
 by piece, all the depths of their malice, and how 
 they even laid an injunction on her before they 
 left that she should allure some young gallant 
 to her side, and plot with him to rob her hus- 
 band, then burn the house down, taking care 
 previously to poison all the inmates overnight, 
 and, thus accompanied, fly to Rome and there 
 join fortunes with them once more. 
 
 "With such a letter in hand the Abate did much 
 in Rome to prejudice his powerful friends against 
 the Comparini and to improve his brother's 
 prospect of a speedy solution of the case in his 
 favor. He insinuated, too, to his confidants that 
 perhaps there lay in the letter the germ of a dark 
 plan some day to be put to use. " Who knows," 
 he would whisper, " what such a woman maybe 
 capable of? You see how she slips from side 
 to side, one day for Guido, one day for her 
 parents. Pray God she tries no such odious plot 
 as she hints of here upon poor brother Guido !"
 
 The Ring and the Book. 45 
 
 III. 
 
 Theee was in Arezzo at the time when Pom- 
 piUa became the bride of Count Guido a canon 
 of the Church named Giuseppe Caponsacchi. 
 He was a tall and courtly priest, with a thought- 
 ful brow, and deep, earnest, brooding eyes. His 
 family was the oldest and noblest of the city, 
 and he was thus free to move among the most 
 eminent of his fellow-townsmen, their equal 
 in birth, wealth, and social graces, and their 
 superior in learning and loftiness of character. 
 Like most of the prelates of his day, his de- 
 votion to the Church did not prevent him 
 from courteous gallantries among the ladies of 
 Arezzo, for the Church drew around her all that 
 was fair and gay, encouraged her devotees to 
 gather the sweets of life as well as the eternal 
 harvest of religion. 
 
 One night, then, at the theatre, as the Canon 
 Caponsacchi and a brother priest, the Canon 
 Conti, cousin to Count Guido, disported them- 
 selves in a merry mood proper to the place and 
 the play, they saw enter, stand an instant as if 
 insensibly waiting a command, and then finally 
 seat herself, a lady who was young, tall, and 
 beautiful. A strangeness and a demure sadness, 
 too, hovered about her girlish face, and it im- 
 pressed Caponsacchi, he said, as when he got up
 
 46 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 once after a matin-song and saw the workmen 
 break away a board or two from a rude box 
 lifted upon the altar. He looked again, and — 
 there, inside, was a Eaphael ! 
 
 lie was staring steadily at her in his admira- 
 tion of her beauty and melancholy charm, when 
 the laughing Conti cried, — 
 
 " Look now ; I'll make her return your 
 gaze." 
 
 He tossed a twisted paper of comfits into 
 her lap, then dodged behind Caponsacchi's 
 back, nodding and blinking the while over his 
 shoulder. At this she turned, looked their way 
 an instant, and smiled sadly at the hardihood 
 of the priestly gallants. 
 
 " Isn't she fair?" said Conti. " She's my new 
 cousin, the Lady Pompilia. The fellow lurking 
 there in the back of the box is Count Guido, 
 the old scapegrace ! She's his wife. Married 
 three years ago. How he sulks 1" And he went 
 on to tell all the gossip about the marriage, 
 and Guido's poverty and Pompilia's prospective 
 wealth. " Oh, to-morrow I shall suffer !" he 
 continued. " I was a fool to fling the sweetmeats. 
 To-morrow I'll invent some fib and see if I can't 
 find means to take you there." 
 
 That night and the next day Caponsacchi 
 could think of nothing else but Pompilia and 
 her beautiful sad face. At vespers Conti leaned
 
 The Ring and the Book. 47 
 
 beside his seat in the choir, and part whispered, 
 part sung to hira, — 
 
 " I've louted low, but to no purpose. He saw 
 you staring, — don't incline to know you any 
 nearer. He'd lick your shoe, though, if you 
 and certain others managed him warily (here a 
 chanted verse), — but spare the wife ! He beats 
 her as it is. She's breaking her heart quite fast 
 enough. Ah, you rogue, — there are plenty of 
 others (another verse) — little Light-skirts yon- 
 der, — every one knows what great dame she 
 makes jealous. Spare the wife, though !" And 
 then the light-hearted Conti went on with his 
 pious chant. 
 
 The next week Caponsacchi was upbraided 
 by his patron the Archbishop. " Young man," 
 said the worldly-wise old prelate, " can it be true 
 that after all your promises to be attentive to 
 the ladies, you go and play truant all day long in 
 church ? Are you turning Molinist, forsooth ?" 
 
 " Sir, what if I turned Christian ?" Caponsac- 
 chi answered quickly. " The fact is, I am some- 
 what troubled in my mind. Arezzo is too 
 limited a world. It is said that a priest who 
 wants to think should go to Eome : so I'm going 
 to Eome. I mean to live alone and look into 
 my heart a little." 
 
 " When Lent was ended," he told his friends, 
 " he would go to Eome."
 
 48 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 But much was to happen before Caponsacchi 
 could go to Eome. 
 
 His heart was touched into something very like 
 love for the fair woman who had won his sym- 
 pathy. He did not know, no one ever knows 
 when once he becomes the thrall of a genuine 
 passion, how little he is his own master. He 
 tried to cast off the alluring fancy by a renewed 
 application to his books ; but he knew not that 
 the strongest symptom of the hold Pompilia's 
 beauty and distress had taken upon him was 
 this very disinclination to mingle with the 
 women he had until lately seen almost daily. 
 To read and study and ponder his religious 
 duty were in reality but the readiest means of 
 keeping before his solitary mind the image of 
 the ill-wedded girl. 
 
 Not long after this he was sitting in a deep 
 revery at twilight, with an unread book open 
 on his knees, thinking how his life was shaken 
 under him, — how great a gap lies between 
 what is and what should be ; perhaps, too, 
 how far off he, a priest and celibate, was from 
 the sad, strange wife of Guido, — he with a 
 whole store of strengths eating into his heart, 
 while she, maybe, was in need of a finger's 
 help, and yet there was no way in the wide 
 world to stretch forth a finger to help her. 
 Her smile, too, when he would resolutely begin
 
 The Ring and the Book. 49 
 
 again to scan the page, glowed through the 
 pi'iuted lines and set him reverizing anew. In 
 truth, Caponsacchi was a man of deep emotions 
 though outwardly cold, and when once a feeling 
 took possession of him it became his master 
 and swayed his entire being. 
 
 A gentle tap came upon the chamber door, 
 and he bade the visitor to enter. There glided 
 in a masked and mutfled woman, who laid a let- 
 ter lightly on the opened book, then stood with 
 folded arms and an impatient movement of the 
 foot waiting for his reply. 
 
 The letter ran that she to whom he had lately 
 thrown the comfits had a warm heart to give 
 in exchange — and gave it, — loved him, and thus 
 confessed it. It bade him render thanks for the 
 gift by going that night to the side of her house 
 where a small terrace overhung a blind and 
 deserted street, — not the street in front. Her 
 husband was away at his villa of Yittiano. 
 
 " And you," he asked, " what may you be ?" 
 
 " Count Guido's maid," she said ; " most of us 
 have more than one function in his house. We 
 all hate him, and the lady suffers so much. We 
 pity her, and would help her at any risk, — espe- 
 cially since her choice is so wise a one." Here she 
 bowed meaningly to the Canon. " What answer, 
 sir, may I carry to the sweet Pompilia ?" 
 
 Then he took pen and wrote, — 
 I.— c d 5
 
 50 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " Xo more of this ! That you are indeed fair 
 I know, but other thoughts occupy my mind at 
 present. Once it would have been otherwise. 
 What made you, if I may ask, marry your 
 hideous husband ? 'Twas a fault, and now you 
 taste the bitter fruit of it. Farewell." 
 
 " There !" he cried, exultingly, as she snatched 
 the note and went out, " the jealous miscreant 
 is crushed by his own engine. His mean soul 
 shows through the whole transparent trick!" 
 And he thought how, a month ago, he might 
 have been the willing dupe of the knave, per- 
 haps have gone off to keep the appointment with 
 a cudgel hidden under his cloak. Now, he was 
 not in the mood. 
 
 But next morning brought the messenger 
 again, with a second letter. 
 
 " You are cruel, my Thyrsis," it said, " and 
 Myrtilla moans neglected, but still adores you. 
 Why do you not come ? You must love some 
 one else. I hear you do. I blush to say it, but 
 take me too ! There's a reason . I hear you mean 
 to go to Eome. I am wretched here ; the monster 
 tortures me. Come carry me with you. Come ! 
 Say you will. Do not write. I am always at my 
 chamber window over the terrace. Come !" 
 
 lie looked keenly at the veiled messenger, 
 and, slyly feigning, lifted an end of her mask, 
 which let out a smile.
 
 The Ring and the Book. 51 
 
 " So you gave my lines to the merry lady ?" 
 he said. 
 
 " Yes, sir. She almost kissed off the wax, and 
 what paper was not quite kissed away she put 
 caressingly into her bosom. Ah, she wept all 
 night because you did not come " 
 
 "Then wrote this second letter?" said Capon- 
 sacchi. 
 
 " Yes. She may expect you, then, at ves- 
 pers ?" 
 
 "What risk do we run of being discovered 
 by Count Gruido?" asked Caponsacchi. 
 
 "Why, none at all," said the messenger, 
 eagerly. " He's away. He spends the nights 
 at this season up at his villa. Besides, his bug- 
 bear is the Canon Conti, not you. He'd never 
 suspect you." 
 
 The Canon wrote : " In vain do you tempt 
 me. I am a priest, you are a wedded wife. 
 Whatever kind of brute your husband may be, 
 I have my scruples. Yet, should you really 
 
 show a sign at the window And yet again, 
 
 no ! Best be good. My thoughts are elsewhere." 
 "Take her that." He reached out the letter 
 and the woman withdrew. 
 
 For a whole month after this the missives 
 followed thick and fast. Caponsacchi was now 
 and again overtaken in the street by the veiled 
 messenger, and even beckoned to in the very
 
 52 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 church itself. Everj'where that a note could be 
 lodged in his accustomed paths, there he was 
 sure to find one. But he always answered in 
 the same tone, always resisted and reproached 
 the temptress. 
 
 One day, however, there was a variation of 
 the monotonous message. 
 
 "You have gained very little by timidity. 
 My husband has found out my love for you at 
 length, and knows noAv that Cousin Conti was 
 merely the stalking-horse for other game. My 
 husband will stick at nothing to destroy you in 
 Arezzo. Stand prepared to leave for Eome at 
 once. I bade you visit me here, but now all is 
 changed. The season is past at the villa, and he 
 is at home. I beseech you stay away from the 
 window ! He may be posted there at any time." 
 
 Caponsacchi was piqued by such a warning to 
 do the very thing it counselled him against. 
 Solicited to go to the palace, he resisted with 
 all the force of his sturdy moral nature. Ex- 
 horted to keep away, that same sturdy nature 
 asserted its independence, stood upon its rights, 
 and urged him on. He wrote, — 
 
 "You raise my courage, or, rather, provoke 
 my curiosity, by your last note. Tell him he 
 owns the palace, but not the street. That be- 
 longs to us all. If I should happen upon that 
 way to-night, Guido will have two troubles :
 
 The Bing and the Book. 53 
 
 first to get into a rage, then to get out again. 
 Be cautious. At the Ave !" 
 
 At nightfall Caponsacchi went to the rendez- 
 vous. He stood, at last, beneath the very win- 
 dow. Then, in place of touching the conven- 
 tional lute, he cried aloud, — 
 
 " Out of your hole. Count Franceschini! Show 
 yourself! Hear what a man thinks of a thing 
 like you, and afterwards take what I mean to 
 give you !" 
 
 Scarcely had he uttered the words when he 
 turned once more, and there, at the window, 
 framed in its black square, with a lamp in her 
 hand, stood Pompilia. Before he could quite 
 recover from his astonishment and assure him- 
 self that she was really flesh and blood, she had 
 vanished. 
 
 He thought they had brought her there on 
 some pretence of seeing a procession or a wed- 
 ding-band go by, and that she was unconscious 
 that they were using her as a snare for him. 
 He was about to repeat his challenge to Guido, 
 when all at once she reappeared, but this time 
 on the terrace just above him. She could have 
 touched his bowed head as she bent down ; but 
 he stood as if transfixed. 
 
 " You have sent me letters, sir," she said in 
 a sad, lowered voice and with furtive glances 
 back into the gloom. " I can neither read nor
 
 54 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 write, and hence I have read none of them. 
 But the woman you gave them to, one of those 
 in whose power I am, has partly explained their 
 sense to me. She makes me listen, and reads an 
 odious thing, — that you, a priest, can love me, 
 a wife, because you once got a glimpse of my 
 face. I cannot, sir, believe this ; but, oh ! good 
 and true love would help me so much now. So 
 much, so much ! Is it possible — can it be, that 
 you do mean what is good and true ? You seem 
 the soul of truth, and have not been untrue to 
 me ; I can read it in your eyes. Will you not 
 take me to Eome, then? When do you go? 
 Each minute lost is fatal. When, when ? I ask." 
 
 Caponsacchi spoke fervently, but in a guarded 
 whisper, " Take you ! It would be inhuman, un- 
 manly, to leave you. Yes, you shall go to your 
 friends to-morrow, as soon as I can arrange for 
 the journey. How shall I see you and help 
 you to escape ?" 
 
 "O good and true!" she said. "Pass to- 
 morrow at this hour. If I am at the open 
 window, all is well. If I am absent, drop a 
 handkerchief and walk by. I shall see you 
 in my hiding-place, and know that everything 
 is ready. Return at the same time the next 
 evening, and the next, and so, till we can meet 
 and speak." 
 
 "To-morrow at this hour I will be here," said
 
 The Ring and the Book. 55 
 
 Caponsacchi, and then she withdrew into the 
 house. 
 
 Caponsacchi wandered away through the 
 streets, unconscious whither he went. He was 
 full of conflicting thoughts, of reasons for and 
 against his promised course, of fears lest he 
 should bring Pompilia shame by helping her as 
 she had asked, and of fierce determination to 
 leave her no longer at Guido's mercy. 
 
 When the gray of morning broke he found 
 himself facing his own church of the Pieve, 
 and felt the reproaches of his broken vows. 
 The Church seemed to tell him to give Pompilia 
 up; and, rising to the level of self-renuncia- 
 tion which she had taught him, he resolved to 
 obey it. He went home and tried to busy him- 
 self with his books, but the effort came to naught. 
 He saw nothing save the one black name across 
 every white page. When sunset came he madly 
 yearned to go to her, but he resisted. What if 
 he were charged with cowardice and fear ? He 
 knew she would divine his true motive. 
 
 But the next evening another thought came 
 to him and absolved him from his determination. 
 Being a priest, he persuaded himself that he 
 must not neglect the priest's peculiar duties. 
 He decided to go to her as a friend, to advise 
 her and administer spiritual comfort. 
 
 There she stood, waiting, oyer the terrace,
 
 56 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 and when he drew near she spoke with hurried 
 anxiety. 
 
 " AYhy, why have you made me wait two long 
 days? We are both in the same mind: why 
 delay ? You know my need. Still, through God's 
 pity on me, there is time ! Oh, save me, save me !" 
 
 " Lady, waste no word, even to forgive me," 
 he passionately answered. " Leave this house 
 to-morrow night just before daybreak ; there's a 
 new moon now, and there will be no light in 
 the early morning. Go to the Torrione, step 
 across the broken wall, take San Clemente, — 
 there's no other gate unguarded then, — cross to 
 the inn beyond, and I will be there." 
 
 " If I can find the way," she said, — " but I will 
 find it! Go now!" And then she too turned 
 and went away. 
 
 Caponsacchi went home and made what ex- 
 cuses were needful to his servants. Then he put 
 on a secular costume, and, dreaming all the way 
 of the ecstatic minute when Pompilia should 
 appear to him at the inn, wandered thither 
 hours before the time appointed. 
 
 When the day began to break she came down 
 the dark road and over the ruined wall. She 
 was dressed all in black from head to foot. She 
 did not speak, but glided swiftly into the car- 
 riage. Caponsacchi cried to the postilion hur- 
 riedly and under his breath.
 
 The Bing and the Book. 57 
 
 " To Kome, then ask what you will !" 
 He sprang in beside her, and at last they 
 were alone. 
 
 IV. 
 
 It was near noonday on the morning of Pom- 
 pilia's flight that, as Count Guido afterwards 
 averred upon his trial, he rose from bed, startled 
 into consciousness by some unwonted noise 
 among his servants, and found himself dazed 
 and bewildered. He had a strange taste in his 
 mouth, he said, as of a sickening opiate, and his 
 eyes were heavy and sightless. His wife was 
 gone from his side, and scattered about the 
 room were a rifled clothes-chest, a money-coffer 
 turned upside down, and several empty jewel- 
 boxes. 
 
 " What does this mean ?" he demanded sternly 
 of his servants ; but they had been drugged as 
 well as he, and it dawned very gradually upon 
 them that Pompilia had eloped. 
 
 " But whither, and with whom ?" asked Guido. 
 
 " With whom but the Canon ?" they answered 
 in chorus, and then, with subtly-hinted igno- 
 rance and assumed despair and rage, he listened 
 to the whole story of Caponsacchi's supposed 
 correspondence with his wife. He could scarcely 
 forbear a chuckle at the complete success of his 
 plan, but he kept up the appearance of grief
 
 58 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 with excellent effect, the more especially as 
 most of his servants were awake to his deceit, 
 and the gathered neighbors, though not perhaps 
 conscious of his last baseness, were nevertheless 
 too rejoiced at the escape of the ill-treated wife 
 to scan very critically the actions of the hus- 
 band. 
 
 Guido got into the saddle at once, and, un- 
 accompanied by even a single servant, for rea- 
 sons of his own, set out in pursuit of the fugi- 
 tives. He found by inquiring at the earlier 
 stages on the Eoman road, that they had a start 
 of eight hours at least, but he cantered steadily 
 on, grim and determined, his one hope being 
 to overtake them before they actually reached 
 Eome, where they would pass into the jurisdic- 
 tion of the Church and so elude the full extent 
 of his vengeance. 
 
 Meanwhile, Caponsacchi and Pompilia had 
 driven with unbroken speed, scarce resting for 
 the bread and wine which were handed them 
 while the horses were changing, and never 
 alighting the whole day or night through until 
 they-were within twelve hours' journey of Eome. 
 Then in the early morning they quickly started 
 off again, after the exhausted Pompilia had 
 received a bowl of milk from a woman at the 
 post-house gate ; and they made no other stops 
 until they had reached the little white-walled
 
 The Ring and the Book. 69 
 
 clump of houses and cypress-trees which is 
 called Castelnuovo. 
 
 " Eome !" cried Caponsacchi, " Eome is the 
 next stage, think ! You are saved, sweet lady !" 
 
 The sky was aflame with a fierce red sunset, 
 and when Pompilia awoke at his voice she 
 looked about her in a bewildered way as if 
 dazzled by the burst of color. 
 
 "No farther, no farther!" she exclaimed; "I 
 can go no farther now !" And then she swooned 
 and lay still and white in Caponsacchi's arms. 
 
 He bore her down from the coach and into 
 the inn through a pitying group of grooms and 
 idlers, and laid her on a couch within-doors. 
 The host urged him to let her rest an hour or 
 so, and though he dreaded to halt before they 
 entered Eome, yet he could not refuse. He 
 paced the passage and kept watch all night 
 long, but she made not a single movement nor 
 uttered even a sigh. They counselled him to 
 have no fear, she slept so soundly ; but he feared 
 more and more as the hours sped on that 
 something would happen to arrest their flight 
 and prevent the fulfilment of Pompilia's dearest 
 wish of joining her parents. 
 
 At the first touch of midnight gray in the east 
 he was in the yard, urging the sleepy grooms 
 to have out the coach and horses ; offering them 
 anything, all he possessed, if they would only
 
 60 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 make haste. They worked drowsily enough in 
 the doubtful morning; but Caponsacchi felt that 
 he must awaken Pompilia even now, early as 
 it was, and he turned towards the steps to 
 ascend to her. 
 
 There, facing him in the dusk court-yard, 
 stood the grim and revengeful Count Guido. 
 
 " Good-morning to your priestship!" the Count 
 half hissed out with bitter emphasis. " Come, 
 the lady ! — how could you leave her so soon ? 
 You've escaped my treatment ; you slept with- 
 out drugs, I see. But I have you at last !" He 
 spoke now in a higher voice, and addressed the 
 officers he had brought in with him. 
 
 "Help, friends! Here, this is a priest, this 
 rascal in his smart disguise, with a sword at 
 his side. My runaway wife is up-stairs. Do 
 your duty, quick. Arrest and hold him. 
 There, bravo ! Now come up with me and take 
 her." 
 
 On either side of Caponsacchi instantly stood 
 an officer, or he would have thrown himself, 
 boiling with hatred, upon the craven Count, 
 and plunged the sword he was so little used to 
 handling through his heart. The Count instinc- 
 tively felt this, and kept at a good arm's length 
 from him, even while he was in the custody of 
 the officers. But when Guido spoke of cap- 
 turing her, Caponsacchi was sobered.
 
 The Ring and the Book. 61 
 
 "Let me lead the way," he exclaimed, "and 
 see, when we meet, if you can detect any guilt 
 on her face; then judge between us and him." 
 And he pointed contemptuously towards Count 
 Guido. 
 
 They all went up together and entered 
 Pompilia's chamber. She lay there in the 
 early morning sunlight as calmly as when 
 Caponsacchi had brought her in the evening 
 before. 
 
 Guido stalked up to the couch and pointed 
 to the pale face on the pillow. 
 
 " Here she lies, feigning sleep ! Seize her, 
 bind her !" he said. 
 
 She started up then, aroused by the tumult 
 of many feet and voices, and stood erect, face 
 to face with her husband. He fell back to 
 the alcove of the window, his black figure 
 showing like a blot against the flood of morn- 
 ing light, and as he retreated, all the latent 
 energy of her being was kindled by the sight 
 of him. 
 
 "Away from between me and my doom!" 
 she cried. " I am in God's hands now, — no 
 longer yours!" And she pointed scornfully, 
 like an angered queen, to the door, looking 
 across her shoulder the while fearlessly into his 
 face. 
 
 Caponsacchi made an effort to reach her side 
 
 6
 
 62 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 from where he stood in the door-way, but he 
 was pinioned fast.' As he struggled the crowd 
 pressed upon him. 
 
 " And him, too !" she cried ; " you outrage him 
 with your vile touch? But I'll save him !" 
 
 She leapt at Guido's sword, drew it, and 
 brandished it, crying, "Die, in God's name!" 
 but they closed about her twelve to one and 
 disarmed her, and she lay at last, overcome and 
 deadly white, upon the bed. 
 
 Pompilia's threatening use of the sword had 
 intimidated Guido, and he hastened to have her 
 taken into custody. 
 
 "You saw, you heard?" he cried again and 
 again. " Bear witness to her disloyalty and 
 write down her words !" Then he commanded 
 them to carry Caponsacchi and Pompilia to 
 the prison, meanwhile himself undertaking the 
 search of the apartment. His fear was fast 
 passing away now, and he began to strut about 
 the room directing the attendants hither and 
 thither in search of incriminating booty. Not 
 a few winks were exchanged by the gossips 
 who watched the work ; and whispered sar- 
 casms, levelled at Guido, clearly spoke the 
 temper of the crowd. He was becoming a 
 laughing-stock, revealing his true character 
 under his temporary sense of triumph, and the 
 sympathy of the by-standers, which had eddied
 
 The Ring and the Book. 63 
 
 in his favor at the first, was fast flowing out 
 to Pompilia and Caponsacchi, 
 
 But the Canon now, as the officers made ready 
 to lead him away, asserted himself, and claimed 
 the treatment due to his station and influence. 
 
 " We are both aliens here," he said, " both 
 noblemen of Tuscany. I am the nobler," and 
 he proudly drew himself up to all his manly 
 height, " and bear a name you all know and re- 
 spect. I could, if I wished, refer our cause to the 
 Ducal court, but I prefer, being the priest he 
 tells you I am, and disguised for reasons I will 
 reveal to my judges, to appeal to the Church I 
 serve." 
 
 Such an appeal was lawful and could not be 
 refused. They therefore bore the Canon and 
 Pompilia separately to Eome to await their 
 trial by the judicial officers of the Church. 
 
 Guido likewise, crestfallen and dishonored 
 now, despised by those who would have avenged 
 honor by the sword, and ridiculed by those who 
 had seen his craven conduct at Castelnuovo, 
 made his way to Eome, carrying such evidence 
 against the pair as he alleged he had found at 
 his palace at Arezzo and in the inn-room at 
 Castelnuovo. This consisted of all the love-let- 
 ters which he charged them with exchanging, 
 and much impassioned verse written to Pom- 
 pilia by the amorous Canon.
 
 64 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 These things, with the letter written by Pom- 
 pilia under his direction to his brother Paolo, 
 Guido brought forth in the trial which promptly 
 took place ; but he was confronted by the evi- 
 dence that Pompilia could neither read nor 
 write, and by a full and convincing denial from 
 Caponsacchi that he had ever written such 
 letters as were produced in a hand which simu- 
 lated his own. The court accepted this opposing 
 testimony, but there had been an undoubted 
 wi'ong done to Count Guido by the Canon and 
 Pompilia, and, taking the accustomed middle 
 course, it imposed upon Caponsacchi a nomi- 
 .nal banishment to Civita for three years, and 
 consigned Pompilia for a season to the convent 
 of the Convertites at Rome. 
 
 This was not the kind of verdict that Count 
 Guido had hoped for. His family pride and 
 self-love had been deeply wounded by the con- 
 duct of the Comparini and by the discovery 
 of Pompilia's base birth. But his was a vin- 
 dictive nature rather than a vain one, and the 
 miscarriage of his well-laid plot for Pompilia's 
 undoing was more painful to him than even the 
 injury done to the reputation of his noble house. 
 He was welcomed, moreover, on his return to 
 Arezzo, whither he went at the close of the 
 trial, by an exasperating volley of sly questions 
 and innuendoes impeaching his courage.
 
 The Ring and the Book. 65 
 
 " What, back — you, and no wife ? Left her 
 with the Penitents, hey?" And they plied him 
 again and again for news of Caponsacchi. " So 
 he fired up, did he, — showed fight, and all that ? 
 And you drew also, but you didn't fight. Well, 
 that's wiser ; he's an impetuous fellow, and dan- 
 gerous when he's angry." 
 
 This went on until the Count could bear it no 
 longer. His own sense of deficiency in courage 
 gnawed at his heart, and he longed for resolu- 
 tion enough to take vengeance on some of his 
 tormentors, but he dared not venture it. His 
 ardor cooled at the very touch of the sword- 
 hilt. 
 
 But there was one way of harassing the real 
 enemy and at the same time vindicating his name 
 and house. His wife's punishment was really 
 equivalent to an acknowledgment on the part 
 of the court that she was deemed guilty of in- 
 fidelity, and upon this ground he could readily 
 apply for a divorce. This he promptly did, 
 meaning by one fortunate stroke to be rid of 
 the hated Pompilia and to secui'e to himself her 
 coveted dowry, the source of all his troubles. 
 
 But the Comparini were as wary as himself 
 They immediately met this appeal with a 
 counter-claim. Pompilia was made to demand 
 a divorce from Count Guido Franceschini on 
 the score of cruelty inflicted upon her in his 
 l.—e 6*
 
 66 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 household, and by himself, his mother, and his 
 cousin, the Canon Conti. 
 
 Here was a serious dilemma. If this charge 
 were substantiated and a divorce granted to 
 Pompilia, the dowry, all he really desired and 
 contended for, could never be his. He was not 
 a brave man, nor was he a resolute one, and 
 these accumulating ills, which to a worthier 
 nature would have been spurs to firmness and 
 vigorous action, were gradually unmanning him 
 and dragging him down to the level of brutal 
 revenge. 
 
 One more blow was to come, and it came 
 quickly and cruelly. News now arrived at 
 Arezzo that, Pompilia's health demanding 
 change after three weeks' confinement in the 
 convent, the court had consented to grant her 
 request for transfer to some private place where 
 8h(i could breathe purer air and receive more 
 wholesome food. What was more likely than 
 that she should choose the Comparini's deep- 
 shaded villa by the Pauline gate ? There, at any 
 rate, she became domiciled before long, under 
 nominal imprisonment, but really free to go and 
 come as she liked. 
 
 To the Abate Paolo in Eome, who saw in 
 this arrangement an escape from the charges 
 for Pompilia's maintenance which had hitherto 
 been made upon Guido's purse, it was a welcome
 
 The Ring and the Book. 67 
 
 piece of news. But to Guido, already goaded 
 to frantic hatred of the Comparini, it was a 
 sore and deep wound. To think that he had 
 driven her from his home in the company of 
 the man she loved, for this ! To think that he 
 himself was responsible for her restoration to 
 the place of all others he wished to bar her 
 from! The thought was maddening, and he 
 brooded alone in his gloomy palace, over- 
 whelmed with miseries and nui'sing a fierce 
 resentment. 
 
 But now came a letter from Paolo bluntly 
 saying,— 
 
 " You are blessed with an heir. A child was 
 born to Pompilia in the Pauline villa on Wednes- 
 day last. This accounts for her sudden flight 
 from the convent. The Comparini have hidden 
 the child away to avoid your claims. They 
 mean to use it themselves : they well know its 
 worth to them." 
 
 This brief bit of news acted like a spark of 
 flint upon Gruido's inflammable feelings. Vanity, 
 disappointment, greed, and untold rancor and 
 pain, burst into one consuming desire for re- 
 venge. Subtle calculation, which was with him 
 an innate habit, also contributed to this burn- 
 ing impulse. Were once Pietro, Violante, and 
 Pompilia out of the way and the child adjudged 
 his own, there would be little chance for the
 
 68 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 wealth to elude him. The legality of Pompilia's 
 bii'th was still an undecided question, and with 
 herself and her parents gone, who could raise a 
 breath of opposition to the claims of an heir so 
 clearly entitled to the inheritance as Pompilia's 
 son? 
 
 Count Guido was at his villa in Yittiano when 
 the news reached him, and the sting of all his 
 accumulated bitterness impelled him to sudden 
 action. He called in his serving-people and told 
 them his wrongs. Though they had no reason 
 to love a master who was close and cruel, yet 
 their loyalty to his house and their sense of 
 justice, to which he appealed with all the art 
 taught him by his life of intrigue in Eome, 
 were aroused by his subdued yet fierce story. 
 He pictured his happiness with his young wife, 
 and dwelt on the deep injury done him by 
 Caponsacchi, who stole her away from him. 
 They scarcely waited for the end before they 
 began to murmur and raise threatening hands. 
 Their dark eyes flashed a dangerous light, and 
 at last they broke out in a clamor for vengeance. 
 
 " Not one of us," said a stalwart vine-dresser, 
 — " not one of us who dig your soil and dress 
 your vines but would have brained him, — the 
 man that tempted her. And her! — we would 
 have staked her too for her own share." 
 
 Then Guido fixed on the first four who caught
 
 The Ring and the Book. 69 
 
 his eye, resolute and lusty yeomen with fresh 
 hearts and all the young Italian fire unquenched 
 in their veins. He chose these, filled his purse 
 with what coin was left by the fleeing pair, put 
 on the first rough country dress he found ; then, 
 armed with the weapons that came first to hand, 
 the five flung out into the road and galloped on 
 to Rome. 
 
 It was on Christmas Eve that they found 
 themselves in the holy city, and they went di- 
 rectly to the Abate Paolo's house; but either 
 because he had scented the coming trouble, with 
 his subtle foresight, or because he had been sent 
 away on some sudden mission for his patron 
 Cardinal, Paolo was absent from home. 
 
 Guido and his servants, being thus foiled of 
 lodgings and a friendly hand, wandered about 
 the city for a week, meditating, but not daring, 
 in the holy season, to do the deed they were 
 bent upon. Everywhere the streets were full of 
 festivity and mirth, and through all the church 
 doors came constant echoes of the chant of 
 "Peace on earth." But to Guido the refrain 
 brought no change of heart. He knew no peace 
 and could gain none until his enemies were de- 
 stroyed. His brother's deserted house mocked 
 him with the remembrance of past happiness 
 and ease of heart. His whole life seemed barren 
 of good. He saw nothing of the face of the
 
 70 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Holy Infant, because the face of Satan lurked 
 always behind it. He ti'ied to pray, but his lips 
 murmured only hatred. The song of " Peace on 
 earth" pealed louder and louder; but he mur- 
 mured in reply, " O Lord, how long, how long 
 to be unavenged ?" 
 
 On the ninth day the strain of these conflict- 
 ing purposes became unbearable, and he felt 
 that he must act or himself perish. He started 
 up and said, " There must be an end of this ;" 
 and then came the message, scratching in his 
 brain like the tick of a death-watch, " One more 
 concession, only one sure way, and but one, to 
 determine the truth. Decide instantly; then 
 act !" 
 
 And act he did. He called his companions 
 together and instructed them in their parts. 
 They were to steal through the city that night, 
 by certain blind cuts and black turns which 
 they had already explored, to the little suburban 
 villa by the Pauline gate. 
 
 Accordingly, when the sun had gone down, 
 they set out through the snow, and reached 
 Pietro's villa without a single suspicious eye to 
 hinder their course. 
 
 V. 
 
 AViTUiN the villa life had taken on much 
 of its old appearance since Pompilia's return.
 
 The Ring and the Book. 71 
 
 The Comparini were still in sore need, and the 
 gossip arising from their now notorious affairs 
 had exposed the encroaching traces of poverty 
 which they had taken such pains to conceal. 
 The birth of Pompilia's child, too, had brought 
 new cares, but it had also brought new and 
 tenderer sentiments to the fireside, so that all 
 else which touched upon the unfortunate mar- 
 riage was allowed to rest silently in the hearts 
 of the restored household. The worst had come 
 and gone, they said, and they were still together 
 to bless and comfort each other, and they asked 
 for nothing more. 
 
 The villa by the Pauline gate, which looked 
 gloomy enough in the dusk shade of the sum- 
 mer leaves, was not made much more cheerful 
 by the bare limbs which now rose before it 
 and partly screened it from the road. It was 
 a place at all seasons of the year to conjure up 
 thoughts of midnight alarms and masked rob- 
 bery; and when the snow-laden winds blew 
 about its gables it had more than ever the ap- 
 pearance of inviting stealthy crimes. 
 
 But the interior was cheerful enough, what- 
 ever the outside might suggest. Around the 
 blazing hearth the family group sat comfortably 
 bending in to the glow of the wood and talked of 
 Pompilia's boy, what he should do and be when 
 he was grown up, and what name he should
 
 72 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 bear, — Pompilia said Gaetano, — and a thousand 
 fancies more wliich Pompilia set on foot, and 
 which the old couple spun eagerly and endlessly 
 out. 
 
 They had given Pompilia each an arm to lead 
 her about from the couch to the fireside, and 
 now they laughed as she lay safe in her seat, 
 predicting how, one day, she should have a 
 strong son's arm to help her in her need. Then 
 they all laughed again in quiet contentment and 
 wished one another once more a happy New 
 Year. 
 
 But Pietro still dwelt a little on his wrongs 
 and his slender purse, and occasionally he would 
 break forth with half a sigh for the old friends 
 and old habits. 
 
 " Our cause is gained," he said, " but we will 
 avoid the city now, — no more parade and feast- 
 ing, and all that. We'll go to the other villa 
 still farther off, where we can watch the boy 
 grow. Ah, well, one or two friends may still 
 hunt us up, — and I'll have a flask of the old 
 sort for them, never fear." 
 
 "You chatter like a crow," said Yiolante. 
 "Pompilia's tired now and must go to bed. 
 Enough for the first day, a little more to-mor- 
 row, and the next she can begin to knit. I've 
 spun wool enough ; see, child !" And she held 
 up the bulky skeins.
 
 Tlie Ring and the Book. 73 
 
 The next day about noon Pietro wont out. 
 He was so happy, and talked so much, that 
 Violante pushed him forth into the cold. 
 
 " So much to see in the churches," she said. 
 "Swathe your throat three times round, and 
 above all beware of the slippery ways, and 
 bring us all the news by supper-time." 
 
 He came back late and laid by his cloak, staif, 
 and hat. They were powdered thick with snow, 
 and Pompilia and Violante laughed at them, as 
 he rolled out a great ashen log upon the hearth 
 and bade Yiolante treat to a flask in return 
 for his obedience. Ay, he had gone faithfully 
 through the seven churches, and there was 
 none to his mind like old San Giovanni. 
 
 " There's the fold," he said, " and the sheep, 
 in a flock, as big as cats ! And such a shepherd, 
 — half life-size, — he starts up and hears the 
 angel " 
 
 Then at the door there came a tap. They all 
 Btarted up together. Yiolante went over, and, 
 without lifting the latch, called, — 
 
 « Who's there ?" 
 
 She stood listening. 
 
 After a moment's silence some one on the 
 other side answered, — 
 
 " Giuseppe Caponsaeehi." 
 
 It was Guido who had answered As the five 
 stealthy figures stole u]) to the villa door, they 
 D 7
 
 74 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 saw the warm light stream through the cracks, 
 and felt the sense of life only an inch or two 
 within. Some angel must have whispered Guido 
 to give his victims one more chance, for he bade 
 the others stand aside, and himself knocked at 
 the door. As Violante spoke, he resolved to 
 make a last trial of Pompilia. If the door 
 opened to Caponsacchi's name, her guilt was 
 proven and his deed would be justified. Per- 
 haps, too, he welcomed, even at this extremity, 
 any excuse which would afford him an oppor- 
 tunity for retreat. 
 
 He called the name, therefore, and the door 
 was promptly opened. Violante stood with 
 welcoming hands upon the threshold. Pompilia 
 had risen from her chair, and her hands, joy- 
 ously clasped, told how eager she was to see her 
 rescuer. Old Pietro turned half around from 
 the fire with a dubious look. He scented new 
 trouble in this last intrusion. 
 
 There was a pause outside, and Violante was 
 surprised to see three or four dark figures, who 
 drew farther into the gloom as she advanced to 
 the step. Then, presently, one broke from the 
 rest and strode boldly forward. It was Guido, 
 whose hatred had overcome his cowardice. In 
 an instant and without warning he sprang upon 
 her, and she fell across the door-way wounded 
 with a dagger-thrust. He stepped over her
 
 The Ring and the Booh 75 
 
 and plunged into the room, and then the rest 
 entered and threw themselves upon old Pietro 
 and Pompilia. 
 
 When all was done, the five dark figures 
 emerged from the door-way and filed noiselessly 
 out through the garden into the high-road. The 
 snow on the ground muffled their tread, and 
 they followed their leader swiftly and without 
 a word up the deserted road. 
 
 But the noises within had aroused the neigh- 
 bors, and before the murderers were well out 
 of sight friends from the near-by mill and 
 grange came flocking in to see what had hap- 
 pened. They were followed promptly by the 
 Public Force, the Head of which, tracking the 
 footprints in the snow, was soon out in hot 
 pursuit of the fugitives. 
 
 Guido and his men had the start and chose 
 their own direction, and they travelled rapidly, 
 notwithstanding the condition of the wintry 
 road. But, in spite of his craftiness and his 
 week of calculating preparation, Guido had 
 neglected to provide himself with the necessary 
 passes for travelling by post. He boldly de- 
 manded horses from the postmaster, and dis- 
 creetly slid a ducat into his palm, whispering 
 how he, the Count, and his four knaves had just 
 been mauling an enemy whose kindred might
 
 76 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 prove troublesome : they wanted horses in a 
 hurry. But the postmaster refused unless the 
 Count could show him the Permission. Guido 
 whispered .again, this time that he was a Duke, 
 not a Count, that the dead man was a Jew. 
 But he found he was dealing with perhaps the 
 one scrupulous fellow in all Eome. The Count 
 was without a hat and was splashed with blood. 
 The determined postmaster finally put by his 
 bribe and insisted on the rules of the road. 
 
 " Where is the seal of the Eoman Police ? 
 You might have had it half an hour ago for the 
 asking." 
 
 " Lost," said Guido. 
 
 " Get another, then, or you get no horses 
 here." And he stood stubbornly blocking their 
 passage in the midst of the road. 
 
 But he dared not use force. He was only one 
 to a grim and menacing band of five. They 
 scowled fiercely at him and strode past into 
 the darkness. There was no alternative but to 
 travel afoot, and this they did for twenty miles, 
 panting and plunging on the miry road, through 
 the bleak, open country, through the still and 
 lightless villages by the way, and on as far as 
 Baccano. 
 
 The rough beginning of the journey taxed the 
 strength of the younger men, but much more 
 that of Count Guido, who was overweary in
 
 The Bing and the Book. 77 
 
 soul and flesh, for he had to think as well as act. 
 When they had reached Baccano, a town this 
 side of the boundary of Tuscany and still 
 within the jurisdiction of Eome, they found 
 shelter in an outlying grange. They had hoped 
 to set foot on Tuscan soil before resting, and 
 thus they might have bidden defiance to the 
 severity of Eoman law ; yet they sank down 
 exhausted almost within sight of the border. 
 
 But the tireless officer of the Eoman Force 
 had followed them unceasingly through the 
 night, and tracked them in the early morning 
 to the deserted grange at Baccano. 
 
 There they lay in a lifeless heap, one across 
 the other, deaf, dumb, and blind through the 
 fatigues and burning passions of their night's 
 work. They were red from head to heel, and 
 their weapons bespoke the loathsome work they 
 had been used in. 
 
 When at last he was aroused by the voices and 
 the rough handling of the officers, Guido put on 
 a bold front and furiously demanded to know 
 why he was thus disturbed, what right they had 
 to dog the steps of a stranger and his servants 
 in Eome ? 
 
 " What am I charged with ?" he indignantly 
 cried. "Who is my accuser?" 
 
 " Why, naturally, your wife," was the grim 
 answer. 
 
 7*
 
 78 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " My wife !" 
 
 The terrible truth flashed on him. She was 
 still alive ; she had seen and known him at the 
 villa. 
 
 Then, realizing his danger, his craven heart 
 sank within him. His cowardly nature lost 
 its courage with its bravado. He fell heavily 
 from the horse on which they had set him for 
 the journey back to Eome. He was quickly 
 restored and remounted, and then the five 
 pinioned criminals were carried to the city and 
 thrown into prison. And that same day old 
 Pietro and Violante were laid by the altar in 
 San Lorenzo church. 
 
 Yet for four days did Pompilia linger in the 
 Eoman hospital. She was cruelly wounded by 
 a hand which hated deeply and thirsted for her 
 life. She had been left for dead on the villa 
 floor only after the murderers had listened at 
 her still heart and tested her breathless lips, 
 Guido had held her lovely head up by the long 
 silken hair while his accomplices watched for 
 the signs of life. Then, when he was convinced 
 that she was dead, — she whom he cursed from 
 his heart as the source of all his ills, — he cast 
 her away from him, and hurried out to gain the 
 protection of his Tuscan home. 
 
 Unconscious, she had lain for a long time, but 
 not dead • and when the doctors came in they
 
 The Ring and the Book. 79 
 
 found the life still eddying through her muti- 
 lated limbs. She was carried to the hospital, 
 and there told her story, her whole life as she 
 had known it, to the good friar Don Celestine. 
 
 " All these things are true," she feebly said. 
 *' You must remember them, because time flies. 
 The surgeon cared for me and counted my 
 wounds, — twenty-two dagger-wounds, five of 
 them deadly ; but I do not suffer much. He 
 says I cannot live beyond to-night." 
 
 Then in a half-whisper, while the patient friar 
 leaned down to her pillow, she told him her 
 pitiful tale. She dwelt much upon the bright 
 spots in her dark life, on the birth of her son 
 Gaetano, on the tenderness and care of Capon- 
 sacchi, and on the love of her old parents, whom 
 she had been so happy to join again after the 
 cruel life at Arezzo. She said little about Count 
 Guido, neither accusing nor blaming him. Hers 
 was a wistful and pathetic narrative of sim- 
 plicity and innocence that had been deceived, 
 but she kept her sweet forbearance to the end, 
 and made no accusations against those who had 
 wronged her. Yet when she came to speak, at 
 the last, about her child, she was sure, she said, 
 that he could be only his mother's, born solely 
 of love, not of hate. 
 
 "Let us leave God alone," she murmured. 
 " He will explain, in good time, what I only feel
 
 80 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 now. I cannot say the things I would. It 
 seems impossible to-day. But I shall be righted 
 hereafter. Many things are never explained, 
 but just known." 
 
 Then, as if faint with her effort to tell all, she 
 sank into quietness. But it was only momen- 
 tary. Her struggling spirit broke through the 
 flesh's weariness, and she whispered tranquilly, 
 but with a new lustre in her eyes, 
 
 " There is more yet. My last breath must be 
 true. He is still here in the world. It is now, 
 when I am like to leave, that I feel most the 
 old sensations. Again the face and eyes, and 
 the heart of my one friend, with its immeas- 
 urable love ! My only friend, all my own, who 
 put his breast between me and the spears. No 
 work that is begun will, I think, ever pause for 
 death. Love will be more and more helpful to 
 me in the coming course. Tell him that if I 
 seem without him now, that's the world's in- 
 sight. Oh, he understands ! He is at Civita, — 
 the world is holding us apart again. Tell him 
 it was his name I sprang to when the knock 
 came at the door. It is through such souls as 
 his that God shows us enough of his light to 
 rise by." 
 
 She sank back upon her pillow, wan and still. 
 The fire had burnt out the shell which held it. 
 They covered her and paced sadly away.
 
 The Ring and the Book. 81 
 
 Then Pompilia was carried to San Lorenzo 
 church and laid on the altar beside Pietro and 
 Violante, who had wronged her greatly through 
 loving her greatly. 
 
 But with Count Guido Franceschini it fared 
 otherwise. He and his four peasant accom- 
 plices were taken before the earthly judges of 
 Eome, and were by them condemned to pass 
 from the scaffold before a higher tribunal. 
 
 On the day appointed they were dragged in 
 open carts through the crowded streets to the 
 Place of the People, where a holiday throng 
 had gathered to see the end of a noble convict. 
 There, as had been decreed, Guido suffered death 
 upon the block, and his four knaves were hung, 
 two on each side of him. 
 
 Human justice was at last appeased for the 
 crime done at the villa by the Pauline gate. 
 
 I—/
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 I. 
 
 In a land under the Northern star there lived 
 once a Prince of royal blood, who was very fair 
 of face, and wore long yellow ringlets in token 
 of his birth in the country of the year-long 
 snow. He was, though, of an amorous temper 
 and fond of romantic adventure, and if these 
 traits fitted ill with his Norland blue eyes and 
 flaxen hair, they made him none the less noble, 
 but threw about him a subtler charm than be- 
 longed to his hardier kinsfolk. 
 
 Now, there was an ancient legend in the house 
 of this Prince that some sorcerer, who was 
 burnt by a far-off ancestor because he cast no 
 shadow, had foretold when he died that none 
 of all that royal lineage should know shadow 
 from substance, and that at last one should come 
 to fight with shadows and should fall in the 
 fray. 
 
 Such was the story the Prince's mother had 
 taught him at her knee ; and in good truth 
 
 8 85
 
 86 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 waking dreams had always been, more or less, 
 the prevailing affection of the house. The Prince 
 himself had, as he grew up, weird seizures. On 
 a sudden in the daylight and in the very midst 
 of his companions — even while he walked and 
 talked as he was accustomed to do — he seemed 
 to move in a world of ghosts and feel like the 
 mere shadow of a dream. The great court 
 physician nodded gravely over such a symptom 
 and stroked his beard in meditation, then he 
 muttered " catalepsy" or some such thing, and 
 did nothing at all to cure the malady. 
 
 The Prince's mother was much troubled by 
 his seizures and said a thousand prayers for his 
 recovery, for she was as mild as a saint and 
 half canonized by her subjects, so gracious and 
 tender was she in all things. But the King, his 
 father, thought a king should be all a king. He 
 cared little for the love of his royal household, 
 but held his sceptre like a school-master's rod, 
 the scourge of offenders, whom with his long 
 hands reached forth he picked out from the 
 mass of his people for austere judgment. 
 
 It chanced, while the Prince was still but a 
 tender youth, that he was betrothed to a neigh- 
 boring Princess ; and she was proxy-wedded to 
 him with a calf, as the custom in that land was, 
 at eight years old. From time to time rumors 
 of her beauty came to the Northern court from
 
 The Princess. ^ 87 
 
 the South, where she dwelt, and also came gossip 
 about her well-knit and comely brothers, who 
 were youths of prowess in the field of sport 
 and fight. The Prince still wore her picture 
 hanging at his heart, and beSide it a single dark 
 tress of her hair, and all about these tokens his 
 thoughts would constantly hover, like a swarm 
 of bees about its queen. 
 
 But the time drew near when the real wed- 
 ding should take place between the Prince and 
 his betrothed bride; and his father the King 
 sent ambassadors, bearing gifts of furs and 
 jewels, to bring her back. They went their 
 way, and returned at the allotted time carrying 
 a wondrous piece of tapestry with them as an 
 offering to the King, but not the Princess. The 
 answer from the South was as vague as the 
 wind. They saw the King, her father; he took 
 the gifts, he acknowledged there was a compact 
 of marriage, all that was true ; but then she 
 had a will of her own, — was he to blame for 
 that? — and also maiden fancies of an unusual 
 kind, — liked to live alone among her women ; 
 and, in short, he was certain she would not wed. 
 
 The Prince stood by the throne in the presence- 
 room as this message was delivered, and with him 
 were his two friends, Cyril, a gentleman of 
 broken fortunes, due to his father's waste, but 
 a merry and revelling companion, and Florian,
 
 88 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 the Prince's bosom comrade, almost his half 
 self, for they were never apart. 
 
 While the returned ambassadors spoke, the 
 Prince watched his father's face and saw it 
 grow long and trobbled, then threatening and 
 wrathful. The King started to his feet and tore 
 the letter from his Southern ally into atoms, and 
 these he cast down angrily, and then rent through 
 with one blow the beautiful tapestry, his royal 
 gift. At last he swore that he would send a hun- 
 dred thousand men and bring the Princess in a 
 whirlwind. Then he turned to his war-captains 
 and appeased his wrath in martial talk. 
 
 But at last the Prince spoke up : " Let me go, 
 father. Perhaps some mistake has been made. 
 I cannot believe that such a king, one whom 
 everybody praises for fairness and kindness, 
 should send back such an answer ; or maybe if 
 I saw the Princess I should not care for her 
 and should repent my bargain." 
 
 And Florian said, " I have a sister there, too, 
 an attendant on the Princess. She married a 
 nobleman of that country, who died lately and 
 left her the lady of three castles. Through her 
 we might do much to mend matters." 
 
 " Take me, too," whispered Cyril. " "What if 
 you have a seizure there in a strange land? 
 You'll need a trusty friend, and I'll be that. 
 I'm rusting out here in idleness."
 
 The Princess. 89 
 
 « No !" roared the irate King, " you shall not ! 
 We ourself will crush her pretty maiden fancies 
 in these iron gauntlets ! Break up the council I" 
 
 And then the company scattered, in some 
 dread of the royal rage ; but the Prince went 
 forth into the woods that circled the town, and, 
 finding a still place, pulled out the Princess's 
 likeness and laid it on the flowers beside his 
 bending elbow. As he gazed on the sweet face 
 of his betrothed he began to wonder what were 
 her strange fancies and why she wanted to break 
 her troth. The lips surely looked a trifle proud 
 and disdainful ; but while he meditated a wind 
 came up from the south and shook all the leaves 
 overhead together, and a voice seemed to come 
 from them saying, " Follow, follow, and thou 
 shalt win." 
 
 Then before the moon grew full, for it was 
 now but a slender crescent, he stole from court 
 with Cyril and Florian, and crept through the 
 town, dreading each moment to hear the hue 
 and cry of his father hallooing at his back. 
 But all was quiet enough, and they dropped over 
 the bastioned walls like spiders and fled away, 
 and reached the frontier before they were 
 missed. They crossed then to a livelier coun- 
 try, and so, through farms and vineyards and 
 tracts of green wilderness, they gained the King's 
 city, where amid its circling towers arose the 
 
 8*
 
 90 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 imperial palace, and thither they went and 
 found the King. 
 
 His name was Gama. He had a small cracked 
 voice and but little dignity, but his smile was 
 bland enough and drove his old cheeks into 
 wrinklinof lines. He looked in truth not much 
 like a king, but he was royal in his treatment 
 of the visitors, and for three whole days they 
 feasted in his palace. Then on the fourth day 
 they told him, mellowed with wine and hearty 
 with good cheer, why they had come, and of 
 the Prince's desire to see his betrothed, 
 
 "You do us great honor. Prince," he said. 
 " We remember love ourself in far-away youth. 
 Yes, we made a compact with your father — a 
 kind of ceremony — I think" — and he placed one 
 musing finger on his brow — " I think it was the 
 summer our olives failed. Hem ! I would you 
 had her. Prince. But there was a pair of 
 widows here. Lady Psyche and Lady Blanche, 
 who fed her with all sorts of theories, in place 
 and out, always proving to their own satisfaction 
 that women are the equal of men. They harped 
 on th& subject forever ; all our banquets rang 
 with it ; even the dancers broke up into knots to 
 discuss it. Nothing but this one theme from 
 morning till night. My very ears grew hot to 
 hear them at it ! Heigh-ho ! my daughter said 
 knowledge was the all in all. As children they
 
 The Princess. 91 
 
 had only existed ; they must now leave off 
 being children, cease merely to exist, and be 
 women. Then she wrote awful odes and dismal 
 lyrics and made rhymed prophecies of change 
 and all that. And they sang these things, sirs, 
 and I went away and sought quiet, but her 
 women called them masterpieces. They cer- 
 tainly mastered me I Well, at last she came 
 and begged a boon of me. Would I give her 
 my summer palace up by your father's frontier ? 
 I said no, of course, but she wheedled it out of 
 me, and she and her maidens went there and 
 founded a University for their sex alone. We 
 know no more about it than this : they see no 
 men, — not even her brother Arac, nor the twins, 
 though they look upon her as a paragon. Well, 
 I was loath to breed trouble, but since you think 
 me bound in some sort by my compact, as no 
 doubt I am, why, if you wish it, I can give you 
 letters to her. But I don't think your chance of 
 seeing her is worth much." 
 
 The Prince was somewhat nettled by such 
 cool disregard of a solemn compact, but he 
 was chafing now to get a glimpse of his bride, 
 and he took the letters and rode forth with 
 his friends to the northward. 
 
 At last, after a long day's ride, they looked off 
 from a sloping hill-side and saw a rustic town, 
 which they presently entered at evening, and
 
 92 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 found it a fair place set in the crescent of a 
 winding river. There they found an old hostel, 
 and called the landlord into council upon their 
 adventure. They plied him with his own rich- 
 est wines, and showed him the King's letters, 
 which he touched with reverence. 
 
 The landlord declared it was against all rules 
 for any man to go to the University, but under 
 the seductive touch of the wine and out of re- 
 spect for the royal sign-manual he relented at 
 last. 
 
 " Well, if the King has given the letters," he 
 said, " I am not bound to speak. The King's a law 
 unto himself, and he'll bear me out if I obey his 
 behests. But," he added, with a sly wink, — " but 
 no doubt you would make it worth my while ? 
 She passed this way once," he chattered on, " and 
 I heard her speak. How she scared me ! Oh, 
 I never saw the like! She looked as grand 
 and as grave as doomsday. But I reverence her 
 too, — she's my liege-lady, your honors; and I 
 always make a point to use mares for the post- 
 ing, and my daughter and the housemaids I 
 make do for boys. Why, the land all about is 
 tilled by women, — and the swine are all sows, 
 too ; and all the dogs " 
 
 But while the portly host jested and laughed 
 in this wise, a thought struck the Prince, which 
 he acted on instantly. Bemembering how he
 
 The Princess. 93 
 
 and Florian and Cyril had once taken the parts 
 of nymphs and goddesses in a masque at his 
 father's court, he now sent the landlord out to 
 buy female apparel for all three, and very soon 
 mine host returned laden with gowns and furbe- 
 lows and himself shaken with an ill-suppressed 
 mirth. He helped to lace the trio up in the 
 maidenly garb, and they gave him a costly bribe 
 to keep silence ; then they mounted their steeds 
 and ventured boldly into the domain of the 
 Princess. 
 
 They followed the winding course of the river 
 as they had been directed to do, and at midnight 
 began to see the far-off college-lights glittering 
 like fire-flies in a copse. Then they passed an 
 arch, above which rose a statue of a woman 
 with wings, riding four winged horses, and they 
 could make out in the deep shadow that some 
 inscription ran along the front, but could not 
 read it. Farther on they came into a little 
 street of gardens and houses, where the noise of 
 clocks and chimes was deafening, so many were 
 there in the place. Fountains, too, spouted up 
 here and there amid the flowers, and the song 
 of nightingales filled up all the intervals of 
 sound. 
 
 Before them now rose a bust of Pallas, be- 
 tween two lamps blazoned like Heaven and 
 Earth and resting above an open entry, Eiding
 
 94 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 in thither, they called for attendance, and a 
 lusty hostleress, followed by a stable-wench, 
 came running out and helped them down. Then 
 a buxom hostess stepped forth, and led them 
 into their rooms, which looked out on a pillared 
 porch deeply based in laurel-leaves. 
 
 They questioned her about the college, and 
 asked who were tutors. 
 
 " Lady Blanche and Lady Pysche," she said. 
 
 The three candidates cried in one voice, " We 
 are hers !" 
 
 Then the Prince sat down and wrote in a 
 slanted hand like a woman, — 
 
 " Three ladies of the Northern empire pray 
 Your Highness to enroll them in your college as 
 the Lady Psyche's pupils." 
 
 He sealed and gave this letter to the land- 
 lady, to be sent at dawn, and then the three 
 companions went to bed and dreamed of the 
 adventures to be. 
 
 II. 
 
 Early in the morning the College Portress 
 came to the place where the Prince and his 
 friends were resting, and brought them Aca- 
 demic silks of lilac color, with silken hoods and 
 girdles of gold. They put these an without 
 parley, and then the Portress, courtesying her 
 obeisance, told them that the Princess Ida
 
 The Princess. 95 
 
 waited. They followed her through a laurel- 
 grown porch, and came forth into a marble court 
 supported with classic friezes and covered with 
 ample awnings hung up between the pillars. A 
 fountain played in the midst, circled by the 
 Muses and Graces in groups of three, and here 
 and there scattered about on the lattice edges 
 lay a book or lute. They passed on, and as- 
 cended a flight of stairs into a great hall. 
 
 There, with two tame leopards couched near 
 her throne, sat the Princess at a table filled with 
 volumes and loose papers. In the Prince's eyes 
 she seemed the sum of all beauty, as fair indeed 
 as an inhabitant of some planet nearer to the 
 sun than ours. Such eyes, so much grace and 
 power looking down from her arched brows, he 
 had never beheld until now, and with every 
 turn she made her perfection lived through her 
 to the tips of her long hands and to her very 
 feet. 
 
 She rose to her full height, and said, "We 
 give you welcome. Not without some glory 
 to ourselves have you come to us, the first- 
 fruits of stranger lands. Hereafter in the voice 
 which circles around the grave you will rank 
 nobly, mingled in fame with me." Then, no- 
 ticing them more closely, she exclaimed, — 
 
 " But are the ladies of your land all so tall ?" 
 
 " We of the court," said Cyril.
 
 96 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " From the court," she answered. " Then you 
 know the Prince?" 
 
 "The climax of his age! Indeed yes, your 
 Highness ; and as though there were but one 
 rose in the whole world, so he worships you." 
 
 " We scarcely expected to hear such barren 
 speech in our own hall," she said. " This light 
 kind of coin is current among men, but not with 
 us. Your escape from the bookless desert would 
 seem to argue love of knowledge, but your 
 language proves you still a child. Indeed, we 
 dream not of the Prince. When we set our hand 
 to this great work we purposed never to wed. 
 You likewise, ladies, will do well, in entering 
 here, to cast away such tricks as make you the 
 toys of men." 
 
 After this harangue the Prince and his 
 fellow-candidates seemed much abashed and 
 looked steadily down at the matting. Then 
 an officer arose and read the statutes of the 
 foundation, which declared that for three years 
 no undergraduate could correspond with home, 
 or cross the boundary, or speak with a man. 
 These and a score of others the new scholars 
 hastily subscribed to, and they were then re- 
 ceived without further ceremony into the college. 
 
 "Now," said the Princess, admonishingly, 
 *' you are one with us. But you are still green 
 wood. Sec to it that you do not warp."
 
 The Princess. 97 
 
 Then she led them with majestic movements 
 into the hall beyond, and showed them one by 
 one the statues of ancient queens and noble 
 women of old which stood there. She turned 
 as they passed out through the door and spoke 
 words of counsel to them, exhorting them to 
 live worthy lives and to work out their freedom 
 from masculine thraldom. At last she dismissed 
 them and bade them go to the Lady Psyche's 
 class-room, where all those newly arrived were 
 gathered for their first lecture. 
 
 Back they went across the sylvan court-yard 
 and found the room, and took their seats with 
 the throng of pupils already clustered at the 
 long forms. The teacher herself sat erect be- 
 hind an elevated desk. She was a sharp-eyed 
 brunette, alert and well moulded, and perhap* 
 on the hither side of twenty years. At her left 
 slept her infant, Aglaia, wrapped in embroidered 
 draperies. She glanced keenly at the Prince 
 and his companions as they entered, and not 
 a gesture or movement of theirs escaped her. 
 After a searching look at her face, Florian whis- 
 pered, — 
 
 " By Heaven, my sister !" 
 
 " Comely, too, by all that's fair," said Cyril. 
 
 " Oh, hush, hush !" urged the Prince, and she 
 began to speak, 
 
 " This universe was at one time nothing but 
 I.— E g 9
 
 98 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 liquid flame. Then the star tides set in towards 
 the centre of chaos and formed suns. These 
 cast oif the planets. Then came monsters, and 
 at last man." Here she proceeded to take a 
 bird's-eye view of the whole earth's past history, 
 and, at last, drifted from this into a prophecy 
 of the future, when, everywhere, there would 
 be two heads in council, two by the hearth, 
 two in commerce, two in science and art and 
 poetry. 
 
 Thus after a long harangue she ended, and 
 the class began to depart, but she beckoned to 
 the Prince and his friends to come near to 
 her desk. They moved forward as she di- 
 rected, and she addressed some words to them 
 in praise of the worthy course they had chosen. 
 • But her voice faltered, after a little speech, 
 and she seemed no longer able to play her part. 
 She fairly broke down at last, and cried, — 
 
 " My brother !" 
 
 " Well, my sister ?" demurely said Florian. 
 
 " Oh, what do you mean by coming here ? 
 
 And in this dress? And who are these 
 
 Wolves in the fold! The Lord be gracious to 
 me ! a plot, a plot, a plot ! It will ruin all !" 
 
 " No plot, no plot," he answered. 
 
 " Wretched boy ! did you not see the inscrip- 
 tion above the gate, — Let no man enter in on 
 
 PAIN OF DEATH ?"
 
 The Princess. 99 
 
 " And if I had," said Florian, " I would not 
 have believed you as savage as you seem." 
 
 " But you will find it true," she said. " You 
 may jest if you choose ; but it's ill jesting with 
 edge-tools." 
 
 "Yery well, then, kill me, and nail me to 
 the door like a weasel for a warning ! Bury me 
 by the gate, and write above me, — 
 ' Here lies a brother by a sister slain, 
 All for the common good of wotnankind.' " 
 
 "Let me be slain, too," said Cyril. "I have 
 seen the Lady Psyche and am content to die." 
 
 Then said the Prince, motioning the others 
 to silence, — 
 
 "Notwithstanding my disguise, madam, I 
 love the truth. Hear it, then, and in me behold 
 your countryman, the Prince, affianced years 
 ago to the Lady Ida. Because she is here, and 
 because there was no other way to come hither, 
 I have ventured to come thus." 
 
 " Oh, sir, my Prince !" said the Lady Psyche, 
 " I have no country any more, or if I have, it is 
 only this. But, truly, I have none, none at all ! 
 Affianced, sir, you say? Nothing that speaks 
 of love must be breathed within this vestal limit. 
 And how should I, who am sworn to obey in all 
 things, bid you stay here and live ? The thun- 
 derbolt hangs silent; but, believe me, it will 
 fall anon."
 
 100 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " Hold !" cried the Prince, as she moved away. 
 " What if the inscription speaks truly, and 
 we are put to death, — what follows ? War, and 
 all your precious work marred ; and your Acad- 
 emy, whichever side conquers, destroyed !" 
 
 "Let the Princess judge of that," she said. 
 «' And now farewell, sir." And to Florian and 
 C}Til she made a pitiful adieu, and then, "1 
 shudder for your fate, but I am bound in duty 
 to go." 
 
 Before she had quite passed from them the 
 Prince spoke, and she turned to listen. 
 
 " Are you," he said, " that Lady Psyche, the 
 fifth in line from old Florian, whose portrait 
 hangs in our palace showing him astride ray 
 fallen grandsire as he defended him when all 
 else had fled ? We point to it even to this day 
 and say, the loyalty of Florian has not grown 
 cold, but runs warm among us in kindred 
 veins." 
 
 " Are you that Psyche with whom I romped 
 in childhood?" pleaded Florian. "Are you the 
 same that bound my brow and smoothed my 
 pillow in sickness and told me pleasant tales and 
 read the pain away into happy dreams ? Are 
 you the brother and sister in one whom I loved 
 of old ? You were, perhaps, but what are you 
 now ?" 
 
 "You are that Psyche," followed CyxW, " for
 
 The Princess. 101 
 
 •whom I would forever be what I seem, — a 
 woman, so that I mi^ht pit at your feet and 
 glean wisdom." ':!''• 
 
 Then again quqM m turn pleaded with her, ap- 
 pealed to her heart, and 'oo her^love" of tha land 
 which bore her, and to her affection for her babe ; 
 80 that at last, moved and vexed, she cried, — 
 
 " Out upon it ! peace ! And why, then, should 
 I not play the Spartan mother ? why should I 
 not be the Brutus of my sex ? You call him 
 great because he made sacrifice of self to the 
 common good. What of me ? Shall I, on whom 
 the emancipation of half the world rests, — shall 
 I do less ? Shall I hesitate to give up a Prince, 
 and a brother?" But she softened visibly at 
 the thought, and went on more calmly : " Yet 
 perhaps it would be better if I yielded some- 
 thing, and I will on one condition : you must 
 promise — otherwise you perish — to slip away 
 to-day, or at most to-morrow, and I will tell the 
 Head that you were too barbarous, — could not 
 be taught; you might have brought shame 
 upon us, and we are lucky to be rid of you. 
 Promise, and all shall be well." 
 
 There was no alternative, so the three in- 
 truders promised what she asked, and she, like 
 a wild creature newly caged, paced to and 
 fro about the room, struggling with her emo- 
 tions. At last she paused by Florian and held 
 
 9*
 
 102 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 out her hands ; taking both of his in a fervent 
 grasp. Smiling faintlj, %he said, " I knew you, 
 dear FloT'ian', fromvtho ur*t,'— the very first. You 
 have grown, but you have not altered, no, not 
 the least.' I. am very- glad," yet very sad, to see 
 you, my brother. Pardon my threats and harsh- 
 ness ; it was duty that spoke, not I. And our 
 mother, tell me, is she well ?" 
 
 With that she reached up and kissed his fore- 
 head, and then clung about him with sisterly 
 affection, and between them, from old veins of 
 memory, began to flow sweet household talk 
 and pensive allusions to the past, which moist- 
 ened the tender Psyche's eyes. 
 
 But while they stood thus in happy forget- 
 fulness, there came a voice at the door : 
 
 " Here is a message from the Lady Blanche." 
 
 Psyche started and looked up. It was the 
 Lady Blanche's daughter Melissa, who stood 
 waiting in timid consciousness of her intrusion. 
 She was a rosy blonde, dressed in a college gown 
 of yellow silk, and she looked like a slender daffa- 
 dilly as she gazed with timid eyes into the room. 
 
 "You, Melissa?" exclaimed Psyche. "You 
 heard us, then ?" 
 
 " Oh, pardon," faltered Melissa. " I did hear ; 
 I could not help it. I did not wish to. But, 
 dearest lady, pray do not fear me. I will do 
 nothing to harm these gallant gentlemen."
 
 The Princess. 103 
 
 " I trust you, Melissa," said Psyche, " for we 
 were always friends. But your mother, child ! 
 — what if she heard ? Do not let your prudence 
 sleep a wink. It would ruin all !" 
 
 " You need not fear me," said Melissa. " I 
 would not tell, not even for power to answer all 
 that Sheba asked of Solomon." 
 
 " Be it so," said Psyche ; and then turning to 
 the conspirators, " Go, now," she said ; " we have 
 already been too long together. Draw your 
 hoods close about your faces. Speak little. Do 
 not mix with the rest, and keep your promise." 
 
 They started to go, but Cyril took up Psyche's 
 child and blew out his cheeks like a trumpeter 
 to amuse it. The lady smiled, and the baby 
 pushed forth her fat hand against his face and 
 laughed, and when he set her down they went 
 out. 
 
 Half the long day "they wandered about the 
 stately theatres of the college. They sat in 
 each one in turn, and heard the grave professors 
 discourse on all things human and superhuman, 
 until they were quite gorged with knowledge, 
 and the Prince said, — 
 
 " Why, after all, they do this as well as we 
 do." 
 
 " They hunt old trails," said Cyril, " but never 
 advance ; women never can." 
 
 " Ungracious !" exclaimed Florian, " did you
 
 104 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 learn no more than that from Psyche? You 
 told her a heap of trash, at any rate. It quite 
 made me sick." 
 
 "Oh, trash! Well, but there was a reason. 
 She made me wise in one way, truly. A thou- 
 sand hearts lie fallow here and a thousand baby 
 Loves go flitting about with headless arrows. 
 Well, the bigger boy, Cupid himself, has struck 
 me ; and, after all, do I chase shadow or sub- 
 stance ? There's no sorcerer's malison upon me, 
 as there is upon His Highness here. I know a 
 shadow when I see it. Are castles shadows, 
 think you ? Is she herself a shadow in all her 
 loveliness ? Why, then, should those three cas- 
 tles not help to patch my tattered coat ? But 
 hark, there's the bell for dinner !" And the ad- 
 venturers went into the great hall and found 
 places at the table among the long rows of fair 
 students, who chattered in deepest terms of 
 science and philosophy throughout the long 
 meal. 
 
 When the solemn grace was over the Prince 
 and his friends went forth into the gardens, but 
 sat apart in muffled silence, save that Melissa 
 came now and again to rally them, while the 
 rest played at ball, or gossiped by the fountain's 
 edge, or opened books and paced to and fro 
 upon the smooth sod. 
 
 At last the chapel-bell called to evening ser-
 
 The Princess. 105 
 
 vice, and the Prince and his fellows mixed with 
 the six hundred maidens, clad all in purest white, 
 and passed in where the great organ played sol- 
 emn hymns, the work of the Lady Ida in verse 
 and melody, made to call down a blessing on her 
 
 labors. 
 
 III. 
 
 When the morning came the three trespassers 
 carefully dressed one another and descended to 
 the courts, which lay shadowed and dewy below 
 their windows. They were idly standing beside 
 the fountain, watching the bubbles dance and 
 break, when Melissa approached them, pale with 
 tears and loss of sleep. 
 
 " Fly, fly," she whispered, " while there's still 
 time ! My mother knows all." 
 
 "What?" said the Prince, startled by the 
 news. 
 
 " It was my fault. Oh, don't blame me ! I 
 could not help it. She divined it, drew it from 
 me. It is all because of her jealousy of the 
 Lady Psyche. She said you looked more like 
 men than like women, and laughed at Lady 
 Psyche's countrywomen. And I " 
 
 " You blushed," said Cyril. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I blushed, and then she knew, 
 and said, ' Why — these — are — men — and you 
 know it ! And she knows, too, and conceals it.' 
 And now she has gone to the Princess, and Lady
 
 106 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Psyche will be crushed. But there is still hope 
 for you if you fly at once. Oh, pardon me, say 
 you pardon me, before you go !" 
 
 " But who asks pardon for a blush, my sweet 
 Melissa?" said Cyril. "Go to, I'll straighten 
 all out, never fear. I must see this Lady 
 Blanche and soften her humor." And he went 
 away to find Melissa's mother. 
 
 Then Florian asked the fair girl whence the 
 feud between the right and left, her mother's 
 and his sister's halves of the college, had grown, 
 and she told him how the Lady Psyche had 
 come from the North and won from Lady 
 Blanche the heart of the Princess, and how the 
 Lady Psyche and the Lady Ida were boon 
 friends, and for this her mother called the 
 Lady Psyche plagiarist, and hated her. When 
 she had said all this, Melissa darted away, and 
 Florian murmured to the Prince as he gazed 
 after her, — 
 
 " Surely, an open-hearted girl. I think if I 
 could ever come to love, I'd choose her rather 
 than your stately Princess, crammed with pride 
 and musty learning." 
 
 " Well, let the crane chatter about the crane 
 and the dove about the dove," said the Prince. 
 " Every man to his liking. For me, the Princess ! 
 If she errs, why, she does it nobly, that you 
 must allow."
 
 The Princess. 107 
 
 So disputing, they paced across the court, and 
 reached the terrace which ran along its northern 
 front. There they leaned upon the balusters, 
 gazing out upon the wide and fair landscape 
 below them. Thither came Cyril, in a little 
 while, yawning. 
 
 " Oh, what a task !" he cried. " No fighting 
 shadows, — a real Amazon !" 
 
 "And what success?" asked the Prince. 
 
 " She was hard as flint," replied Cyril, " with 
 a malignant light in her green eyes. I was 
 courteous and conciliatory, but to no purpose. 
 "Who were we ? she asked. I made no conceal- 
 ment, — told her all, and dwelt upon your be- 
 trothal to the Princess. But she answered that 
 I talked astray ; it was untrue. I appealed to her 
 mercy, to her love for Melissa, who might come 
 to harm for concealing her knowledge of us ; 
 but she still repulsed me. At last I plied her 
 with an offer which tempted : ' Would she ac- 
 cept in our kingdom the headship of another 
 college, where she should reign supreme, not fall 
 to third place, as here ?' This moved her. She 
 is to give us her answer to-day, and meantime 
 will not betray us." 
 
 Here they were interrupted by a messenger 
 from the Head, who announced that the Princess 
 intended to ride forth that afternoon in order 
 to take the dip of certain northern strata, and
 
 108 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 invited them to go with her. They would find 
 the land worth seeing, said the maiden, and 
 she pointed to the hills beyond, rising at the 
 edges of the vale, where, she told them, was a 
 water-fall. 
 
 When the hour had arrived, the Prince and 
 his friends went to the porch where the Lady 
 Ida stood among her pupils, higher by a head 
 than any of them. She leaned against a pillar, 
 and supported her foot upon the back of one 
 of her tame leopards. The lithe animal rolled 
 over kitten-like and pawed at her sandal, but 
 she did not notice it. 
 
 The Prince drew near and gazed raptly at 
 her. Then, on a sudden, his strange seizure 
 came upon him, and the Princess and all her 
 maidens seemed a hollow show and he himself 
 the very shadow of a dream. But yet his heart 
 beat fast with passion, and as she glanced, once, 
 at him, he sighed in spite of himself and felt a 
 longing to kneel at her feet. 
 
 But at last the gay company of girls all got to 
 horse and rode forth in a long retinue, following 
 the winding course of the river as it narrowed 
 between the hills. 
 
 The Prince rode beside the Lady Ida. 
 
 " We trust you thought us not overharsh with 
 your companion yesterday," she said to him. 
 " We were loath to speak so."
 
 The Princess. 109 
 
 " No, not to her," he answered, " but to him of 
 whom you spoke." 
 
 " Again ?" she cried. " Are you envoys from 
 him to me ? But, as you are a stranger, we will 
 give you license. Speak this once, and then no 
 more of the subject." 
 
 The disguised Prince stammered that he knew 
 him, — that the King expected her to wed his 
 son ; and then he burst out, " Indeed, you 
 seem all the Prince prefigured but could not 
 see. Surely if you keep your purpose he will 
 be driven to despair, — even to death." 
 
 " Poor boy," she said, " can he not read, or 
 forget his worship in ball or quoits ? Does he 
 take no delight in martial exercise ? Why, he's 
 no better than a silly girl to nurse his blind 
 ideal till it enslaves him so." Then she paused, 
 and added, haughtily, " As to precontracts, we 
 move at no man's nod. Like noble Vashti, we 
 keep our state and leave the brawling King at 
 Shushan." 
 
 But the Prince said, " You grant me license 
 to speak. May I use it freely ? Think of the 
 future. You leave your work hereafter to feebler 
 hands that overthrow all you have reared. May 
 you not miss in this wise what every woman 
 counts her due, — love, children, happiness?" 
 
 " Peace, you young savage !" she exclaimed, 
 astonished at the girl's hardihood. " You are 
 
 10
 
 110 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 overbold ; "we are not accustomed to be talked 
 to thus by our own pupils. Yet as for children," 
 she added in a softer voice, " we like them well ; 
 would they grew everywhere like wild-flowers ! 
 But children die ; and let me tell you, girl, bab- 
 ble as you please, great deeds cannot die." 
 
 The Prince made no answer. He was over- 
 awed by her fierce outburst, and wondered 
 within himself if she might ever be won. 
 
 She seemed to interpret his thoughts, and 
 spoke again : 
 
 " \Ye no doubt appear a kind of monster in 
 your eyes ; but we are used to that, for women 
 have been so long cramped under a worse than 
 South-Sea taboo that they cannot guess how 
 much their welfare has become a passion with 
 us." 
 
 She bowed then, as if to veil a tear that 
 came in spite of herself The Prince looked far 
 ahead the while, and saw that they had arrived 
 where the river sloped to the cataract of which 
 the messenger had spoken. The trees were 
 above them, and below the plunging waters, 
 which foamed over a mass of great boulders 
 with an unceasing roar. There, too, beside the 
 water, stuck out the bones of some vast monster 
 that had lived before the advent of man. The 
 Princess gazed at the skeleton awhile, then 
 said, —
 
 The Princess. Ill 
 
 " As those rude bones are to us, so are wc to 
 the woman that is to be." 
 
 " Dare we dream of the power that wrought 
 us as of the workman who betters with prac- 
 tice ?" said the Prince. 
 
 " How !" she cried, " you love metaphysics ? 
 Read, then, and win the prize !" And she warmed 
 to the subject, and told him all her plans, and 
 described to him the device carven on the brooch 
 which he would gain by winning. They talked 
 on from point to point of the college curricu- 
 lum. The Prince rejoiced to be in converse with 
 his betrothed, be the topic what it might, and 
 she was full of burning enthusiasm and all heed- 
 less of his growing passion. 
 
 As they talked they rode onward and crossed 
 a wooden bridge to a flowered meadow beneath 
 a crag. 
 
 " Oh, how sweet," he said, half oblivious, now, 
 of the part he was playing, " to linger here with 
 one who loved us !" 
 
 "Yes," she answered, "or with fair philoso- 
 phers to elevate our fancies ; for this, indeed, is 
 a lovely place." Then turning to her maids, she 
 called, — 
 
 " Pitch our pavilion here on the greensward 
 and lay out the viands." 
 
 They raised a satin tent at her command, 
 while she and the Prince set out to climb upon
 
 112 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 the rocks. Behind them went Cyril with the 
 Lady Psyche and Florian with Melissa, and they 
 wound in and out the pathways of the cliff, 
 chattering geologic names and hammering away 
 pieces of stone, until the shadows slanted and 
 the heights shone out in rosy tints above them. 
 
 When the sun had set they came down from 
 the cliff, towards the plain below, where the tent, 
 lit from within, shone no bigger than a glow- 
 worm. Once, in the descent, the Lady Ida had 
 leaned on the Prince, and once or twice he held 
 her hand, and his heart beat with kindling pul- 
 sations at the contact. But when they had 
 reached the level and entered beneath the satin 
 roof, they sank upon the embroidered couches 
 in grateful ease. On a tripod in the midst rose 
 a fragrant flame, and spread before them were 
 fruits and viands and golden wines. 
 
 The Princess asked for some music, and one 
 of those beside her took the harp and sang. 
 When the girl had ended, the Princess looked 
 towards the Prince, and said, — 
 
 "Do you not know some song of your own 
 land to sing us ?" 
 
 The Prince also sang, but a song he had 
 made himself, part long ago and part while he 
 sang. It was warm with a Northern lover's 
 wooing of a Southern maid, and when he had 
 done, all the ladies stared with wide-open eyes,
 
 The Princess. 113 
 
 and laughed stealthily, wondering what to make 
 of it, for his voice rang false and faltered now 
 and then from the maiden-like treble he had 
 assumed to his native bass. 
 
 The Princess smiled at the girl's uncouth mel- 
 ody, and chided her for singing a mere love- 
 poem. Then she said, — 
 
 " But now to mingle pastime with profit, do 
 you not know some song that gives the manners 
 of your own countrywomen ?" 
 
 And while the Prince was striving to remem- 
 ber some such ditty, Cyril, reckless with wine 
 or in sheer bravado, struck up a tavern catch 
 of flippant words about Moll and Meg. Flo- 
 rian looked imploringly at him. The Prince 
 frowned, Psyche flushed and trembled, and the 
 young Melissa hung her head in fright. 
 
 " Forbear !" cried the Lady Ida. 
 
 " Hold, sir !" said the Prince, and he struck 
 him on the breast. 
 
 CjvW started up, and there rose a shriek 
 among the women as if a city were being 
 sacked. 
 
 Melissa called, " Fly for your lives !" and the 
 Princess, " To horse ! home ! to horse !" And the 
 whole troop, panic-stricken and bewildered, sped 
 away into the dark. 
 
 Before the Prince could realize what he had 
 lost, he stood alone with Florian in the deserted 
 I.— A 10*
 
 114 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 pavilion, both cursing C}Ti], and deeply vexed 
 at what had happened. Like parting hopes ho 
 heard the hoofs crossing the bridge, and then 
 came another shriek, " The Head, the Head, the 
 Princess !" She had missed the plank in her 
 blind rage and rolled into the stream. 
 
 Out sprang the Prince, and saw her white 
 robe whirling in the waters towards the fall. 
 He gave a single glance, and then, clad in 
 woman's vestments as he was, plunged into the 
 flood and caught her. Oaring with one arm 
 and bearing her up with the other, he tried to 
 reach the shore, but it was in vain. They drove, 
 at last, on an uprooted tree that hung over the 
 water, and, grasping the boughs of this, the 
 Prince, supporting the Lady Ida, at last gained 
 the shore. 
 
 Her maidens were crowded to the verge to 
 take her from him, and they caught her in their 
 arms and cried, " She lives." Then they bore 
 her back into the tent, but so abashed was the 
 Prince by what had passed that he dared not 
 meet her eyes. He could not find his friends 
 now, and he therefore left her his horse, since 
 hers was lost, and pushed on alone to find the 
 door-way to the college gardens. 
 
 By blind instinct he finally came upon it, be- 
 tween its two great statues of Art and Science. 
 Ho climbed over the top with a great efibrt,
 
 The Princess. 115 
 
 dropping on the grass wittiin, and paced back 
 and forth in a tumult of thought, till at last a 
 light step echoed, and then a lofty female form 
 came into view through the uncertain gloom. 
 At first he thought it was Ida herself, but it 
 proved to be Florian. 
 
 " Hush," said he ; " they are seeking us. ' Seize 
 the strangers!' is the cry everywhere. How 
 came you here ?" 
 
 The Prince told him. 
 
 " I," said he, " came back with the rest, sus- 
 pected and avoided. I crept into the hall and 
 slipped behind a statue, and saw the girls called 
 up for trial. Bach one disclaimed all knowledge 
 of us, until, last of all, came Melissa. I pitied 
 her, poor child. At first she was silent, but 
 when she was pressed closer she confessed ; and 
 then, when they asked if her mother knew, or 
 Psyche, she refused to say. The Princess formed 
 her own conclusion and sent for Psyche, but she 
 could not be found. She called for Psyche's 
 child to cast it out-of-doors. Then she sent for 
 Blanche to accuse her face to face. I slipped 
 away and came here. But where will you go 
 now ? And where are Psyche and Cyril ? Both 
 have gone. What if they have gone together? 
 Would we had never come I I dread his wild- 
 ness and the travel through the dark." 
 
 " And yet," said the Prince, " you wrong him
 
 116 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 more than I did, who struck him. His is not 
 the nature of the clown, to wrong what he loves. 
 For however wild he may be in frolic, as to- 
 night, yet he has a true heart under his gayety." 
 
 Scarcely had the Prince done speaking when 
 from a tamarisk near by sjDrang two Proctors, 
 crying, "Names!" Florian standing still was 
 taken, but the Prince escaped, and led his pur- 
 suer a race through all the windings of the gar- 
 den. At last his foot caught in a vine, and he 
 tripped and clasped the feet of a statue, and 
 was caught and known at once. 
 
 They were taken immediately before the Prin- 
 cess, who sat enthroned in the hall with a single 
 lamp above her and handmaids on either side, 
 bowing towards her and combing out her long 
 hair, still damp from the river. Close behind 
 her were eight strong daughters of the plough, 
 huge women of the open ah', ready to do her 
 commands. 
 
 As the captives were brought in, the crowd 
 divided, and they went upward to the throne. 
 There beside it lay Psyche's babe, half naked 
 as it had been snatched from bed. At the left 
 Melissa knelt in tears, but the Lady Blanche 
 stood up and defended herself in vigorous 
 speech, rehearsing all her wrongs since Psyche 
 came into the college, and rating her own virtues 
 at no niggardly value.
 
 The Princess. 117 
 
 To her the Princess coldly replied, " Good. 
 But your oath is broken. We dismiss you. 
 You can go at once. As for this lost lamb, we 
 take it to ourself for redemption." 
 
 The Lady Blanche snarled out a defiance and 
 caught Melissa by the arm to drag her away. 
 The girl cast an imploring look on Ida, which 
 touched Florian to the heart; and while all 
 were gazing on her as she hung like a daughter 
 of Niobe, one arm appealing to Heaven, a little 
 stir began about the door-way, and on a sud- 
 den in rushed a post-woman, out of breath, 
 who went straight to the throne, where she 
 knelt and delivered despatches. The Head took 
 them and tore them open in visible amazement. 
 As she read, a wrathful flush spread over her 
 cheeks and bosom, and her breath came half in 
 sobs. The papers rustled in her trembling hand 
 through the dead hush ; then the babe at her 
 feet began to cry ; and this jarred on her 
 anger. She crushed the scrolls together and 
 made a sudden movement as if to speak, but 
 utterance failed her, and she whirled the letters 
 to the Prince as who should say, " Eead." 
 
 One letter was from the King, her father : 
 
 " Fair daughter, when we sent the Prince to 
 you we were not aware of your ungracious laws. 
 We came after him in haste to hinder any wrong, 
 but we fell into his father's hands, who has this
 
 118 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 night slipped round in the dark and invested 
 you. He keeps me hostage for his son." 
 
 The other was from the Prince's father to 
 the Princess, and ran : 
 
 " You have our son ! Do not touch a hair of 
 his head. Eender him up unscathed and give 
 him your hand forthwith. Keep your contract, 
 or we will this very night destroy your palace." 
 
 Thus far the Prince read, then stood up and 
 spoke impetuously, — 
 
 " Hear me, O noble Ida, and believe that I 
 speak the truth. I and my companions came 
 hither not to pry into your reserve, but led by 
 golden hopes, — hopes that sprang from the royal 
 compact made long ago. As a child I babbled of 
 you. My nurse would tell me tales about your 
 land to beguile me into rest. As a boy you stooped 
 to me from all high places and lived in all fair 
 lights. At morning and evening I heard the 
 woods ring with your name, and you were a 
 part of all I beheld on land or sea. As I would 
 have striven to reach you had you been impris- 
 oned in some other world, so, my youth past and 
 manhood giving me the firmer will, 1 came and 
 found you here. You were more than all I had 
 dreamed or desired, more than the loveliest 
 visions of boyhood, more than the serene ideals 
 of thoughtful youth, and as I lingered near you 
 through the days the beauty ripened and deep-
 
 The Princess. 119 
 
 ened to my senses, and I cannot leave you, O my 
 Princess. I must follow you forever. And yet 
 I did not come to yo\x all unauthorized." And 
 then on one knee he reached up to her her father's 
 letter, and she caught it and dashed it unopened 
 at her feet. A tide of fierce words seemed to fal- 
 ter at her lips just ready to burst, and she would 
 have spoken, but there rose a great hubbub 
 in the court below, where half the girls were 
 gathered together in a noisy confusion crying 
 out in fear of the rumored invasion. 
 
 The Head stood up, robed in her loose black 
 hair, and moved to the open window. She 
 stretched forth her arms and called out across 
 the tumult, and at once it ceased. 
 
 " What do you fear ? Am I not your Head ? 
 The storm breaks on me first of all. I am able 
 to bear it; what, then, do you fear? Peace! 
 our defenders will come. And if they do not 
 come, what matter? I will unfurl our banner 
 and meet the foe, or die proudly the first martyr 
 of our cause." 
 
 Hereupon the crowd dissolved and moved 
 away, and the Lady Ida turned to the Prince 
 with mock civilities and praise that had a bit- 
 terness beneath it. Then she burst forth into 
 uncontrolled anger. 
 
 " I trample on your offers and on yourself!" , 
 she cried. " Begone, sir ! Your falsehood is hate-
 
 120 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 ful to us. Here, push them from the gates." 
 And her stalwart attendants advanced mena- 
 cingly. Twice the Prince sought to plead his 
 cause ; but the heavy hands were on his shoul- 
 der, and he and Florian were forced rudely from 
 her presence, and, amid grim jeers and laughter, 
 thrust out of the gates. 
 
 They crossed the road and gained a little 
 mound, from which they could see the lights 
 within and hear the murmur of the voices. 
 
 As the Prince listened he was seized once 
 again with his ghostly malady, and all the 
 past, Princess and monstrous women-guards, 
 the cataract and the warring Kings, were 
 shadows. This went by anon, as swiftly as it 
 came, but it left him under a cloud of melan- 
 choly, which shaking off as best he could, he 
 and Florian moved away into the darkness. 
 
 lY. 
 
 Scarcely had the Prince and Florian gone 
 three paces when they were saluted by a sen- 
 tinel's voice : 
 
 " Stand ! Who goes there ?" 
 
 " Two from the palace," answered the Prince. 
 
 " The second two ; they wait. Pass on," said 
 the voice. 
 
 Then a soldier in clanking steel led them 
 through the avenues of tents until they heard
 
 The Princess. 121 
 
 the royal ensign flapping above the imperial 
 head-quarters. The two fugitives entered, and 
 the sudden light half blinded them, while all 
 within began to titter and whisper together at 
 their woman's garb, and finally broke forth into 
 open laughter. From King to beardless cap- 
 tains the entire company shook with prolonged 
 mirth, till at length the Prince's father panted 
 to his royal hostage, — 
 
 " King, you are free. We kept you only as 
 surety for our son, — if this, indeed, be our son — 
 or art thou some bedraggled scullion ?" for the 
 Prince was drenched and torn with briers and 
 all in rags. Then his father roared on, " Go, 
 make yourself a man worthy to fight with men ! 
 Cyril has told us all." 
 
 Florian and the Prince stole away and 
 changed their female attire for glittering ar- 
 mor, and came forth into the morning sun, 
 which now had risen full above the northern 
 hills. Here Cyril met them, at first a little 
 shyly, but by and by they asked a mutual par- 
 don, and then began the exchange of news. 
 Cyril had fled away through the darkness, and 
 later in the night had come upon the weeping 
 Psyche. " Then we fell into the King's hands," 
 he said, " and she lies over there still and speech- 
 less." He pointed to a tent a stone's throw 
 away, and they went thither and entered. 
 F 11
 
 122 Tales from Ten Tods. 
 
 Within, amf)ng piles of arms and accoutre- 
 ments, wrapped in a soldier's cloak, upon the 
 ground, lay Psyche ; at her head a wrinkled 
 old woman, follower of the camp, was crouch- 
 ing like a watcher of the dead. 
 
 Then Florian knelt down by her and whis- 
 pered, " Come, sweet sister, lift up your head. 
 You have done no wrong. You could not slay 
 me nor your Prince. Look up ; be comforted." 
 
 The Prince likewise strove to soothe her. 
 " And I, too," he said, " have I not also lost her, 
 in whose least act there is a nameless charm ?" 
 
 She seemed now to hear, and moaned feebly, 
 and then sat up and raised the cloak from her 
 pallid face. 
 
 " Her !" she said, " my friend, — parted from 
 her, — betrayer of her cause and my own ! Where 
 shall I breathe ?" Then she cried with a new 
 impulse, " Why did you break your faith ? Oh, 
 base heart ! What comfort for me ? None, 
 none!" 
 
 "Yet, I pray," pleaded Cyril, "take comfort; 
 live, dear lady, for your child." At this she 
 fairly broke down, and sobbed piteously. 
 
 " Ah me ! my child, my one sweet child ! Ida 
 will hold her back, and she will die of neglect 
 or sicken with ill-usage. For every little fault 
 she will be blamed because she is mine. They 
 will beat her because she is mine. Oh, my
 
 The Princess. 123 
 
 flower, my babe, my sweet Aglaia ! Ah, what 
 might not that man deserve of me who should 
 bring me my sweet AgUiia ?" 
 
 "Be comforted," said Cyril; "you shall have 
 her." 
 
 She veiled her face once more, and sank back 
 upon the ground and would not rise again. 
 
 But now a murmur ran through the camp, 
 and the scouts came in with rumor of Prince 
 Arac's arrival. The Prince and his friends left 
 Psyche with the woman, and, going out, found 
 the Kings in parley. 
 
 "Look you," said the Prince's father, "that 
 the compact be strictly fulfilled ! You have 
 spoilt this girl : she laughs at you. She shall 
 yield now — or war !" 
 
 Then King Gama turned to the Prince : " We 
 fear you spent a stormy time with the Princess. 
 Yet they say you still love her. Give us your 
 mind : how say you, war or not ?" 
 
 " Not war, sire, if possible," said the Prince. 
 "I want her love. War would not bring me 
 that ; it would gain me only her scorn. She 
 would hate me for it." 
 
 "Tut! you do not know these girls," his 
 father roughly broke in. " Look you, sir ! Man 
 is a hunter, woman is the game. We hunt them 
 just for the beauty of their skins, and they love 
 us for it. Out ! for shame, boy ! There's no rose
 
 124 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 half so dear to thera as the man that does what 
 they dare not do. A soldier wins the coldest 
 heart among them. I won your mother so ; and 
 a good wife, worth winning, she was. But this 
 firebrand, — no gentleness for her." 
 
 " True," said the Prince. " But, sire, wild na- 
 tures need wise curbs. Ida dares all that a 
 soldier might dare. I saw her last night when 
 she rose storming and cast down defiance to 
 all opponents. Believe me, sire, she would not 
 shun death, — not even the warrior's. And yet I 
 hold her a true woman. But you class them 
 all as one, and make no allowance for varying 
 types. Were we half as good and kind as 
 they are, much that Ida claims as her due 
 would never be questioned." 
 
 " Nay, nay, you speak but sense," said King 
 Gama. " We remember love ourself in our 
 sweet youth. You talk almost like Ida herself; 
 and she can talk. Yes, there's something in 
 what you say, and we esteem you for it." Then 
 turning to the King, " He seems a gracious and 
 gallant Prince. I would he had our daughter." 
 He spoke on indulgently of the invasion and of 
 his detention in the invader's camp, and lightly 
 excused his neighbor for the trespass because 
 of the provocation he had received. " But let 
 your Prince," at last he said, " ride with us to 
 our lines. Our royal word for it he comes
 
 The Princess. 125 
 
 back safely. We will speak with Arac. His 
 influence is more powerful than ours. Some- 
 thing may thus be done. And you also," he 
 said to Cyril and Florian, "follow us, if you 
 
 will." 
 
 He bade farewell then t& the Prince's father, 
 who growled an answer in his beard, which let 
 just enough out to give them leave to go. 
 
 They rode forth across the fields beneath 
 huge trees where the birds piped amorously, 
 and touched by their songs the Prince was led 
 to pour his own passion into the ear of King 
 Gama, who promised help and made many a 
 kindly answer to the Prince's warm words. 
 But they soon came within sight of Prince 
 Arac's forces, who were advancing in warlike 
 squadrons to meet them. A cry of greeting to 
 the King went up as he approached, and then 
 the army halted amid a great clashing of arms 
 and neighing of horses. The drums beat, and a 
 horn blew out a long blast, and there rode out 
 from the midst of the glittering ranks three 
 huge warriors, the tallest and mightiest of 
 whom was Arac. The Prince recognized him, 
 because about his every motion there was a 
 shadow of his sister Ida. 
 
 When the Prince beheld this martial sight 
 his desire for peace turned to a stirring impulse 
 for war ; but the King drew close to his three 
 
 11*
 
 126 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 huge sons, and, now pointing this way and now 
 that, told them all that had happened. They 
 smiled as he spoke of the Prince's disguise, and 
 the giant Arac burst into a roar of laughter as 
 he rode up to him. 
 
 "But how is this, Prince? what does this 
 mean ? Our land invaded, our father taken cap- 
 tive, and yet no war I I care not in truth 
 whether there be war or not ; but then this 
 question of your troth. She's honest at heart, 
 believe me, but she flies too high, she flies too 
 high. Sweet enough to those she loves, though. 
 But I still stand on her side. She made me 
 swear it with solemn rites by candle-light. I 
 swore by St. something, I forget what, but I 
 swore, and there's an end. She will not wed ; 
 so waive your claim, or, else, war, with or with- 
 out my father's consent." 
 
 The Prince hesitated, desiring to achieve his 
 purpose by peaceful means, and so the likelier 
 gain his bride, but one of the stalwart brothers 
 whispered audibly, — 
 
 " I thought as much : the woman's skirt hid a 
 woman's heart." 
 
 This taunt was more than Cyril's impetu- 
 ous nature could endure. He flung back some 
 piercing and bitter words, and the Prince an- 
 swered hotly, — 
 
 " Decide it here, then. We are three to three."
 
 The Princess. 127 
 
 "But only three to three?" said the third 
 brother, — "no more, and in such a cause ? Every 
 soldier of us waits, hungry for honor. Why not 
 have fifty on a side ?" 
 
 " As you will," said the Prince. " But it must 
 be solely for honor, since if we win we are no 
 nearer to securing her than if we fail. She 
 would not keep her compact the more readily." 
 
 " 'Sdeath," said Arae, " but we will send her 
 potent reasons for biding by the issue. Let our 
 messenger go through, and you shall have her 
 answer before we begin." 
 
 "Boys!" shrieked the old King in terror, 
 but his appeal was in vain. No one regarded 
 him. 
 
 The Prince, with Florian and Cyril, rode back 
 to the camp, and found that his father had 
 thrice sent a herald to Ida's gates to learn if 
 she would acknowledge his claim. The first 
 time there was no response. The next time he 
 was warned away by an awful voice within. 
 The third time the eight monstrous plough- 
 women sallied forth and belabored him roundly. 
 But when the Prince told the King that he was 
 pledged to fight for his bride in tourney, he 
 clashed the royal hands together with a cry, 
 and vowed he would himself fight it out with 
 the lads. But, overborne by wiser counsels, he 
 yielded sullenly, while many a knight started
 
 128 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 up and swore to do combat for the Prince's claim 
 while life lasted. 
 
 The field whereon the camp lay ran up to 
 Ida's very palace-walls, above which rose pol- 
 ished columns and great bronzes of exalted 
 women that overlooked the marble stairways 
 within. Here, the whole morning long, the 
 lists were hammered up, while heralds went to 
 and fro with messages from the opposing hosts. 
 At last Ida's answer came. It was written in a 
 royal hand, which trembled here and there in 
 spite of her resolution. The Prince kissed it 
 and read it aloud to the King. 
 
 It told of Ida's ambitions and ideals, and how 
 they had been thwarted by a troop of saucy 
 boys, who stole in masked like her own maidens, 
 blustering insolence and love, and making claims 
 upon her because of some old compact which 
 she herself had never set her hand to. She 
 assented to the trial by martial combat, and 
 urged her brother Arac to fight manfully, for 
 he was in the right, but not to kill the Prince, 
 because he had once risked his life for hers. 
 Then, in a postscript written across the rest, 
 she warned him against treason in his camp, 
 and spoke of Psyche's child as her chiefest 
 comfort in her own nest of traitors. She took 
 it, she said, into her own bod for an hour that 
 morning, and the tender little orphan hands
 
 The Princess. 129 
 
 felt at her heart and charmed away the wrath 
 that burned there against the world. 
 
 This was all the letter said, and when he 
 had heard it the King muttered,— 
 
 " Stubborn, but yet fit to breed up warriors. 
 This Gama has lost all his power by lazy toler- 
 ance, and she has taken the helm. But she's 
 yet a colt ; take her and break her, boy I Besides, 
 they say she's comely. "Well, I like her none 
 the less for her hardihood. A lusty pair of 
 twins would cure her folly. The bearing of 
 children is the wisdom of a woman." 
 
 The Prince paid little heed to the hard old 
 King, but took his leave and pored over the let- 
 ter line by line, but chiefly over the few words 
 which asked Arac to spare his life. He mused 
 again upon his morning in the wood, when the 
 leaves sung, "Follow, follow, thou shalt win." 
 And then he remembered the sorcerer's curse, 
 that one of his race should fall fighting shadows, 
 and like a flash his seizure was again upon him. 
 All things around him turned to shadow, and 
 he seemed to move in olden tilts doing battle 
 with ghosts. 
 
 When he had partly emerged from his wak- 
 ing dream it was noon, and the lists were ready. 
 He put on his armor with all haste, and entered 
 the arena with the rest. Fifty were there 
 opposed to fifty. Then the trumpet sounded 
 l.—i
 
 130 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 twice at the barrier, and the combat began. 
 There was a storm of beating hoofs, and the 
 riders, front to front, dashed upon one another 
 with thunderous clang of steel and splintered 
 weapons. Yet to the Prince it all somehow 
 seemed only a dream he had dreamed. The steed 
 rose on his haunches ; the lance shivered in the 
 iron hand ; sparks flew from the smitten helmets, 
 and part of the noble company sat like rocks, 
 while part reeled and fell to the earth, only to 
 rise again with drawn swords and unconquer- 
 able prowess. 
 
 Arac, with the twin brothers by his side, 
 rained down a shower of mighty blows as here 
 and there he rode, lord of the lists. The whole 
 plain rang like a beaten anvil, so fierce and so 
 ceaseless were his strokes. 
 
 The Prince marvelled that such might should 
 spring from the loins of the King, dwarfish 
 Gama; and then, glancing aside, he saw the 
 palace front alive with fiuttering scarfs and 
 groups of women perched in its marble niches ; 
 but highest of all, standing like a statue among 
 the statues, he saw Ida watching them, with 
 Psyche's babe in her sternly folded arras, A 
 single band of gold was about her hair like a 
 saint's glory, but from her eyes shone an inexor- 
 able light, too cruel for saintship. He thought, 
 as he gazed an instant upon her, —
 
 The Princess. 131 
 
 " Yet, for all that, she sees me fight. What 
 if she saw me fall ?" 
 
 With this he pressed among the thickest of 
 the warfare and bore down a prince, and Cyril 
 fighting by his side slew another. Then Arac, 
 with a malignant grin upon his face, made at 
 the Prince, and all gave way before him as 
 he approached, — all but Florian, who, loving 
 his royal friend better than his own right 
 eye, thrust in between them. But Arac rode 
 him down. Then Cyril, seeing this, pushed in 
 against the Prince, wearing Psyche's color on 
 his helmet. He was tough and supple and apt 
 at arms, but Arac was stronger and tougher, 
 and he threw him at one stroke of the lance. 
 
 Then the Prince spurred on and felt his veins 
 stretch with a fierce heat. It was but a mo- 
 ment hand to hand. The Prince struck out and 
 shouted. His blade glanced, and he grazed only 
 a feather in Arac's plume. Then dream and 
 truth flowed out together from his brain. Dark- 
 ness closed around him, and he fell heavily, 
 with jangling armor, down from his horse to 
 the ground. 
 
 Y. 
 
 After the Prince's fall the fight grew more 
 and more sullen and determined. The hardier 
 knights of both sides held out the longest, and 
 the battle between them was grimly earnest.
 
 132 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 There was no faltering, no slightest recoil from 
 the doom which must await them. Each fought 
 for mastery, and the courage of the opposing 
 sides was equal. 
 
 But at last King Gama's knights slowly 
 gained the advantage, and finally the day was 
 theirs. Then there went up a great cry, — 
 
 " The Prince is slain !" 
 
 His father heard this and ran frantically into 
 the lists. He found his son, and unlaced his 
 casque and grovelled in distress upon his body. 
 After him went Psyche, but her sorrow for 
 Aglaia eclipsed her grief for the fallen Prince. 
 
 But Ida stood all this while on the palace 
 roof with Psyche's young child in her arms, 
 and sung a chant of victory. She was in an 
 ecstasy of rejoicing over the downfall of her 
 foes, and her tongue gave vent to sonorous 
 words of triumph, which rang above all the 
 murmur of the throngs below her. 
 
 "And now, O maids," she cried, "our sanc- 
 tuary is violated, our laws are broken. Fear not 
 to break them more in behoof of those who have 
 done battle for our rights. Come, since we are 
 vindicated, let not our heroes lie uncared for in 
 their tents, but descend and proffer tender min- 
 istries, that come sweet from female hands." 
 
 With the babe still in her arms, she herself 
 came down and burst open the great bronze
 
 The Princess. 133 
 
 gates, and led a throng of maids, some cowled 
 and some bareheaded, as it chanced, into the 
 bloody lists. The Lady Blanche followed timidly 
 at a distance, but ' Ida entered undaunted, and 
 went straight to where her wounded brothers 
 lay. There she knelt on one knee, resting the 
 child upon the other, and pressed their hands 
 and called them her deliverers and a score more 
 of noble names. 
 
 " You shall not lie in the tents, but here in our 
 college," she murmured, lovingly, " and nursed 
 by those you fought for and served by all our 
 willing hands." 
 
 Then, whether impelled either by such soften- 
 ing contact, or likelier by chance, she moved to- 
 wards the Prince. The old King rose from his 
 son's side as she approached, and glared at her 
 silently but with threatening aspect. But when 
 she saw the youthful figure lying dishelmed and 
 mute, without a motion, and cold even to her, 
 she drew a sigh ; and as she raised her eyes to 
 the father's haggard face and beheld his beard, 
 grisly and reverend with age, all dabbled with 
 his own son's blood, she shuddered and her 
 mouth twitched with pain. At last she spoke, — 
 
 "O sire, he saved my life, and my brother 
 slew him for it." 
 
 She said no more than this ; and the old King, 
 in utter scorn, drew forth from the boy's neck 
 
 12
 
 134 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 the portrait of her and the tress of her hair 
 which he always wore there. 
 
 She saw these and recognized them; and a 
 day rose up out of the past into her memory 
 when her mother, the Queen, cut the tress with 
 many kisses, long, long before the time of Lady 
 Blanche and her formal theories. Then once 
 again she looked down at the Prince's pale face 
 and stark, immovable form. As by a flash of 
 light she seemed to recognize the bitter results, 
 the vain and heartless work wrought by errant 
 fancy and vague ideals. She was touched anew 
 to the sense of human needs and the blessings 
 of human fellowship. 
 
 She bowed her head and set the child upon 
 the ground, then she tenderly touched the 
 Prince's brow. 
 
 " O Sire," she suddenly cried, " touch him ! 
 He lives ; he is not dead. Come, let him be 
 brought here with my brothers into our own 
 palace. I will tend him like one of them. The 
 thanks I owe him win me from my goal !" 
 
 The King stooped anxiously over his son; 
 and Ida, from the opposite side, bent down, 
 and the two heads touched above him, mixing 
 their black and gray locks like the meeting of 
 evening and night. 
 
 Psyche, too, stole nearer and nearer, till the 
 babe, that lay by them unnoticed on the grass,
 
 The Princess. 135 
 
 spied its mother and began to laugh and babble 
 at her, and to stretch forth its innocent arms 
 for a caress. 
 
 Psyche could not resist the sweet appeal. 
 She stood a little way off the group and cried, — 
 
 " My child ! mine, not yours ! Give me my 
 child, I say !" Then she ceased, all in a tremble, 
 and with a face full of piteous pleading. 
 
 The near-by groups turned to look at her. 
 Her cheek was wan with care and longing ; her 
 mantle was torn and awry ; and her bodice had 
 slipped its hooks and fell away from her throat ; 
 but she did not heed this nor know it. She 
 clamored on wildly again, till Ida heard, and, 
 rising slowly from beside the Prince, she stood 
 up silent and erect. Her glance encompassed 
 the mother, the child, and the Prince. But as 
 she gazed upon them, Cyril, all battered as he 
 was, drew himself up on one knee and caught 
 her robe to his lips. She looked down at the 
 armed figure sidewise, insensibly or half in pity ; 
 but when she saw his face, the memory of his 
 ribald song darkened her brow, and she arose 
 above him to all her majestic height, tall as a 
 shadow lengthened out upon the sand. 
 
 " O fair and terrible !" he said. " But Love 
 and Nature, are not they stronger and more 
 terrible? Your foot is on our necks, lady. 
 You have conquered. What more would you
 
 136 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 have ? Give her the child !" He railed long 
 and boldly against her hardness, which shut out 
 love, and at last, " Or if you scorn," he said, 
 "to hand it to her yourself, or speak to one 
 who owns to the fault of tenderness, then give 
 it to me. I will give it to her !" 
 
 At first the Princess listened with haughty 
 disdain, but her humor changed as he spoke, 
 and at length she took up the child and called 
 it by a score of endearing names. 
 
 " Farewell," she said to it at last. " These men 
 are as unjust to us as they always were ; and 
 we two must part, my little one. Yet I was 
 fain to think thy cause might be one with mine, 
 that I might be something to thee in the years 
 to come." Here she kissed it, then, — 
 
 " All good go with thee ! Take it, sir," and 
 80 laid the soft infant in Cyril's mailed hands. 
 
 He turned half round to Psyche as she sprang 
 to meet it with eyes that spoke untold thanks, and 
 she took it and mouthed it, and pressed it madly 
 to her bosom, and then, afterwards, she grew 
 calm, and said in supplicating tones to Ida, — 
 
 " We two were friends. I am going back to 
 my own land. I was not fit for the great things 
 you planned. Yet say one soft word to me and 
 let U8 part forever." 
 
 The Princess said nothing, but gazed raptly 
 upon the child.
 
 Tlie Princess. 137 
 
 " Ida ! 'sdeath !" exclaimed Arac, " you blame 
 the men ; but who is so hard upon woman as 
 woman? Come, a grace to me! I am your 
 warrior. We have fought your battle, now kiss 
 her; take her hand. See, she is weeping. I'd 
 sooner fight thrice over than see her weep." 
 
 Still Ida said nothing. But King Gama, 
 moved beyond his custom, cried, — 
 
 " I've heard there is iron in the blood, and 
 now I believe it. Not one word ? Not a single 
 one? Where did you get this hard temper? 
 Not, I swear, from me. Not from your mother, 
 either, for she said you had a heart — I heard 
 her say it just as she died : ' Our Ida has a 
 heart, but see that some one be near her with 
 authority.' I brought you the Lady Blanche, 
 and what did it profit you? And, now, not a 
 word?" He chided her roundly for her whims 
 that had cost so much good life, for her ingrati- 
 tude to him who had yielded so greatly, for her 
 fickle liking, which could so easily give up a 
 bosom friend ; and then, exasperated into un- 
 wonted energy, 
 
 " Out upon you, flint I You love no one ; 
 neither me nor your brothers, nor any one but 
 your own wilful self." 
 
 But Ida made no reply to his wrathful out- 
 burst, nor spoke a word to Psyche. Her head 
 bent a little, and she stood as if a relaxing lan- 
 
 12*
 
 138 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 guor had taken possession of all her limbs. 
 Across her mouth flitted now and then the 
 shadow of a smile. 
 
 But now the Prince's father broke forth in 
 mighty indignation : 
 
 " You, whom I thought a woman ! There is 
 no woman in you. Not mercy for your accom- 
 plice ! Then I would not trust my boy to your 
 treacherous hands. — Here," and he called his 
 own attendants, " take up the Prince and carry 
 him out to our tents." 
 
 He rose from beside the prostrate figure, and 
 every ear awaited the fury which should break 
 upon him from those man-scourging lips. But, 
 instead, Ida's whole face broke into genial 
 warmth, and through glittering tears she 
 looked fondly once again on her hopeless 
 friend. 
 
 " Come hither. Psyche," she cried ; " embrace 
 me, quick, while the humor lasts. Be friends 
 again with one whose mind changes with the 
 hour. Ah, dear traitor, too-much-loved Psyche ! 
 We kiss you here before these Kings in token 
 of all forgiveness. We love you none the less 
 that we dare not trust you." Then, turning to 
 the Prince's father, she said, beseechingly, "And 
 now, O sire, let me be his nurse. I will wait 
 upon him as upon my own brother, so deeply 
 do I feel my debt of gratitude. You and your
 
 The Princess. 139 
 
 people shall have full access to him, and I will 
 send our girls away till happier times. Help, 
 father, brothers! Speak to the King, soften 
 him even as I am softened to feel the touch of 
 nature." She wept passionately then, but the 
 King made no reply. 
 
 " Your brother, lady," said Cyril, turning to 
 Psyche, " ask the Princess if you may tend on 
 him, for he is wounded also." 
 
 " Why not ?" said Ida, with a bitter smile. 
 " Our laws are broken now : let him enter." 
 
 Then others among the girls asked permission 
 for their wounded friends and kinsmen, and Ida 
 gave a grieved and ironical assent. 
 
 "Yes, let it be; our laws are broken now. 
 It is best so." 
 
 " But why hesitate, your Highness, to trans- 
 gress laws which you did not make ? 'Twas I 
 who made these laws," said Lady Blanche. She 
 turned an eye of scorn upon the faltering Head. 
 
 Ida aifected to pay no heed to her stinging 
 words, but cried, in despairing fervor, — 
 
 " Fling wide the doors ! Bring all in, friend 
 and foe ; all shall be cared for in our palace and 
 by ourselves." She turned to go, her whole face 
 suffused with hot indignation. 
 
 But Arac went up to her with roughly sooth- 
 ing words, and her father, the King, strove to 
 console her with his aged tenderness. The
 
 140 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Prince's father, also, at last gave her his hand, 
 and they were reconciled by the side of the 
 fallen Prince. 
 
 Then the wounded were lifted up and borne 
 into the palace hall, amid the astonished whis- 
 pers of the pupils and the rustle of their silken 
 attire. Ida took her station at the farther end, 
 her two tame leopards crouched at her feet ; but 
 in the centre of the great hall the common sol- 
 diers paused with wondering eyes, amazed by 
 its magnificence, and by the throngs of girls in 
 the gay college vestments. The girls, in turn, 
 stared wide with wonder at the unaccustomed 
 entry of men in their midst, and all was silent, 
 save for the hum of surprise or the occasional 
 jangle of some piece of armor. 
 
 Then through the hush the voice of the Prin- 
 cess sounded, giving orders for the bestowal of 
 the maimed warriors ; and they carried the 
 Prince up the stairs and through long galleries 
 to a fair chamber shut out from sound and in- 
 trusion. There they left him; and all the day 
 through he could hear dull echoes from the 
 ground without of the departing chariots which 
 bore away the maidens. But enough of the 
 worthiest of the pupils stayed behind to nurse 
 the sick, and these with the great lords from 
 either host beside the walls paced freely out 
 and in at their will in mingled converse and
 
 The Princess. 141 
 
 kindly ministrations. Thus was the sanctuary 
 violated and the palace turned into a hospital. 
 At first all was confusion, but day by day order 
 was restored, and everywhere the low voices of 
 the girls and their tender hands cherished the 
 wounded knights. They talked and sang and 
 read and went to and fro all day long with 
 friendly and soothing offices, distributing flowers 
 or books, like creatures who were in their own 
 true element. 
 
 But Ida was sad. She hated her weakness, 
 and mourned that her old studies were no longer 
 possible. She spoke seldom, but gazed alone 
 for hours together, and brooded over the disas- 
 trous siege which had brought such swarms of 
 men to her virgin threshold. Her hopes were 
 thwarted, her mission was useless, and the 
 whole world seemed darkened by her disaster. 
 
 From such profitless brooding at last she 
 came down and took her post among the busy 
 maidens, and found peace once more in work. 
 
 But the Prince lay unconscious for many days. 
 He did not know whose hands were nursing him, 
 nor did he heed the whispered talk that anx- 
 iously murmured across his pillow. 
 
 Psyche tended on Florian, and Melissa was 
 much with her, for the Lady Blanche had gone 
 away and left her daughter, willing that she 
 should keep the favor of the court. Florian
 
 142 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 looked with all the longing of a convalescent 
 for the daily appearance of the small, bright 
 head between the parted silks of his couch, and 
 he found her blush and smile a medicine in 
 themselves. He rose up before long quite 
 whole and well, and under Melissa's guidance 
 learned to help those of his fellow-warriors who 
 were still bedridden. What wonder, then, that 
 two hearts so inclined to each other, and so 
 employed, should close in love? 
 
 But though Blanche had sworn that after 
 their night alone in the open fields Psyche must 
 needs wed Cyril to keep her own good name, 
 yet the match did not prosper. Cyril plied her 
 with references to the babe restored by him, and 
 wooed her valiantly; but she feared to incense 
 the Head and would not yield. But one day 
 Ida came upon them as CjrW pleaded his cause, 
 and, though her face flushed a little, she passed 
 on and said nothing ; and from that time they 
 tacitly understood each other, and were as sat- 
 isfied as if the troth had been duly plighted. 
 
 Nor were these the only pairs who were 
 caught in the amorous entanglement. Love 
 seemed to hold high carnival in the sacred halls, 
 and let fly his arrows at random among men 
 and maids, until every marble niche was filled 
 with a wooing couple. 
 
 King Gama and Ida's brothers did not cease
 
 The Princess. 143 
 
 to press the Prince's claim, nor did his father, 
 who was now fully reconciled to her, fail to use 
 constant persuasion ; but she was still obdurate, 
 notwithstanding that she often sat long by the 
 Prince's bedside in her daily mission of healing. 
 Sometimes, too, he even caught her hand in his 
 wild delirium, and after gripping it hard, he would 
 fling it off, and shriek, " You are not Ida !" Then 
 he would clasp it once again, and call her lov- 
 ingly his Ida, and heap caressing names upon 
 her, though he really knew not that it was Ida 
 whom he addressed. 
 
 She often dreaded, as she watched his wild 
 gestures and listened to his raving, that he 
 would lose his mind ; and the fear sometimes 
 forced itself upon her, in spite of her assumed 
 indifference, that he might even die. These 
 feelings, ebbing and flowing day by day, broke 
 gradually, but all unconsciously, the barriers of 
 her grief and coldness ; and these, and the sights 
 and sounds about her, the share in others' woe, 
 the weary attendance, and glimpses of the hap- 
 piness of new-found lovers, brought to her an 
 unwonted tenderness and then an awakening 
 love for him who lay at her side. 
 
 At last the Prince awoke sane and whole, but 
 pitifully weak. It was in the evening, and he 
 stared dismayed at the pictured walls, not real- 
 izing where he was. The flgures looked to him
 
 144 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 like a hollow show of life ; but so, likewise, did 
 Ida, who sat by his bedside with her palms 
 pressed close together and a dew of tears in 
 her eyes. He moved, then sighed lightly. A 
 touch came at his wrist, and a tear fell upon 
 his hand ; then he, too, wept for very languor 
 and self-pity, and, with what strength he had, 
 he fixed his eyes on her, and whispered, — 
 
 " If you be what I think you, only some sweet 
 dream, would you could fulfil yourself and be 
 that Ida whom I knew ! I ask you nothing. 
 Only, if you be a dream, Sweet Dream, be per- 
 fect. I shall die to-night. Stoop down, then, 
 and seem to kiss me once before I die." 
 
 He could say no more, but lay like one in 
 a trance. She turned and paused, and then 
 stooped down and touched his lips with hers. 
 The Prince gave a passionate cry, and caught 
 her in his arms. He felt that his spirit had 
 united with Ida's in that one brief kiss. Then 
 he fell back, and she rose from his embrace 
 glowing all over with noble shame. Her falser 
 self had slipped fi'om her like a discarded robe, 
 and left what remained the lovelier for what 
 had passed away. She rose, now, and glided 
 forth without a single glance behind her, and 
 the Prince sank back and slept unbrokenly, with 
 happy dreams of love and the life that was to 
 be.
 
 \\'X:\?:c^vA i'AV'i&v.
 
 DANTE GABRIEL KOSSETTI.
 
 ROSE MARY. 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTl. 
 
 I.— O k 13
 
 ROSE MARY. 
 
 I. 
 
 " Come hither, Mary mine. Leave the garden- 
 close now, and sit by me. The sun is sinking, and 
 the stars are beginning to twinkle. Come, you 
 shall read them once more in the beryl-stone." 
 
 Saying this, the aged dame, Eose Mary's 
 mother, unbound her girdle and drew forth 
 from the folds of her robe a sphere of trans- 
 parent stone, shot through with shadows and 
 touched with hovering rainbow tints. It was, in 
 truth, a miniature world, reflecting in its glassy 
 depths whatever of the great world about came 
 within the circle of its radiance. But to one 
 pure enough to see it showed more than this, 
 for it held in its glowing circumference the 
 unknown as well as the known; the whole 
 future, as well as the passing hour. 
 
 For a thousand years, so went the tale, this 
 globe of beryl had lain in the ocean with a 
 treasure wrecked from a Thessalian bark. It 
 had cost a human life to bring it back to earth, 
 and thus sanctified it gained magical properties ; 
 
 147
 
 148 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 so that now, as Eose Mary's lady mother held it 
 out to her, it had a wondrous light about it and 
 shone very strangely through the thick and 
 twilit leaves of the garden. 
 
 " Come," she repeated, " you may read the stars 
 if you will, or follow your knight Sir James of 
 Heronhaye as he rides to Holy Cross to-morrow." 
 At this name Eose Mary turned from her 
 flowers and hurried into the chamber where her 
 mother sat. 
 
 " May I see him truly, mother ?" she said, and 
 knelt at the lady's side with eager hands 
 stretched out for the stone. 
 
 But her mother's face saddened as she put 
 back her fair daughter's dark locks and looked 
 caressingly into her face. 
 
 " Yes, truly, my child," she said. " He rides 
 away to do penance before he takes you to the 
 altar ; but there is evil news to tell. Be strong 
 now, and here is our help." And she pointed to 
 the beryl where it lay in her lap. 
 
 " Now listen," she resumed. " On the road Sir 
 James must take there is an ambush waiting to 
 attack him ; but he will go in spite of all dan- 
 ger, and will go alone. No one knows where 
 the foe really lurks, but here in the beryl you 
 may read all things." 
 
 Again Eose Mary reached for the stone ; but 
 her mother restrained her.
 
 Rose Mary. 149 
 
 " No, not yet. Listen ! All last night I made 
 sacrifice and strove in prayer at the altar. The 
 flame paled in the sunrise, and I performed every 
 needful rite. Now, nothing is lacking but the 
 eyes of a pure and innocent soul. Look, then, 
 my Eose, and read his fate !" 
 
 "But, mother, if I should not see?" 
 
 " No, no ; uncover your face, child. Love will 
 teach you to see as you have always seen." 
 
 Eose Mary's cheeks grew deadly pale as her 
 gray eyes sought the beryl-stone. She leaned 
 over her mother's lap and passionately stretched 
 her throat, sighing from her very soul, as she 
 said, " I see !" Then they were both aware of a 
 faint music in the chamber, but there was no 
 time to think upon the marvel, though it deli- 
 ciously lulled their straining senses. 
 
 The lady held the sphere upon her knee. 
 
 "Lean this way and speak low," she said, 
 " and speak of nothing but what you see." 
 
 Eose Mary gazed upon the stone with fixed 
 and staring eyes : 
 
 " I see a man with a great broom sweeping 
 away the dust." 
 
 " Yes, that is always first. But now look well. 
 What comes next ?" 
 
 '• I see two roads stretching away and part- 
 ing in a waste country. Deep glens and tall 
 ridges lie along their sides, and a hill walls in 
 
 13*
 
 150 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 the valley. One road follows the brook, and 
 the other goes across the moor." 
 
 " Both go to Holy Cross, daughter. But 
 what of the valley road? He must go that 
 way." 
 
 " It runs past me like the turning leaves of a 
 book." 
 
 " Look everywhere for a spear. They will 
 lie close till he approaches." 
 
 " The stream has spread out to a river, with 
 stiff blue reeds and bare banks." 
 
 " Is there any roof near to shelter a hidden 
 band?" 
 
 " Yes ; on the farther bank there is a single 
 one, and a herdsman unyokes his team there in 
 the twilight." 
 
 " Keep watch by the water's edge; some boat 
 may lurk there." 
 
 " One has just slid out from the winding shore, 
 but a peasant woman is at the oars and a child 
 
 is steering. But, there ! something sparkled 
 
 No, it was only a lapwing." 
 
 Then Rose Mary, growing weary of the search 
 and succumbing to the intense strain of eye and 
 nerve, drew back and cried, — 
 
 " It is all in vain I I have missed them, and 
 they will kill him, they will kill him !" 
 
 " For dear love's sake speak low," said the 
 mother.
 
 Rose Mary. 151 
 
 " My eyes are strained to the goal, but, oh, 
 the voice within me!" cried Eose Mary, in 
 lowered tones. 
 
 " Hush, sweet, hush. Be calm and search the 
 stone," whispered the lady again. 
 
 " I see two old and broken floodgates," re- 
 sumed Eose Mary. " Grasses wave along the 
 weir, but the bridge still leads to the break- 
 water. And mother!" she almost shrieked in 
 her dread, and clung close to her mother's knee, 
 crouching low while her hair fell across her 
 eyes, then she whispered, fearfully, " The spears 
 are there !" 
 
 The lady stooped and cleared the locks from 
 her daughter's face. " So much yet to see, and 
 she has swooned," she wailed; then, smooth- 
 ing the girl's fair brow, she lifted her up. 
 " Look, look, sweet !" she pleaded. " An image 
 comes but once to the beryl. Do you see the 
 same place ?" 
 
 Eose Mary wearily opened her eyes and 
 gazed again into the stone. 
 
 " I see eight men," she languidly murmured. 
 " The weir is covered with a wild growth, and 
 they are hidden by the water-gate. They lie 
 about as if they had a long while to stay. The 
 chief's lance has a blazoned scroll. He seems 
 some lord. I cannot trace the blazon. Yes, 
 there, now — I can see the field of blue and the
 
 152 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 spurs and merlins in pairs. It is the Warden 
 of Holycldugh." 
 
 " God be thanked !" said the mother. " AVe 
 know now. It is your good knight's mortal 
 enemy. Last Shrovetide, in the tourney, he 
 strove to take his life by treason, and now he 
 tries, again. So, my lord," she continued, bitterly, 
 " we know you now. You will watch till morn- 
 ing? June's a fair month, and the moon is 
 full. St. Judas send you a merry night at 
 Warisweir." 
 
 Then she bent low again over her daughter, 
 who had sunk across her knees. 
 
 " Now, sweet," she said, " only one more look 
 and you may lie soft in bed. We know what 
 perils are in the valley. Now look over the 
 hills and see if the road is free there " 
 
 Rose Mary reached up and pressed her cheek 
 against her mother's, and she almost smiled, but 
 said nothing. Then she turned again to the 
 shadowy glass. 
 
 " The broom again," she began. " I stand once 
 more where the roads part. The hill-side is 
 clear, but the river lies like a thread in the val- 
 ley. The waste land runs by very swiftly, and 
 I see nothing but heath and sky. There's not a 
 break for a spear to hide in ; nothing, nothing 
 to fear." 
 
 She gazed on intently for some time without
 
 Mose Mary. 153 
 
 speaking, but again she began : " Over there 
 rise the heights of Holycleugh. Where the 
 road leads up to the castle there are seven wide 
 and deep clefts. I can see into six, but the 
 seventh is brimmed with mist. If there was 
 anything there I could not see it." 
 
 " Little hope, my girl, for a helm to be hidden 
 in the moorland mists. They melt with every 
 wind." 
 
 " The road winds and winds," resumed Eose 
 Mary, " and the great walls come nearer and 
 nearer." 
 
 " Enough," said her mother, and she took the 
 bending head to her bosom. " Eest, poor head," 
 she lovingly murmured. " We are done now, 
 and know all that is needed." 
 
 Then, as she wrapped the beryl-stone in her 
 robe again, she looked fondly at it, and watched 
 the flickering shadows course through its glassy 
 depths as if it still pulsed with the vibrations 
 of the spell. 
 
 As it slid into its silken case, a strange music 
 drifted once more across the room and died 
 away like a light laughter. 
 
 But Eose Mary had heard nothing of it. She 
 lay in a deep slumber upon her mother's knee, 
 who presently arose and lifted her tenderly into 
 the chair, where she sank with a broken moan 
 into heavy sleep.
 
 154 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Then her mother went out to bear the news 
 to Sir James of Heronhaye and warn him of 
 his danger. 
 
 Eose Mary slept long and soundly, but at last 
 she raised her head and rose up bewildered. 
 She searched her brain as for something that 
 had vanished, and then clasped her brows, as a 
 sudden burst of remembrance came upon her. 
 She knelt and lifted her eyes in awe, and gave 
 a long, sweet sigh : 
 
 " Thank God that I saw !" 
 
 But Eose Mary's mother, after she had spoken 
 with the knight, climbed a secret stairway and 
 knelt at a carven altar, where she laid, at last, 
 the precious beryl. It was engraved with mystic 
 characters in a dead tongue, which a priest of the 
 Holy Sepulchre had interpreted to her lord, who 
 had brought it home to her from the crusades 
 as a curious gift. 
 
 As she turned away from the altar where it 
 reposed she murmured the words of its charm. 
 " None sees here but the pure," and then, with 
 all a mother's fondness in her voice, "And what 
 rose in Mary's bower is purer than my own 
 sweet Eose Mary ?" 
 
 II. 
 
 The days passed slowly in Eose Mary's bower, 
 for she was anxious to hear from her wandering
 
 Rose Mary. 155 
 
 knight. He had set out gravely enough on his 
 holy errand, but he laughed a defiance at his 
 enemies as he bade her adieu. Yet she was 
 disquieted by his long absence, and feared the 
 warning in the beryl might have been in vain. 
 On the third day, as she sat musing in her 
 chamber, her mother came up to her and touched 
 her with a caress which had so much of pity in 
 it that she was startled to her feet. 
 
 "What has happened?" she cried. "Is he 
 wounded ? Is he here ?" And she started to- 
 wards the stair. 
 
 Her mother detained her and drew her down 
 to the stone seat beside her. 
 
 " Oh, my Eose," said her mother, " what shall 
 be done with the rose which Mary weeps on ? 
 what shall be done with the cankered flower ?" 
 " Let it fall from the tree, mother, and wait 
 for the night. Let it hide its shame before the 
 new day comes." And the girl hid her fair face 
 with passionate tears in her mother's lap. 
 
 The lady rose then and softly lifted her child 
 to her side. With a supporting arm around 
 her she led her drooping into the midst of the 
 room. 
 
 " Come, my heart," she said ; " it is time for us 
 to go. This is the sad hour foretold in the 
 troubled nights. Yet keep in good cheer, for 
 you have a mate in your shame who will not
 
 156 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 leave you. There will be peace at last, if we 
 love each other." 
 
 But the fair girl cried piteously upon her 
 knight. 
 
 " 'Twas for love alone," she said, " and the re- 
 pentant heart has made bitter atonement. 'Tis 
 only three days to wait, mother, and he returns 
 to me. Where may I go till he brings me back 
 a bride ? for they will all know me for the thing 
 I am." 
 
 Then the pent-up tears came welling from the 
 lady's eyes, and both stood weeping together. 
 
 " Oh, daughter," she said amid her sobs, " how 
 could you deceive me ? Your heart held fast its 
 secret and I knew nothing." 
 
 " And yet," said Eose Mary, " how came you 
 to know, mother ? Did the beryl read you my 
 heart ?" 
 
 " The beryl has no voice for me," her mother 
 answered ; " but it told you a false tale, because 
 none but the pure may read the truth." 
 
 Her hand lay close to Eose Mary's heart, and 
 she could feel its sudden bound of fear. 
 
 "Mother!" she cried, "but still I saw." 
 
 " Yet why did you keep your heart hidden 
 from me ? for I told you that sin must cast out 
 the spirits of grace from the stone. Oh, my 
 Eose, it veils the truth to such as do not ques- 
 tion with sinless hearts !"
 
 Hose Mary. 157 
 
 Rose Mary sat like a stone and said not a 
 word, though her mother tried to clasp her in 
 a close embrace to avoid looking in her despair- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 Then, with one great sob, the daughter asked, 
 pleadingly, " Where is he?" 
 
 "He is here," said the lady, with a trembling 
 voice. " His horse came riderless this morning, 
 and now he lies within." 
 
 Rose Mary gave a wild cry and fell into her 
 mother's arms. 
 
 " The cloud on the hills by Holycleugh, daugh- 
 ter," she said, — " it was there they lurked, not 
 in the vale : that was the beryl's deception. 
 They brought him home from the hill-side to- 
 day." 
 
 Rose Mary sprang up as if some mortal agony 
 had shot through her. She shrieked once, and 
 then, overcome, sank down to the ground. Her 
 face lay pallid white on her dark hair, and she 
 looked so far spent that her mother leaned down 
 and listened at her heart. Then she wildly 
 kissed her and called her name, but there was 
 no response ; and she rose quickly, slid back a 
 secret door in the wall, and ascended the stair 
 within. 
 
 Above, where the altar was, a little fountain 
 played, and she filled a flask with water and 
 hurried back to Rose Mary, sprinkling her breast 
 
 14
 
 158 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 and brow. There was not a trace of color in 
 her cheeks, nor a perceptible breath from her 
 lips, and yet something seemed to tell that life 
 was still there. 
 
 "Ah!" sighed the lady, "the body does not 
 die with the heart." And she wrung her hands 
 and hid her face, wondering how she could ever 
 meet again the poor girl's woful eyes. Then 
 she began to think of calling help, and she re- 
 membered the priest who prayed there by the 
 dead man's side. She rose and sped down all 
 the winding stairs to the castle hall. As she 
 passed the loopholes in the thick walls, she 
 looked out upon the long-known valley and the 
 familiar woods and brooks, but they seemed 
 to her only like the threads of some broken 
 dream. 
 
 The hall was full of the retainers of the castle 
 when she entered. The women wept and the 
 men were broodingly silent. As the lady crossed 
 the rush-covered floor the throng fell back, 
 murmuring, about the open door-ways. A 
 strange shadow seemed to hang upon every- 
 thing, for the slain knight lay there in the 
 midst of the hall, on the ingle-bench. 
 
 A priest who had passed by Holycleugh early 
 in the day had brought the tidings, and he had 
 guided back to the place those who had brought 
 the bier; but since the houi' of his return he
 
 Rose Mary. 159 
 
 had knelt in prayer by the knight's side. Word 
 had gone also to his own castle that Sir James 
 of Heronhaye was slain, and the spears would 
 doubtless gather soon to track down the foej 
 but, for the time, all was mourning and silence. 
 As the lady's step came near, the priest looked up. 
 
 " Father," she said, " this surely is a grievous 
 thing; but my daughter, — she lies above in a 
 swoon. Go to the topmost chamber as you 
 mount the stairs. Let your words, not mine, 
 be the first she hears when she awakens. Go 
 quickly, and I will come in a little while.'* 
 Then she knelt on the hearth, motioning every 
 one away from the threshold, and gazed alone in 
 the dead man's face. 
 
 The fight for life had been desperate, for it 
 showed still in the clinched lips and hard-set 
 teeth; nor had the wrath quite passed away 
 from the bent brow and stern eyes. The bla- 
 zoned coat was rent in the golden field across 
 his breast, and in his hand he yet held the hilt 
 of his shivered sword. 
 
 The lady seemed not to heed the body, but 
 spoke fondly to the departed soul. There was a 
 light of pity and love in her steadfast eyes that 
 seemed to render them capable of seeing the 
 invisible. 
 
 " By your death I have learnt of your sinful 
 deed, Sir James of Heronhaye. You have done
 
 160 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 me and mine a great wrong, and God has sent 
 you this doom for a lesson. It was ordained 
 you were not to gain your shrift in life ; but 
 may death shrive your soul and purify you. 
 Ah, I know how well you loved her!" 
 
 But before she pressed her lips to his brow, 
 as she started to do, she saw a little packet half 
 hid where his mail-coat was broken at the breast. 
 It lay on his open bosom beneath the surcoat. 
 A heavy clot hung round it, and a faintness 
 came over her as she drew it away. The billet 
 was steeped in the blood from his heart, and fast 
 to it was glued an embroidered fragment of his 
 blazon. 
 
 She gazed long on the thing with a pitying 
 look. "Alas! alas! some pledge of dear Eose 
 Mary's," she murmured. 
 
 Then she opened it carefully. The blood was 
 stiff upon it, and it would scarcely come apart. 
 She found only a folded paper, but around it 
 was wound a long tress of golden hair. 
 
 As she turned the paper over, she dimly saw 
 the dark face above in its swoon. It was as if a 
 snake had crept near and stung her daughter 
 to death. With a shaking hand she loosed the 
 thread of bright hair, and then undid the folded 
 paper ; and that, too, trembled in her hold so 
 that she could scarce read or understand its 
 quivering lines.
 
 Rose Mary. 161 
 
 " My heart's sweet lord," it said, " at Holy 
 Cross, in eight days, I seek my shrift, and there 
 I would meet you, if you will, on the like errand. 
 At the same time my brother rides from Holy- 
 cleugh and will be long absent. We can be safe 
 then, and our love will be undistui'bed. Until 
 we meet I send you a tress for remembrance 
 wound around these words ; so, eight days 
 hence, may our loves be twined together, is the 
 wish of my lord's poor lady, Jocelind." 
 
 Eose Mary's mother read the missive twice 
 over with a distraught and wandering mind. 
 She could not realize its meaning. But at last 
 it broke in upon her. Her head sunk low down 
 upon her hands, and she cried, " Oh, God ! the 
 sister of the Warden of Holycleugh !" 
 
 She rose upright then, with a long moan, 
 and stared in the dead Knight's face. Had it 
 actually lived ? She could scarce tell. It was a 
 mask for the blackness of guilt. 
 
 She raised high up the golden tress of hair 
 and struck the cold lips with it, then let it rest 
 upon them. 
 
 " Here's gold to pay your way to Satan," she 
 said, sternly. " Your treason has justly found its 
 goal !" 
 
 She turned, half conscious of a voice that 
 called her, and looked upward. On a row of 
 fair and lofty columns a high court ran around 
 l.—l 14*
 
 162 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 the castle hall, and from there the priest spoke 
 to her. 
 
 " I have looked for your child everywhere, 
 but she cannot be found." 
 
 " Fear nothing," she replied ; " she is not far 
 away. But come with nae, and we will look for 
 her." 
 
 She reached the stair and tottered upward. 
 
 " Death's face," she murmured to herself, " is 
 hard to look upon, but, oh. Rose Mary, how 
 shall I look into your living face ?" 
 
 III. 
 
 Rose Mary lay for a long time unconscious in 
 her chamber while her mother sought the priest 
 below ; but at last she emerged from the swoon, 
 and a dawn of light seemed to break upon her 
 bewildered eyes. She looked around her, dazed 
 at the sight of familiar things, and her lips were 
 hard and dry. She remembered what had hap- 
 pened only as one remembers a vague and 
 troubled dream ; but her mother's and her 
 lover's names came to her lips, and she uttered 
 them with a dread she could not explain. 
 
 Breathing heavily with the exertion, she got 
 up from the floor and dragged herself to the 
 secret panel, which still stood open as her mother 
 had unconsciously left it. She went through 
 the opening, then closed the door and stood in
 
 Bose Mary. 163 
 
 the dark upon the stone stairway. But her 
 eyes were more at ease in the shadow, and she 
 mounted without difficulty. She had never 
 known of this secret stairway, but she was not 
 greatly surprised at its existence, as all wavs 
 Avere alike strange to her now. Once she thought 
 she heard her name called from some inner 
 place, and she paused to listen, but could not 
 tell where the sound came from. A faint ray 
 of light fell down the dark stairway at her feet, 
 and this guided her at last into the chamber 
 where the altar was. 
 
 There was no change in her tace as she leaned 
 an instant against the open door-way and then 
 passed on to the pillar within. The room had 
 a dimly-lit dome, overhung by a veil, at the pole- 
 points of which were symbols of the elements : 
 air, water, fire, and earth. On the north side 
 there was pictured a running fountain, at the 
 south a red fruit-tree : the eastern point had a 
 lamp burning brightly, and to the west there 
 was a crystal casket holding within it a cloud. 
 The painted walls symbolized the ebb and flow 
 of Time, who held in his hands the key of his 
 hoards and his all-conquering wheel. 
 
 Eose Mary paid little heed to all this ; but 
 she stepped forward presently with a weary 
 face, and lit\ed the altar-veil aside. The altar 
 was in the form of the coiling serpent which
 
 164 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 old lore has placed deep in the earth's heart 
 awaiting the final Yoice. An open hook lay 
 spread upon the altar, and some tapers burned 
 about it. But between the sculptured wings 
 of a strange beast Rose Mary saw the beryl- 
 stone. 
 
 The dread sight of this talisman brought back 
 to her all the woful past. The hours and min- 
 utes seemed to whirr by her in a deafening 
 swarm, and in the tumult the forms of death 
 and sorrow and shame trod near her. She 
 saw them circle through the stone with mock- 
 ing faces, and then the mystic lights faded, and 
 once again she awakened into full consciousness 
 with a pitiful cry. 
 
 She took three slow steps through the altar 
 gate, and drew up her body straight and 
 tall. The sinews of her arms stood forth in 
 hardened lines, and her face was deadly white 
 amid her dark hair. She was possessed with 
 a passionate hatred of the thing which lay 
 shining there before her. 
 
 A dinted helm and sword hung above the 
 altar, for her father had won by their valiant 
 use the magic gift which he had brought back 
 from Palestine. 
 
 Eose Mary moved across and reached down 
 her father's sword, but she never took her eyes 
 from the beryl, and still gazing she spoke to it :
 
 Bose Mary. 165 
 
 " O three times accurst, ye who inhabit this 
 stone ! Ye came in by the might of a great 
 guilt, but a weak sinner's hand will drive you 
 out to-day. A clear voice has told me this, and 
 that I shall expire with you. Oh, may God 
 save my parting soul!" 
 
 Then she drew a deep breath, and with 
 tender words besought her lover to meet her 
 when she had wrought them both forgiveness 
 by the destruction of the fatal sphere. Her 
 eyes grew soft as she spoke, and a smile half 
 trembled on her lips; but the frown of hate 
 came back as she glanced again at the beryl, 
 and she swung aloft with two hands the heavy 
 sword. 
 
 Then she took three backward steps. 
 
 "For your sake, love, and for God's!" she 
 exclaimed, and the blade flashed and fell upon 
 the beryl-stone and clove it to the heart. 
 
 A sound like thunder roared through the 
 room as the deed was done, and the echoes 
 reverberated far away in awful vibrations. But 
 when all was still again, the beryl lay broken 
 in two, the veil above was rent away from the 
 dome, and the chamber was riven open to the 
 sky. 
 
 Eose Mary lay on the ground, dead. But no 
 trace of the convulsion had touched her beauty. 
 She seemed to rest, rather, in a gracious sleep ;
 
 166 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 and over her head she still held fast the sword 
 with which she had triumphed. 
 
 Then a clear voice said in the room, — 
 " Behold the end ! Come thou to me for thy 
 bitter love's sake. By a sweet path thou shalt 
 journey, and I will lead thee unto rest. Thy sin 
 withheld me from the talisman, but thou hast 
 won thy way to my home who hast now cast 
 forth from it my foes."
 
 THP ^r 
 
 WILL 
 
 ^-VA'AOU \IiKvAAVH
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS
 
 THE LOVERS OF GUDRUN. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS.
 
 THE LOVERS OF GUDRUN. 
 
 I. 
 
 On the gray slopes of a valley of Iceland 
 near the northern sea lay Eathstead, and across 
 seven miles of open land rose the spreading 
 roofs of Herdholt. There dwelt in these fair 
 halls two noble families that were friends, and 
 between their boundaries the broad valley was 
 paven with green pastures, where browsed many 
 herds of sheep and cattle, the possession of the 
 lords of either hall. 
 
 In Herdholt lived Olaf the Peacock, who took 
 to wife Thorgerd, and they had five sons, who 
 were lithe and of fair promise, and two daugh- 
 ters ; and Bodli, called the son of Olaf 's brother, 
 also dwelt with them. 
 
 But Bathstead was the home of Oswif, whose 
 wife, Thordis, bore to him five sons, stout and 
 lusty lads, but with little wisdom, and a sole 
 daughter, Gudrun by name, who grew by her 
 father's hearthside into the spring-time of a 
 perfect womanhood. 
 
 Now, one day as Gudrun sat among the spin- 
 H 15 169
 
 170 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 ning- women in her bower at Bathstead she 
 heard the sound of hoofs drawing swiftly near, 
 and started up to see who came. 
 
 " That must be Guest," she said, " for this is 
 the day he tarries with us in Bathstead." And 
 she went to the door and opened it, and stood 
 between the posts looking down towards the dis- 
 tant sea. She saw below her on the slopes a 
 throng of gay riders who approached at a can- 
 ter, and she watched them eagerly with one 
 slender hand curved for shade above her eyes. 
 
 That year Gudrun had just come to her full 
 height. She was slim and of a girlish figure, 
 yet she could never hope to be fairer. She had 
 golden hair which reached nearly to her knee, 
 and white hands and a smooth brow safe from 
 the lightest touch of time. Her lips were crossed 
 now and then by a smile which betokened a 
 coming danger to men, and her eyes were bluer 
 than gray, but very sweet in maidenly direct- 
 ness. She was clad in a lordlyraiment made 
 of rich stuffs from the South, and as she stood 
 there in the door-way the rough world about 
 her seemed by contrast to be but a rude heap 
 cast up by the waves. 
 
 But the riders drew rein now before Oswif 's 
 hall. There were twelve in the company, and 
 Gudrun stepped out across the grass to meet 
 them.
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 171 
 
 " Welcome, Guest the Wise !" she said to 
 the leader, a white-haired and venerable man, 
 who wore a red suit." My father is away at 
 his fishing, but he bids me pray you not to 
 go by us, but bide here awhile. He says you 
 and he, in the hall, are two wise men together 
 who can talk cunningly about the ways of 
 mankind." 
 
 Guest laughed and leapt down from his 
 horse. 
 
 " Fair words from fair lips," said he, " and a 
 goodly place to rest at ; but I must get on to 
 Thickwood to-night to see my kinsman Armod. 
 Yet, I'll stay an hour, and you and I will talk 
 awhile." 
 
 Then he took her hand, and she led him into 
 the hall, and all his fellow-riders got down from 
 their horses and followed them, with a great 
 clattering, through the porch ; and once within, 
 they had a plentiful repast and much good wine. 
 
 But amid the noise of drinking-horns and the 
 boisterous laughter Gudrun spoke quietly to 
 Guest, and he smiled cheerfully at what she 
 told him. The old man's eyes grew grave 
 now and again, and Gudrun seemed as if she 
 scarcely knew what she was uttering. At last 
 Guest was about to reach out once more for his 
 tankard, but the words she spoke arrested the 
 movement, and he stopped with his hand half-
 
 172 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 way to the cup. His gray eyes stared earnestly 
 at her, as if unseen things were revealed to him. 
 She waited, in trembling anxiety, to hear what 
 he should answer. 
 
 " And thou liest awake at night thinking of 
 these things ?" he said, in a serious and tender 
 voice. 
 
 " Yes, father Guest ; but of all my dreams four 
 only give me any dread. But there's enough 
 of dreams. Take your tankard and tell us 
 some merry tales; this is no time for grave 
 matters." 
 
 " Speak quickly," he said, " before my glimmer 
 of sight passes away, " 
 
 Then she spoke swift words : " In my dream I 
 thought I stood by a stream-side wearing a coif 
 upon my head. On a sudden I thought how 
 foul that coif was, how ill it sat, and I took it 
 from my head and cast it into the water." 
 
 " Well, the second one," he said ; " hurry and 
 tell me all." 
 
 " I stood by a great water, and on my arm 
 was a silver ring which much delighted me ; 
 but it slipped from my arm unawares and fell 
 into the water." 
 
 " This is as great a thing as the last," said 
 Guest. " What next ?" 
 
 " I was on the road near Bathstead, and had on 
 my arm a gold ring. I seemed to be falling, and
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 173 
 
 stretched my arms to steady myself, when the 
 ring struck against a stone and broke in two, 
 and out of the broken ends came drops of blood." 
 
 " A bad omen," said Guest. " Now what of the 
 fourth ?" 
 
 " I dreamed I wore a helmet of gold on my 
 head, and was proud of its beauty ; but yet it 
 was so heavy I could scarcely hold it. Then of 
 a sudden, I know not what it was, but some- 
 thing unseen tore it from my brow and tossed 
 it into the firth, and I mourned deeply, but my 
 eyes were dry in spite of my heart." 
 
 Guest turned upon her with an old man's 
 smile, looking keenly into her fair face, until 
 she hid her eyes with her hands; but he saw a 
 blush rise through the fingers, and he sighed as 
 one in sorrow. Then he told her the meaning 
 of her dreams. She would have, he said, a 
 stirring life, but she would outlive all the wrong 
 and love that might come to her, and survive 
 alone when all else had parted from her. The 
 ill-fitting coif was a mismated husband, whom 
 she would shake off and be freed from. The 
 silver ring was another husband, who would 
 part from her and be lost in the firth, as was 
 his emblem, the ring. The gold ring was a 
 worthier man, her third husband, whose life 
 would be taken by another; and the heavy 
 helm was her last mate, who would be a great 
 
 16*
 
 174 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 chief and hold the helm of terror over her, 
 though she should love him always. 
 
 When he had ended, Gudrun drew her hands 
 away from her face and sat by his side with 
 fixed eyes and pale cheeks, as one who sees 
 strange inward sights. 
 
 "Thank you, good father Guest," she said. 
 " It is well ; but may you not see awry through 
 these far-off years ?" 
 
 He answered nothing, but sat still with sad- 
 dened looks. Then at last he rose. 
 
 " AVild words, wild words," he said. " But now 
 it is time we were on our way." Then as she 
 glanced full at him he saw a bright red spot on 
 either cheek, and a firm set mouth keeping back 
 her grief. 
 
 She entreated him to wait, for her father's 
 sake ; but she seemed scarcely to heed her own 
 words, so distraught was she, and Guest an- 
 swered that he must start at once to reach 
 Thickwood before night. Then she led him 
 listlessly from the hall, and he and his company 
 rode away; but he turned before his fellows 
 had raised the garth gate and watched her 
 standing wistfully by the hall, her long shadow 
 lying clear against its walls. Then when once 
 outside he turned again, and shook his bridle- 
 rein and cantered away. 
 
 Guest and his company had gone but a little
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 175 
 
 space when they beheld a man come towards 
 them, who, as they drew near, greeted Guest 
 with fair words, and said that Olaf Peacock 
 sent greeting and would welcome him and his 
 company to his hall. 
 
 " And well you know, goodman Guest, that 
 meat and drink are ever plentiful at Herdholt." 
 
 Guest laughed : " Well, be that as it may. Get 
 swiftly back and tell him I will come, but I 
 must not tarry, for to-night I am to be at 
 Thickwood." 
 
 Then the man turned and whipped his horse, 
 and Guest and his people rode on slowly by the 
 borders of the bay until they came to a dale, 
 where they saw the gilt roof-ridge of Olaf's 
 hall. 
 
 Presently out of the garth came a goodly 
 company of men, and then there passed a joy- 
 ous greeting between Guest and Olaf, who rode, 
 followed by their trains of well-looking horse- 
 men, through the great hall gate. 
 
 Olaf led Guest from room to room about his 
 castle and showed him many marvels of curious 
 workmanship ; the painted tales uj)on the walls 
 and the fine raiment in his carven chests. At 
 last he gave Guest a rich gift as he left the hall, 
 and rode on with him a little way to point out 
 to him his sons where they bathed by the shore. 
 
 When they had reached a low knoll overlook-
 
 176 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 ing the Laxriver, Olaf cried out, "There!" and 
 pointed where a throng of youths sported in 
 the water. 
 
 Guest looked off and saw the tide playing on 
 a sandy bar at the stream's mouth, and the 
 southwest wind brought up to his ears the echo 
 of their joyous shouts. 
 
 " Goodman," he said, " thou art lucky to have 
 such a throng of sons, if they do as well on 
 earth as in the water." 
 
 "There is nothing yet to tell of their deeds," 
 said Olaf; " but look ! now they see us." 
 
 One of the bathers rose waist-high and sent 
 up a shrill call like a sea-mew, and all turned 
 landward, beating the water to foam and 
 scrambling up the shore after their clothes. 
 Then the riders, saving only Guest and Olaf, 
 who took a leisurely pace, rushed down the 
 slope to meet the swimmers. 
 
 " Many of them, then, are not your sons ?" 
 said Guest. 
 
 "No; sons of dale-dwellers near-by. But 
 Kiartan, my eldest, leads them all in swimming." 
 
 " Tell me their names," said Guest. 
 
 Then Olaf showed him Hauskuld, his youngest 
 son, and Haldor and Helgi and Steinthor, and 
 as this last one rose and stepped aside he 
 pointed to two who sat on a gray stone near the 
 stream. One was a tall youth with golden hair,
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 177 
 
 who held a sword on his knees half drawn from 
 the sheath. The other sat on the grass in front 
 of him. He was slim, black-haired, and tall, 
 and looked smilingly into his companion's face 
 as if listening, while one of his hands lay on 
 the sword near the broad, gray blade. 
 
 "No need, friend, to ask about the others 
 after seeing these," said Guest, " for without a 
 word I know Kiartan, who draws the sword 
 out of the sheath, and, low down in the shade, 
 that is Bodli Thorleikson. But tell me about 
 that sword. Who bore it ?" ! 
 
 Then Olaf laughed : " Some call it accursed. 
 Bodli bears it now, but it once belonged to 
 Geirmund, my daughter's husband. He mar- 
 ried her without my wish, but his love soon 
 grew cold, and he left her, to roam abroad. He 
 would not leave the sword, but she helped her- 
 self to it, and in return — so the gossips say — ^got 
 the cui'se that goes with it." 
 
 Guest answered nothing, and seemed to brood 
 inwardly over some weighty matter ; but Olaf 
 cried, — 
 
 " Wise friend, thou hast heard all the names. 
 How thinkest thou ? Which shall do well in the 
 years to come?" 
 
 Guest did not turn his head, but spoke in a 
 meditating voice : 
 
 "Surely, goodman, you would be glad if 
 I. — m
 
 178 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Kiartan had more glory while he lived than 
 
 any other in the land." 
 
 Then, without a word, he raised his whip, his 
 
 horse started, and he rode swiftly away. But 
 
 as he galloped onward he mournfully turned to 
 
 his son Thord and spoke of many things, while 
 
 the ffreat tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks 
 
 and over his white beard, for he saw the woes 
 
 that were to be for the houses of Olaf and 
 
 Oswif. 
 
 II. 
 
 Time wore on, and a part of Guest's forecast 
 came true. Attracted by her beauty, a youth 
 named Thorvald wooed Gudrun and won her for 
 his wife ; but she found before long that the chain 
 of wedlock was a galUng one. She hoped daily 
 for a change which never came, and began to 
 look upon her husband with scorn and dislike. 
 Thorvald was a coarse man, rough and passion- 
 ate by nature, and little used to wait patiently 
 for things to mend ; and as Gudrun came each 
 morning into his presence with her melancholy 
 looks, rage and resentment took possession of 
 him. Gudrun was secretly glad of this ; but 
 her husband could not long endure the estrange- 
 ment, for he still loved her in his impetuous 
 way, and he grew more and more vexed with 
 her. 
 
 One day as they sat in the hall at dinner his
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 179 
 
 passion overcame him, and, rising suddenly from 
 his seat, he cast his half-filled cup on the floor. 
 Then he struck her on the face, and strode out 
 of the hushed and crowded chamber. He got 
 upon his horse, and, without a glance behind, 
 rode away furiously over hill and moor. 
 
 Those in the chamber turned anxious eyes on 
 Gudrun to see what she would do. For a little 
 while she sat silent, then she called them about 
 her, and spoke gayly of this and that, like one 
 freed from a weight of care. 
 
 But Thorvald came back again in a short 
 space, and she met him so changed that he 
 thought his hasty blow had brought better days. 
 She seemed happy enough as time passed, but 
 he misdoubted her humor, and gayly went his 
 way, keeping harsh thoughts aside. 
 
 In the spring he rode out one morning to the 
 court, not over-light of heart or free from fear, 
 though she parted from him kindly and frankly. 
 But the next day Gudrun went alone with one 
 man to Bathstead, and there told her tale ; and, 
 as in that time the law did not hold tight those 
 who no longer loved, and as her kin were a mighty 
 folk, she received her divorce, and rode speedily 
 homeward. 
 
 Once more she dwelt at Bathstead, and was 
 wooed by Thord, who also won her love and 
 wedded her. He was a brave and fair-looking
 
 180 Tales from Ten Poets, 
 
 man, and their life was a happy one, for she 
 loved him truly. She put from before her eyes 
 the strange things told her by Guest, and tried 
 to forget them. But, forgotten or remembered, 
 fate works out its will ; and when they had lived 
 together for three happy months, on a June 
 night, as the southwest wind blew storm across 
 Gudrun's sleeping head, her husband's body was 
 tossed towards the eliifs by the angry firth. 
 Rumor told that he was drowned by wizard 
 spells in a summer gale. 
 
 So back went Gudrun to Bathstead ae-ain. 
 She sat many a day with a fierce heart brooding 
 over her pain, for life seemed made to torture 
 her ; and yet through all her woe the words of 
 Guest would come constantly to her mind and 
 quicken her into consoling thoughts. 
 
 The months wore on and spring arrived with 
 its unspoken longings, and now Kiartan's name 
 began to be heard on every man's tongue, for 
 his deeds of prowess grew famous through the 
 land. He was too noble to excite envy, and 
 his fairness of face and limb was a wonder to 
 look ujDon. He was leader in every game of 
 strength and swiftness, he knew the craft of the 
 smithy, and in speech he was most wise, and 
 very gentle, so that all the little children loved 
 him. 
 
 But while others praised Kiartan, Gudrun sat
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 181 
 
 apart, brooding on her lost days of happiness 
 and thinking how worthless such fame as Kiar- 
 tan's was. 
 
 Then, when midsummer was drawing near, 
 one evening as the household sat in the hall, 
 they heard one voice call to another far away in 
 the valley, and afterwards the sound of approach- ' 
 ing hoofs. Oswif rose and went into the porch, 
 and greeted the travellers as they arrived at his 
 threshold; but Gudrun sat alone on the high 
 dais when all were gone out into the porch, 
 and played unconsciously with her finger -rings, 
 musing on her one day-long theme. 
 
 Presently all the company began to come back 
 again, and she turned towards their voices in 
 spite of her melancholy. They brought lighted 
 torches in, and laughed loudly as they entered. 
 Then as the guests came down the long hall 
 she knew Olaf the Peacock, who was hand in 
 hand with her father. Behind them came two 
 young men, and she began against her will to 
 recall the tales told of Kiartan, because she 
 thought the one with the hair which shone gold 
 in the torch-gleam was he, and that the black- 
 haired and high-browed one must be Bodli. 
 
 By that time they came up to where she sat, 
 and she felt vexed that she must rise to wel- 
 come them. Then Olaf took her hand and 
 looked at her compassionately. 
 
 16
 
 182 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " Sweet Gudrun," he said, " I know your fate 
 has been ill, but better days will surely come by 
 and by. Believe me, not for nothing do eyes 
 like yours shine upon the hard world. You will 
 bless us yet, and all your woes will be forgot- 
 ten." 
 
 She made no answer, but drew away her hand, 
 and felt her grief grow deeper still that men 
 should thus speak to her. But, turning around, 
 she saw Kiartan gazing upon her with hungry 
 eyes and parted lips. A strange joy entered 
 her listless heart, and in an instant her old world 
 was all changed. Before she could reflect on 
 the cause, all her woe passed away, and her life 
 grew sweet again, and she scarcely felt the 
 ground beneath her feet. Her eyes were soft 
 with tears that did not fall, and she reached out 
 her hand to him. Her cheeks burned with the 
 shame of love, and her lips quivered as if they 
 longed to speak what they had never learned 
 and might not utter till night and loneliness 
 should teach it to her. 
 
 Kiartan's face beamed with a happy smile, 
 and he was loving and confident, as he spoke in 
 a voice which mingled music with might : 
 
 "They say your dead, lady, will never die, 
 and I thought to have labor enough to draw 
 you from the grave of the old days to-night ; 
 but you remember, I see, the days earlier yet,
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 183 
 
 when we came together as younglings. Surely 
 your eyes look kindly on me now, and it must 
 be because of this." 
 
 A brief shadow crossed Gudrun's face, but 
 she answered eagerly, " Ah, if only such pleas- 
 ant days might last ! What joy it was to wander 
 hand in hand gathering shells by the beach !" 
 She wondered at the sound of her own voice, so 
 strange an accent it had. She chid her heart 
 for rejoicing, and yet felt full of fear for some 
 unknown reason. But quickly every emotion 
 was stilled as Kiartan sat down beside her. 
 
 Old Oswif smiled to see her so changed, and 
 Olaf laughed outright for joy. Bodli sat by 
 them, full of pleasure in their newly kindled 
 liking ; and the whole place ran over with merri- 
 ment and good-will because of Gudrun's restora- 
 tion to happiness. 
 
 At last in the glimmer of moonlight Olaf and 
 his company rode homeward, each with thoughts 
 which were born of the new hope: Kiartan 
 weaving dreams of the bliss to be, Bodli re- 
 joicing in his foster-brother's good fortune, and 
 Olaf full of the glory which should spring from 
 these to perpetuate his noble line. 
 
 But Gudrun was sorely vexed by the conflict 
 of new and old thoughts. She watched Kiartan 
 go away, and her heart sank within her. The 
 wave of pity and shame flowed back upon her
 
 184 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 and struggled with her growing love. Yet the 
 very struggle strengthened her passion and 
 made her yearn anew for its object, no matter 
 what seeds of ill might be hidden there. Then 
 she fell asleep, and lay at rest beneath the in- 
 looking moon, which fell across her tumbled bed 
 and searched out her white breast and one arm 
 buried deep in her wealth of hair. She seemed 
 very beautiful and soft that night of her new 
 birth into love and life. 
 
 Seven miles was but a little space to part two 
 lovers such as these, and very soon the threshold 
 of Bathstead hall echoed as often to Kiartan's 
 step as to the sweep of Gudrun's silken hem. 
 Life grew to them something sweeter than 
 words could tell. To waken in the mornincr and 
 watch from the casement the narrow winding 
 way that led up to the hall ; to feel the flutter of 
 heart as memory gave place to rapturous sight 
 at the threshold, these were dear experiences ; 
 and then the long hours of converse, when each 
 word was like music which fell through the ear 
 and clung to the heart ; and, sweetest of all, 
 the very minute of parting, because then Love 
 lifted the veil and became a living thing, and 
 showed himself palpably to them as their lips 
 and hands drew back and they went from each 
 other till the morrow. The long nights, too, held 
 manifold joys of waking and sleeping dreams.
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 185 
 
 And yet through all her bliss Gudrun could 
 hear sometimes the strain of Guest's prophecy, 
 and her happy mind would darken at the in- 
 truding thought. But she put away the warn- 
 ing, and lived only in the present, and what she 
 herself refused to heed no other divined : so all 
 the country-side rejoiced that two such houses 
 were to be tied fast by wedlock, for the thing 
 portended long years of peace. 
 
 Now, Bodli was still overshadowed by the 
 fame of Kiartan, but he was second only to him 
 in all men's minds. Though he needed the love 
 of his fellows more than Kiartan did, yet he 
 was less able to move their hearts ; but the 
 mutual trust and fellowship of the cousins were 
 undiminished, and Olaf loved his son scarcely 
 more than his nephew. Since Kiartan had be- 
 gun to woo Gudrun, he and Bodli seemed drawn 
 closer together than ever before. In truth, 
 there Avas no concealment of thought or act 
 between them. 
 
 Thus as day by day Kiartan fared to Bath- 
 stead, he found the road always shorter if Bodli 
 rode by his side. He would pour his love for 
 Gudrun into his companion's willing ears and 
 ease his heart of its load of passion, while Bodli 
 in turn loved to mock him with light raillery 
 about Gudrun. Yet Kiartan saw covertly that 
 his brother's heart was kindling under the 
 
 16*
 
 186 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 influence of his own, though as yet it found no 
 lodgement for its passion. 
 
 But one day as the three talked together they 
 began to name over in sport all the fair and 
 good women they knew who were yet un wedded, 
 pretending so to choose Bodli a mate. 
 
 " Then over-sea," said Kiartan. " There may 
 be one to suit over-sea. Go forth and win her !" 
 
 Bodli laughed, and cast upon the table his 
 great sword with its iron hilt. 
 
 " Go, sword," he said, " and fetch me a bride. 
 I will stay here in Iceland with those who love 
 me. Go !" 
 
 Then Gudrun said, " Things more strange 
 have happened than that we three should some 
 day float upon the Thames or Seine. There's 
 little to gain biding here at this cold end of the 
 world." 
 
 Kiartan sprang up and threw his sword aloft 
 and caught it by the hilt as it fell. " Would that 
 the bark was at this very moment ready to 
 bear us out !" he cried. " Oh, would that we 
 could see Italy above the horizon there ! But 
 sheathe youi* sword, Bodli, till I give the word, 
 and wait till you hear from me, Gudrun." 
 
 She looked lovingly at him, and Bodli saw her 
 hand reach nearer and nearer to his. Then 
 Bodli got up and sheathed his sword. 
 
 "No, if I am so hard to marry, I think I
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 187 
 
 must go a-roving. I will speak with Oswif and 
 learn the truth about the warfare between Olaf 
 Tryggvison and Hacon." 
 
 Then he laughed gayly and went swiftly from 
 the hall, and found the old man, and did not 
 come back again until the day waned and the 
 hall began to fill with jDeople. He thought that 
 Kiartan sat strangely quiet, and he saw an un- 
 usual glow in Gudrun's eyes as she gazed on 
 him, and a shadow rose in his heart that made 
 him look upon the world as something less 
 noble, but still there was an unknown pleasure 
 within him. On the way home Kiartan was 
 brooding and silent or spoke in words of light 
 mockery ; but as the days wore on there was 
 little change to note, and Gudrun and he were 
 still all in all to each other. But they talked 
 oftener now of fair places beyond the sea, and 
 sometimes a look half like a rebuke would 
 cross Gudrun's face as Kiartan told over eagerly 
 the marvels of those other lands. Bodli fell into 
 deep musings as he heard the stories, and had 
 strange dreams that he could not remember 
 when he came back to common life. 
 
 So the seasons passed ; but in the autumn the 
 foster-brothers rode to Burgfirth, where there 
 was a ship newly arrived in White-Eiver. They 
 had some talk with the seamen, and Kiartan in- 
 vited the captain back to Herdholt as his guest.
 
 188 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 He gladly went with him, and thus they learned 
 tidings of the warrior Hacon, who had been 
 slain. His son was exiled, and Norway lay in 
 peace under the hand of Olaf Tryggvison. The 
 captain was full of praises for this king. He 
 was, he said, the noblest man who ever held the 
 tiller or cast the spear ; and to this Kiartan lis- 
 tened eagerly. 
 
 But when he went to Bathstead, Kiartan 
 talked less than before of his yearning to see 
 the outlands, and when Gudrun would ask him 
 of the thing he would answer her evasively or 
 lightly and change the subject with a kiss. He 
 also spoke of her less to Bodli now, though his 
 brother (because of her beauty, was the excuse 
 he made to himself) was more anxious than ever 
 to hear news of her. Bodli began to feel that 
 the times were changing over-fast when Kiartan 
 could deny answers to questions which in other 
 days would have gained a loving and instant 
 response. 
 
 Yule-tide came at last, and the neighbors from 
 far and near went to one another's feasts, and, as 
 the custom was, all Bathstead went to Herd- 
 holt. The revelling was long and generous 
 there, and Gudrun sat in the high seat by the 
 goodwife, where she heard the new king's name 
 echoed from mouth to mouth, and much talk 
 from the wayfarers of the south lands. A sharp
 
 Tlie Lovers of Gudrun. 189 
 
 pain went through her anxious heart as she be- 
 held Kiartan lean forward on the board in silent 
 and rapt attention to the news. She watched 
 him for a long while with sad and hungry looks ; 
 and all the time Bodli gazed at them with a 
 fading smile on his lips and with eyes growing 
 more and more troubled, until he hardly saw the 
 people about him. 
 
 But the Christmas-tide went by, and the year 
 drifted on towards the midsummer. One day 
 in his happiest mood Kiartan came to Bathstead, 
 bringing Bodli with him, who was strangely 
 silent and dull, which Gudrun noted, though she 
 talked even more gayly than was her wont. As 
 evening fell down along the valley, Kiartan 
 spoke softly to her. 
 
 " Let us make the most of our bliss, dearest, 
 for I must go away from you soon. In a day 
 or two you will hear our horns blow the Loath- 
 to-go, and I must put on my fighting gear." 
 
 " And am I to stay behind ?" she said, turning 
 with surprise upon him. " Others may call me 
 what they will ; you know me, — kind and long- 
 enduring. If I am wnth you, I care not how 
 the rough sea treats me. Come, let me share 
 the glory. I will go with you and take the fear 
 you cast aside." 
 
 She stood before him with meeting palms as 
 one in prayer, and she was pale and weary-look-
 
 190 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 ing. Bodli paced up and down the hall with 
 clanking sword and set brows, scarcely less pale 
 than Gudrun. The waning sun shone through 
 the narrow windows and fell in gold upon her 
 breast and clasped hands. Kiartan stood gazing 
 upon her with a wavering heart. Love of her 
 and love of fame were in sore conflict within 
 him. At last he cast his eyes on the pavement 
 and knit his brow, as though he meant to say 
 some bitter word. Gudrun's hands fell. 
 
 " No, no !" she cried impatiently, " I'll not ask 
 you twice to take a good gift. I know my heart, 
 and you do not. Farewell. Maybe the Skalds 
 will tell of other great deeds than yours." 
 
 Her face was deadly pale as she brushed by 
 Bodli, who stood aghast with open mouth and 
 hands vainly stretched forth. Kiartan followed 
 her a step or two, then stopped bewildered. 
 But suddenly, like a changing wind, she turned 
 back and came trembling to his side. 
 
 " Forgive me, forgive me !" she said, with 
 streaming eyes. "Do not take my words as 
 men's are taken. Oh, fair love, go, and let your 
 fame run through the lands, for I know that 
 what you win is all mine, as you are all mine 
 at last." 
 
 She threw her arms about his neck, and 
 Kiartan, touched with love and pity, made offer 
 to give up the voyage ; but she still bade him
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 19 1 
 
 go, and not be beguiled by a woman's tears. A 
 mist was in his eyes also as he pressed her fair 
 head to his breast. 
 
 " My sweet," he said, " we shall keep tryst once 
 again to say farewell before the ship sails ; then, 
 when I come back with honor won, how good it 
 is to think of our rejoicing !" 
 
 She said some little words no pen can write, 
 and laid her hands against his face, and amidst 
 his kisses played lightly with his hair. Then, 
 smiling through her tears, she went away, seem- 
 ing wholly to forget that Bodli stood by them. 
 
 But before the day arrived when Kiartan 
 meant to bid Gudrun farewell a long-desired 
 change came in the weather. A northwest wind 
 sprang up, and Kalf the captain urged them to 
 set out while yet it lasted. There was a great 
 bustle and hum of voices in the hall over-night, 
 and the next morning at dawn Kiartan, with 
 Bodli beside him, led from the gates ten strong 
 and well-armed warriors. Kalf pointed his spear 
 towards the south, and they followed him, and 
 rode away amid shouted words of parting from 
 the household, in the midst of whom stood Olaf, 
 flushed with joy, and proud of the brave set- 
 ting forth of his kin. 
 
 That night Kiartan and his company came to 
 Burgfirth, where the ship lay anchored in White- 
 Eiver, and on the morrow they got on board
 
 192 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 and sped away with bellying sail and long sweep- 
 ing oar. 
 
 III. 
 
 After much time at sea, Eliartan and his men 
 came to Drontheim in Norway, where now ruled 
 Olaf Tryggvison, and they heard on every side 
 praise of the King's might and fame, and how 
 he had turned from the old faith of his land to 
 worship a new God and demanded that all 
 others should do likewise. 
 
 Now, Kiartan was of a haughty spirit, and 
 had come forth from his own country to find 
 adventure, and not to bow to another's rule. 
 He spoke with his countrymen who were in 
 Drontheim and brought them to resist the King's 
 command, and when the King's messenger sum- 
 moned them to show obedience he was sent 
 back with a defiant answer, but Kiartan and 
 his fellow-Icelanders put on their arms and 
 went up to the council-chamber in menacing 
 array. 
 
 When they came before the King they were 
 commanded to accept the new faith or suffer 
 death, whereupon swords were quickly drawn ; 
 loud cries echoed through the great hall. And 
 the multitude, led by Kiartan and Bodli, fell into 
 deadly combat. But the King had no wish to 
 slay the new-comers even if he might, and
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 193 
 
 planned to win his cause by peaceful means 
 rather than by bloodshed. 
 
 " Hold !" he cried to his people. " You are too 
 quickly stirred to wrath!" Then he made 
 friendly overtures to Kiartan, whose noble and 
 forgiving heart was touched to amity by his 
 gentle words. 
 
 Thus was good will sealed between Kiartan 
 and the King, and Kiartan grew great in his 
 favor, and lived with him in the palace as his 
 guest, till at last at Yule-tide he and his fol- 
 lowers were led to the minster in white raiment 
 and hallowed into the King's new faith. Then 
 as time passed the gossips whispered that 
 Kiartan was to wed Ingibiorg, the King's sister, 
 for they were day-long together, and she was 
 fair of face and of a gentle and graceful mien, 
 and Kiartan found much pleasure in her com- 
 pany, though he never slackened in his troth to 
 Gudrun. 
 
 But Bodli brooded day by day upon his home, 
 and waited longingly for some news that should 
 free the Icelanders from the King's hold, for he 
 knew that unless the priests who had been sent 
 to spread the faith in Iceland brought back 
 favorable tidings, he and his friends would still 
 be detained at Drontheim. 
 
 At last, one day, the good news came, and also 
 came cheering word from Herdholt and Bath. 
 I.— I n 17
 
 194 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 stead that all went well, and then in a little 
 space the ships lay by the quay pointed towards 
 Iceland, and Bodli, flushed and bright-eyed, went 
 to bid Kiartan farewell. 
 
 "Ah, Bodli, you are glad to go," he said. 
 " Why, this is the best face I have seen since we 
 left Burgfirth." 
 
 Bodli frowned. "You are as glad to stay, 
 perhaps, as I to go. "What ! do you think I plot 
 against you, then ?" 
 
 " You are the strangest of men, Bodli," said 
 Kiartan, puzzled by his words. " Come now, 
 leave off riddles, and let us be as in the old 
 times. You are as true and loyal as the sword 
 at your side. Whatever may happen, I will 
 trust you always." 
 
 Then Bodli changed and besought him to for- 
 give his dark looks, that came because he must 
 leave his friend behind. He promised to tell 
 all their kinsmen of Kiartan's good fortunes, 
 and to bear the news to Oswif as well. 
 
 " Tell Gudrun," said Kiartan, gazing steadily 
 on him, " all that you know of my honor and 
 happiness, and say we shall meet again." 
 
 Then they kissed and parted, and Bodli was 
 borne across the sea to Iceland with a deep and 
 secret passion consuming his heart.
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 195 
 
 IV. 
 
 Now, one day in the waning summer Oswif 
 and all his sons went forth to the west, and 
 Gudrun stood by the door to see them off. Then 
 when they had vanished behind the hill she 
 turned and gazed long and fondly towards Herd- 
 holt and the south. She mused sadly on the 
 passing year, and thought how her heart seemed 
 to harden with Kiartan's absence. She won- 
 dered, too, if he would think her strange when 
 he saw her again. Then, yearning to have him 
 once more by her side, she inwardly pleaded 
 with him to come back, — come back, and be as 
 of old. 
 
 For a while she looked quietly out upon the 
 road, until the wind seemed to bring her the 
 sounds of a galloping horse. She trembled be- 
 tween hope and fear as the sounds grew plainer 
 and seemed to come from the direction of Herd- 
 holt. At last she saw a spear rise against the 
 sky above the nearest hill, and next a gilded 
 helm. Then, joyfully, she saw a man in crimson 
 armor, who, when he gained the highest point, 
 drew rein and gazed on Bathstead spreading 
 beneath him there in the valley. 
 
 In an instant the rider saw her, and struck 
 spurs into his horse and rode swiftly to the 
 place where she stood. He leapt down, and
 
 196 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 met her pale and troubled face with the appeal- 
 ing eyes of Bodii Thorleikson. 
 
 A dreadful fear arose in her mind. " How does 
 it fare with him, your kinsman?" she said. 
 
 He drew back with a sudden pang : " Fear not, 
 Gudrun, I bring fair news of him. He is well." 
 
 " Speak out," she said. " What more is there ? 
 Is he at Herdholt ? ^Yill he come to-day ?" . 
 
 She turned away then with a bitter-sweet 
 pain ; but he made a motion as if to reach his 
 hands out to hers, and his eyes besought her 
 for a single look of welcome. 
 
 He told her how he had left Kiartan in Nor- 
 way praised of all men, and how her lover had 
 bid him say to her that he looked to see her 
 face again. " So God be good to me, these were 
 his words." 
 
 Hereupon she turned around in sudden anger, 
 bitterly accusing Kiartan. 
 
 Then Bodli said, " Well, I have done my part ; 
 let others tell the rest." And he turned to go, 
 but lingered on. 
 
 " No, no, friend of my lover," she cried. " If 
 I speak ill words, pardon me, for my heart 
 aches with pent-up love." 
 
 She reached out her hand, and he turned and 
 took it, and his eyes swam with tears. It 
 seemed almost that his vain dreams had at last 
 come true, and that he was bom again to a hap-
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 197 
 
 pier life. But she slowly withdrew her hand and 
 stepped back. 
 
 " Speak," she said. " I do not fear. When 
 will he come ? Tell me the sweet words he gave 
 you for me. Tell me of all his deeds." 
 
 Bodli told her the true tidings, saving of Ingi- 
 biorg, and she listened, trembling. 
 
 " Good, very good," she said, w^hen he had 
 ended. " Yet why does he tarry beyond the 
 sea?" 
 
 Bodli flushed red : " Oh, Gudrun, must you die 
 for one man's sake, you who are so heavenly? 
 How shall I tell you ? You may live long, and 
 yet never see Kiartan come back hither." 
 
 She stood motionless. Bodli stretched out his 
 hand : " They lie who say I did the thing, who 
 say I wished for it. Oh, Gudrun, he sits day by 
 day with Ingibiorg as lovers do, and men babble 
 that soon he is to wed her and be made king, 
 and that Olaf and he will conquer Denmark and 
 England." 
 
 She said some words in a voice which sounded 
 like the wailing wind, then she passed by Bodli's 
 trembling hands without giving him a look, and, 
 blinded by the fire that burnt in his heart, he 
 turned and got into the saddle, and knew noth- 
 ing until he drew rein by Herdholt porch. 
 
 Three days he sat in the hall in black despair, 
 
 till his people began to whisper and watch his 
 
 17*
 
 198 Tales from len Poets. 
 
 going and coming with a great dread. But on 
 the fourth day a messenger came from Gudrun, 
 who bade him come to her at once, and he got 
 up and rode madly to Bathstead hall. 
 
 A great pleasure came to his heart when he 
 saw her slim figure move towards him down the 
 dusky hall, but when he saw her face he was 
 hopeless. 
 
 She asked him sorrowfully to tell her over 
 again the news of Kiartan, and while he told 
 all the bitter tidings, a passion now and again 
 swept through her like the impulse of free- 
 dom though a dove caught in the meshes. She 
 waited till the last word was spoken, then 
 flunar out her arms and wailed aloud. Bodli 
 stood silent like one who meets for the first time 
 in hell the woman he has ruined, the while her 
 sobs calmed slowly down to silence. At last a 
 smile full of her wonted courtesy crossed her lips. 
 
 " Oh, Bodli," she said, " how good you have 
 been to me ! But why, why does he stay from 
 me?" 
 
 He pondered what to answer, but she took 
 his hand in the familiar way of other days 
 and led him to a seat and sat down beside him. 
 Then, as she asked it, he told her once again all 
 that had happened in Norway. 
 
 " But how may I know," she said, "that this 
 is true ?"
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 199 
 
 " Would God I were a liar !" he groaned. " Oh, 
 Gudrun, you will find it but too true." Then 
 he rose and went towards the door, heedless of 
 her voice behind him. But yet, when he had 
 ridden away and reached Herdholt, the time he 
 had passed with her seemed a very heaven to 
 him, and he longed to be near her again. 
 
 Thus between varying emotions he passed 
 many days, often meeting her among her kins- 
 men at Bathstead, and sometimes alone. There 
 was little rest for him night or day, and even 
 death itself seemed to promise no cure for his 
 malady. 
 
 Kiartan still sojourned in Norway, but sent 
 home no word of his doings, so that Gud- 
 run at last ceased to speak of him, deeming him 
 lost to her forever. Then the gossips began to 
 babble of a match between her and Bodli, but 
 they marvelled greatly at it, and held it a 
 pity that one so fair should wed a man so 
 strange and sad. But yet the thing came to 
 pass after a while ; and thus the seed sown by 
 evil hands sprang into being and bore its bitter 
 fruits. 
 
 Now, Kiartan at Olaf Tryggvison's court began 
 to long for home and the sight of Gudrun ; and 
 at last, after much entreaty from the King to
 
 200 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 tarry longer with him, he embarked for Iceland. 
 But the parting from Ingibiorg pained him 
 deeply, for she had grown to love him with a 
 great passion. 
 
 Then Kiartan and his followers, guided by 
 Kalf, the captain, crossed the sea, and one day 
 landed at Burgfirth. There they raised their 
 tents, as the wont was, and held a fair of the 
 treasure brought in the ships. 
 
 Olaf and his sons were away from Herdholt 
 when news of Kiartan's arrival reached the 
 hall; but Thurid, his sister, and her husband 
 Gudmund, came, and Kdlf's father Asgeir, 
 bringing Refna, his daughter, with a host of 
 others. 
 
 As Kiartan began to ask news of this and 
 that old acquaintance, Thurid approached him 
 with an anxious face and drew him aside. In 
 some amazement be went with her. 
 
 " Brother," she said, " I feared 3-ou might 
 speak of Gudrun. You did not ask for her ?" 
 
 Kiartan trembled. " I thought ill news would 
 come of itself Is she dead ?" 
 
 " No," stammered Thurid ; " she is well — and 
 wedded !" 
 
 " Wedded ! And the Peacock's house ? I 
 used to think them valorous and my father 
 a great man. And Bodli's sword — where was 
 it?"
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 201 
 
 He looked in her face, then turned and stag- 
 gered wildly away from her. 
 
 " Oh, blind, blind, blind !" he wailed. " Oh, 
 Gudrun, I am back with all the honor won 
 you, and who shall hear the tale of my deeds ? 
 Oh, how shall I learn to hate you, Bodli, turned 
 into a lie as you are ?" 
 
 He had gone some paces blindly, and now 
 Thurid called him, and he turned suddenly 
 around. All the noises about him sounded 
 as if a great change had taken place in the 
 world. The far-away shouts of the shipmen, 
 the murmur of the sea, and the bleat of ewes 
 on the downs, — all these, and even his own 
 name, and the grass and white strand and dis- 
 tant hills, seemed but as pictures in some dream, 
 with their meaning lost. 
 
 " In this last minute the world is clean changed 
 for me, sister," he said ; " but yet I see that it 
 will go on in spite of my pain. Come, then, I 
 must meet my friends and face the life to be." 
 
 She smiled kindly upon him, and they went 
 into the biggest tent, where there was a crowd 
 busied over the gay wares. Kalf was kneeling 
 by a bale of rich stuffs, and close by him sat 
 Refna with her slim and dainty hand laid on an 
 embroidered bag, and her fair head crowned 
 with a rare coif. 
 
 As Kiartan entered she raised her deep gray
 
 202 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 eyes to him and blushed blood-red, and he in- 
 wardly writhed with bitter anguish because of 
 this, and because the coif she wore was the 
 gift Ingibiorg had given him for Gudrun at 
 parting. 
 
 " Do not be angry," she said. " They have put 
 this queen's gift on my head against my will." 
 
 " Surely it becomes you well," he answered, 
 evasively, " and whoever set it there did right. 
 He were a rich man indeed who owned both 
 the maiden and the coif" 
 
 " So great and famed, so fair and kind," mur- 
 mured Refna. " Where shall any maid be found 
 to say no to such asking?" 
 
 Then he turned suddenly around, and, laugh- 
 ing wildly, said, with a scowl, — 
 
 " All women are alike to me, — all good, all a 
 blessing to this fair earth." 
 
 Silence fell on the group for a little space, but 
 anon he began to talk to one and another in his 
 old gentle way, and through the rest of the time 
 they stayed there he seemed unchanged, for so 
 his father thought when he greeted him at last 
 in Herdholt. But Gudrun' s name was not 
 spoken, either in the tents by the ship or in 
 the hall.
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 203 
 
 YI. 
 
 KiARTAN found all things about his home as 
 he had left them so long ago. There stood the 
 hills, there Lax-Kiver ran down to the sea ; the 
 thrall and serving-man came home from fold 
 and hay-field, and Olaf's cheery voice called 
 above the mead-horns. The fiddle-bow danced, 
 the harp-strings twanged, and olden tales of 
 love and wrong were told as of yore. But there 
 was one change that had a deep meaning for 
 the home-comer : Bodli's face was absent from 
 the hall. 
 
 Many woful thoughts pressed upon Kiartan's 
 mind as he brooded over his wrong, and bitter- 
 ness grew within him day by day. Yet the 
 other two were as much in need of pity at 
 Bathstead. 
 
 Theirs had been a dismal wedding, where 
 every tongue was checked lest some word should 
 be uttered to wound another's feelings, or some 
 name spoken that should kindle the smoulder- 
 ing indignation into open fire. The sons of 
 Oswif were silent and fierce, and Olaf shrank 
 back into his high seat and seemed aged and 
 weary. His sons looked doubtfully at Bodli, 
 and more than once the hot words they would 
 have flung at him were checked by their father's 
 warning eye.
 
 204 '^ Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Then on the morrow Gudrun and Bodli began 
 a life void of happiness, but full of capricious 
 changes in mood and act. The hall which once 
 rang with gay and free mirth became silent and 
 dull. 
 
 But one autumn evening as Bodli and Gud- 
 run, with her brother Ospak, sat on the dais, 
 there came to the gate-way two wandering 
 churls who asked for shelter. As none was ever 
 turned away from Oswif 's door unheeded, they 
 were soon seated amid the boisterous house- 
 carles, revelling in mirth and ease. They 
 pleased their audience with coarse jokes and 
 themselves laughed loudest of all the table-full. 
 
 Ospak sat awhile in his place looking across 
 at Bodli with scorn, for he had grown to hate 
 the brooding looks always bent downward in 
 despair. At last he yawned with either hand 
 stretched out, and cried aloud to the merry 
 company at the lower table, — 
 
 " Well fare you, fellows ! What gives you so 
 much merriment? We are not merry here." 
 
 One stepped forth. " Sooth, Ospak," he said, 
 "our talk's of little worth. These wandering 
 churls are full of meat and drink and make a 
 deal of fan." 
 
 " Bring them here," said Ospak ; " they may 
 help to divert us." 
 
 The wanderers came up from the lower end
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 205 
 
 of the hall, ill clad and unkempt, yet with 
 merry faces enough. They were a little timo- 
 rous in such presence, but drink emboldened 
 them before long. 
 
 « Well, fellows," said Ospak, " what tidings 
 are afield ? Where do you come from ?" 
 
 The first man turned his leering eyes on Bodli, 
 and a cunning grin came upon his face ; but just 
 as he began, the other, drunker and perhaps, 
 therefore, wiser, screwed up his eyes, and said, — 
 
 " Say-all-you-know goes with a clouted head." 
 
 " Say-naught-at-all gets beaten," said Ospak, 
 *' if he has his belly full of meat and makes no 
 answer." 
 
 "Do not be angry, son of Oswif," said the 
 first; "yet Mistress Gudrun there " 
 
 " Tush !" said the second, " thou art mighty 
 full of fear for a man full of drink. Let her say 
 that we shall go as we came, and all is soon told." 
 
 Ospak laughed, and, sprawling over the laden 
 board, he sat with his cheek close to his cup. 
 But Gudrun turned to him pale and with a 
 great agony of hope striving in her. 
 
 " Tell me the tale, and have a gift for it," she 
 said. "My finger is no better for this gold. 
 Draw it off." And she reached her hand out 
 to the man, who stood wondering at her, half 
 sobered by her face and not daring to touch the 
 
 ring. 
 
 18
 
 206 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " We came from Burgfirth," at last he said, 
 " where about a new-anchored ship they held 
 a sale. The skipper was Kalf Asgeirson, and 
 many others were there." 
 
 Ospak still sat chuckling to himself and 
 lolling over his cup, but Bodli rose up and be- 
 gan to pace to and fro, as he had done once 
 before in that same place. 
 
 The man went on : "I saw Gudmund, and 
 Thurid, and Asgeir and his daughter, as they 
 stood about a man whose mantle was red as 
 blood and fine as a king's raiment." 
 
 Ospak hereupon put up his left hand to his 
 ear, as one who listens intently, and smiled all 
 the while. Then, amid unbroken silence, the 
 wanderer said, — 
 
 " I had never seen this tall man before. He 
 carried a wondrous weapon in his sword-belt all 
 gemmed and overwrought with gold. I dared 
 not ask his name, yet surely, mistress, I deemed 
 him to be Kiartan Olafson." 
 
 He looked around as he finished, as if he 
 feared something would happen, but those three 
 hearts were stirred no further by a name each 
 expected to hear spoken. Bodli still paced the 
 floor ; Ospak beat a tune ujoon the board with 
 his hand; and, saying not a syllable, Gudrun 
 drew the ring from her finger and gave it to 
 the news-bearer. But Ospak knew that the
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 207 
 
 trinket had been Bodli's first gift to his sister 
 when they had plighted troth. 
 
 Then the travelling churls went slowly down 
 the hall, but one looked over his shoulder as he 
 withdrew, and saw Ospak lean over to Gudrun 
 and nod his head at Bodli, meanwhile pointing a 
 mocking finger at his own breast. But Gudrun 
 did not heed him ; for she had but one thought : 
 that Kiartan had come back and she should 
 see him once again. 
 
 Night came slowly down upon the dull hall, 
 and all went off to bed save Bodli, who sat alone 
 in the high seat. It was nearly dawn when he 
 heard behind him a light footfall. He did not 
 dare to look around, till presently the figure was 
 close beside him, white in the half-dusk of the 
 morning. He tried to cry out, but his tongue 
 clove to his mouth, and he had no power to reach 
 his sword-hilt. It seemed as if his guilt and sor- 
 row stood there bodily before him, yet when a 
 dreadful voice spoke he knew it was Gudrun's. 
 
 " I came again," she said, " because I lay 
 awake and thought about what men have told 
 of traitors, and I wanted to see how one would 
 look to me. Night, nor death either, shall hide 
 you from what you have wrought, O Bodli 
 Thorleikson! My curse upon you!" And she 
 broke into wild gestures and an endless stream 
 of bitter words.
 
 208 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Bodli helplessly stretched out his hands for 
 peace, and said in a low voice, " Would God I 
 were dead ! and yet I hope to have kinder words 
 than these from Kiartan before I die." 
 
 " Yes, he is kind, he is kind," she exclaimed. 
 " He loves all, and casts his kindness wide as 
 God. He loves me as God loves his crawling 
 creatures; and who knows how I love him? — 
 how I hate a face he looks kindly on ? God help 
 me, I am talking of my love to you, and I yet 
 may prove even such a traitor as you before 
 the tale is done !" 
 
 vShe went away then, but lingered close by, as 
 if to hear what he might say. But dawn came 
 up apace, the sparrows woke about the eaves, 
 the swan trumpeted from far away, and the 
 cold morning wind running along the hangings 
 caught her unbound hair, drove her night-clothes 
 around her body, and stirred the rushes on which 
 she stood. 
 
 Their eyes met a moment in a strange look, 
 and he rose with haggard face and trembling 
 limbs as if to embrace her, but she tossed her 
 arms wildly over her head and with one dreadful 
 glance fled away. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The days wore on, and Kiartan was silent 
 about the two who had wronged him. But 
 Olaf was anxious, and feared that some day his
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 209 
 
 son's smouldering resentment might burst forth 
 into a blaze of revenge. 
 
 Kalf the captain came often to the Peacock's 
 stead during that autumn and brought his sister 
 Eefna. At last it began to be whispered that 
 she would make a seemly wife for Kiartan, if 
 he ever chose to marry. Eefna heard these 
 rumors and grew full of foolish hopes. But 
 Kiartan paid little heed to her, though he noted 
 well how she looked on him, and he could not 
 pass her by without seeing how fair and gentle 
 she was. 
 
 As Yule-tide came round again Oswif bade 
 the Bathstead folk to Herdholt, and all made 
 ready to go save Kiartan, who wandered aim- 
 lessly among the busy groups on the morning 
 of parting, but said not a word to any soul. 
 
 When Olaf heard of this he came to Kiartan 
 with an anxious face. 
 
 "Why will you still harbor wrath, my son? 
 Come, let the past be past. You are young, and 
 may gain many another honor and love." 
 
 Kiartan tirrned slowly and said, with a sneer, 
 "Truly, sir, love abounds in this kind world. 
 One more than I deemed of loved my love, and 
 there's the trouble." But as he looked at his 
 father's gray locks and wrinkled brow, he asked 
 more kindly, " What would you have me do, 
 father ? I sit here quietly and let- others live 
 l.—o 18*
 
 210 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 their lives as they will. Would you desire to 
 wake up strife?" 
 
 Olaf denied that he did, but spoke his sorrow 
 for his son's grief and loneliness, and plead with 
 him to go to Bathstead with the rest. 
 
 So Kiartan at last consented, and once again 
 he saw the place which of old had seemed holy 
 to him. He made no outcry as he greeted 
 Bodli, who came towards him with a shamefaced 
 mien, but simply said, — 
 
 " Be merry, Bodli ; you are nobly wedded. 
 You had the toil, and now the reward is yours." 
 
 Then he saw Gudrun far away in the hall, 
 and caught her gray eyes as they turned to his, 
 and the three that were friends stood gazing at 
 one another in silent bitterness. 
 
 The feast was spread, and the Yule-tide merri- 
 ment went round the board, but Kiartan sat 
 coldly through it all, watching Gudrun, still in 
 her perfect loveliness, untouched by passion. 
 Bodli glanced from one to the other in feverish 
 dread, striving to pierce the masks they wore, 
 and fearing each moment to hear a shriek from 
 the broken heart of his wife. 
 
 When the day was over, Bodli brought Kiar- 
 tan three handsome horses, such as had never 
 before been seen in Iceland. He entreated him 
 to take them, but Kiartan only said in a low 
 voice, —
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 211 
 
 " Do not strive with fate, Bodli. You have 
 made your choice ; gifts and love will scarcely 
 heal a wound like mine. God keep us wide 
 apart." 
 
 Then Olaf and his household went homeward ; 
 and, as they rode together, Olaf blamed his son 
 for refusing the gifts, and plead with him to go 
 again to Bathstead. Kiartan answered duti- 
 fully, but he warned Olaf that the seed he was 
 sowing would one day bring forth a dreadful 
 fruit. 
 
 Now, it happened that through the tender 
 oflSces of Thurid, and because Kiartan felt his 
 heart touched by Refna's beauty, he came to 
 love her in a pitying fashion because she grew 
 pale in loving him, and at last he married 
 her. 
 
 Then the months passed, and autumn came 
 again, and, as was the yearly custom, the Bath- 
 stead kindred went over in turn to Herdholt ; 
 and though Kiartan was loath to face them, 
 yet his father prayed him to put by his doubts, 
 and once more he was obliged to see Grudrun 
 and Bodli together. 
 
 Eefna beheld Gudrun's great beauty with 
 troubled thoughts ; and Kiartan noting this, 
 and how Gudrun sat in the hall as if she were 
 its mistress, grew angered. Then, as the guests 
 were marshalled to their seats, and the serving-
 
 212 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 maid asked him who should fill the high seat 
 beside the goodwife, he roared out, " Who, 
 damsel, but my wife ?" As he spoke he glanced 
 at Gudrun, and their eyes met. She changed 
 color, and he grew warmer still, berating the 
 girl in scornful words levelled at Gudrun. 
 
 " You'll have to fight for Gudrun yet," laughed 
 Ospak to Bodli in a whisper all could hear ; and 
 thus the feast began. 
 
 The next day Thorgerd called Eefna to her, 
 and bade her put on the rich coif given to Kiar- 
 tan by Queen Ingibiorg. Eefna reddened and 
 looked with appealing eyes to her husband, who 
 was deep in thought and said nothing. She 
 went then, seeing there was no escape, and put 
 on the glittering head-dress, and came to her 
 seat on the dais looking like a brilliant star 
 through the shadowed hall. 
 
 Ospak saw Gudrun turn pale at this, and he 
 showed his teeth like a sulky hound, muttering 
 that the coif had been stolen from his sister; 
 but Kiartan went over and sat by his wife, and 
 whispered that he liked her better with no or- 
 nament at all upon her fair brow. " Look down 
 there," he said, " at Oswif 's scowling sons ! The 
 coif may draw their swords upon us before we 
 part." 
 
 Gudrun watched them, sick-hearted and full 
 of malice, as she saw how Kiartan's hand lay on
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 213 
 
 Eefna's and how close their cheeks came to- 
 gether. She was ready now to second her 
 brothers in their growing hatred. 
 
 Then the next morning, after the guests had 
 departed, Kiartan went to find his sword, the 
 gift of the King, which he had laid aside while 
 he bade them Godspeed ; but he found it gone 
 from its place above his bed. He questioned all 
 his people, but none had seen it. 
 
 Meanwhile, An the Black, a sturdy house- 
 carle, slipped out, and came back presently, 
 panting sorely, but smiling all the while. He 
 carried something wrapped in his cloak. 
 
 " Well," said Olaf, " what has happened 
 now?" 
 
 An told how he had followed Olaf and his 
 party, knowing what thieves they were, — ^this he 
 said with a dangerous sparkle of the eyes, — and 
 at the Peat Moss he saw young Thorolf lag 
 behind and take something from his cloak. He 
 thrust it down into the bog, then swiftly rode 
 on again. But An came up to the place when 
 they were out of sight and drew forth the 
 sword. The scabbard was gone past recovery, 
 rich and beautiful as it was. 
 
 Hereupon he drew the bright and naked 
 " King's Gift," as it was called, from his cloak, 
 and Olaf was rejoiced that it was found, and 
 praised An for his achievement.
 
 214 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Kiartaa spoke musingly, taking the sword in 
 his hand. " Who can tell," he said, " but this, 
 after all, will end the troublous tale? Well, I 
 did not cast the sheath away." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Now, although Olaf bade An hold his peace, 
 and although Kiartan likewise promised to be 
 fair-spoken to the kin of Bathstead, yet before 
 long the story of the stolen sword came to be 
 known far and wide. News reached Kiartan's 
 ears that Oswif 's sons deemed that they had 
 cast a shame on Herdholt by the theft, and that 
 they openly mocked him as " Mire-Blade." But 
 Kiartan was unmoved by these rumors, and until 
 the return of Yule-tide, when the men of Herd- 
 holt made ready to ride to Bathstead, nothing 
 happened to mar the outward amity of the two 
 houses. 
 
 When Olaf 's household was ready to set out, 
 Thorgerd told Eefna she must again wear the 
 queen's coif and look like the bride she was. 
 Eefna dared not refuse, but she entreated the 
 goodwife to spare her, and pleaded that it might 
 remain in her chest. 
 
 " No, no!" said Kiartan. " If it were only for 
 you and me, sweet, there it might rest ; but I 
 remember how when I was a child and wanted 
 some glittering thing, an axe or a knife, my
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 215 
 
 mother would let me have it, knowing that I 
 would be sure to cut myself in punishment." 
 
 Eefna looked down puzzled and shamefaced. 
 Thorgerd turned to Kiartan with a frown, but 
 he only smiled and said, " Yes, mother, let the 
 gold burn among the Bathstead lights. Come, 
 we must play our parts openly." 
 
 So the coif was brought, and the company 
 once more rode to Olaf's hall and feasted as 
 merrily as was their custom. But when the 
 season of revelling was over, and Eefna looked 
 for her golden head-gear, it was gone and could 
 not be found. She passed through the crowd 
 and whispered the news to Kiartan. Ospak 
 stood near them and bit his lips, watching 
 eagerly what they did. 
 
 " Well, let it be," said Kiartan ; " light won, 
 light gone. If it's still above ground, Eefna, 
 doubt not it will one day be recovered." 
 
 Each one in the hall looked alarmed at his 
 neighbor. Thorgerd turned to Gudrun and 
 said, firmly, — 
 
 " I have seen the day when the kin of Egil 
 would kill a man or two for a thing of less 
 worth than this." 
 
 Gudrun calmly met her frown. "Was the 
 thing his own ?" she asked. " It is small loss for 
 her to sit without his old love's coif upon her 
 head."
 
 216 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Before Thorgerd could answer, Kiartan cried 
 out to Bodli, " Come, ride with me to the hill 
 by the beach. I must speak, cousin, what has 
 troubled my mind these last days of our meet- 
 ing." 
 
 Bodli flushed red, and, taking his sword from 
 his side, gave it to his wife. 
 
 " One sword will be enough between us to- 
 day," he murmured ; then, as they rode away, 
 Kiartan leaned toward Ospak and mockingly 
 said, " I love you. I would not have you die. 
 Do not see me too often, because I have a 
 plague sometimes that brings those who come 
 near me to the grave." 
 * Ospak's hand fell on his sword-hilt and he 
 shrank back to the doorway. Kiartan laughed 
 gayly as he and Bodli rode jingling down to 
 the sea. 
 
 But the laughter passed from Kiartan's lips 
 when he and Bodli at last came to be alone. 
 
 " You see, Bodli," he said, " how we two must 
 swim down this strange stream. You are 
 weaponless to-day, and my sword stays in its 
 scabbard. How long is it to last ?" 
 
 " Until I am no more," said Bodli. " Shall I 
 take life and love both from you, Kiartan ?" 
 
 " No," he answered, " but you cannot be so sure 
 of it, Bodli. Remember where you stand, be- 
 tAveen a passionate woman's heart and the envy
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 217 
 
 of a dangerous fool. You are helpless. As a 
 thing begins, so it must end. Ah, brother, the 
 old days are still dear to me, in spite of all that 
 has come to pass ; but to-day I part from you 
 and them forever. What say you, then : shall 
 the days to come be forgiven ? Shall it not be 
 remembered less that we have parted, than that 
 we once loved each other dearly well ?" 
 
 Bodli gazed silently into his brother's face. 
 " Kiartan, why do you speak thus ?" he said at 
 last. " I do the wrong twice over in hearing you 
 say the words." 
 
 Then, when he had done, Bodli started back, 
 and the murmuring sea seemed to tell, from far 
 off, of rest from pain. On a little knoll he 
 turned about, and, looking toward the hill, saw 
 Kiartan's spear glittering above its brow, but 
 the warrior himself was hidden below. Then 
 Bodli slowly rode home to await the end of aU. 
 
 IX. 
 
 INow, one day in the spring-time Eefna wan- 
 dered by a brook near to Herdholt, and at 
 last lay down in a grassy place and fell asleep. 
 When she awoke she could hear the sound of 
 voices near by, though the speakers were con- 
 cealed from her by the thick leafage under 
 which she rested. There were two women 
 
 K 19
 
 218 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 talking as they washed the household linen, and 
 their news was of Kiartan. 
 
 "They say," one repeated to the other, "that 
 though it is latter spring, yet Kiartan has done 
 nothing to punish the two thefts of the Bath- 
 stead men." 
 
 "Fool!" said the second, "must he stir up 
 strife for every trifle ?" 
 
 " Well, at all events," quoth the first, " none of 
 Kiartan's kin would have dared to do the thing 
 to Gudrun. Listen, this is the truth, for every 
 one knows it. Gudrun and Kiartan would be 
 very glad were Bodli and Eefna out of the way !" 
 
 Eefna came to her husband with this gossip 
 and opened her aching heart to him ; but he 
 only showered kisses on her and drew her to his 
 breast. Her faith and love for him touched him 
 deeply, so pure and changeless was she ; yet he 
 could not but think, even while she lay against 
 his heart, of the hopes of old, now fallen all to 
 nothingness. 
 
 For a day or two after this he went about 
 with a brooding face, but at last, one noon, he 
 bade his men see to their war array, and com- 
 manded that two hours after midnight all of 
 them should await his coming in the hall. They 
 were punctually present when he entered, clad 
 in his faii'est armor ; and Eefna, who watched 
 the spears and glittering mail through the hang-
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 219 
 
 ings, heard the rough laughter of the men and 
 saw the red lights glare in the gray dawn with 
 a wild alarm. 
 
 Kiartan found her before he set out, and gayly 
 promised her a noble gift when he should re- 
 turn. "Do your part to receive it graciously, 
 Eefna," he said ; " gather the fiddlers and glee- 
 men here to make merry with you." 
 
 Eefna guessed the cause of this warlike sally, 
 and she grew faint at heart to think that words 
 of hers should have led to it. She clung to 
 Kiartan, but he gently drew her hold from his 
 mail-rings and kissed her lovingly. Then she 
 fell back in tears upon her bed, and presently 
 heard his cheerful cry: "To Bathstead, ho!" 
 and the noisy crowd clashed through the hall 
 and passed out at the gates. After this, all was 
 still, save the loitering footsteps of some maid 
 getting back to bed, and she lay alone in great 
 dread and grief. 
 
 But at Bathstead, before the household was 
 up that morning, there was heard the far-away 
 winding of a horn ; and when they ran to the 
 door, Oswif 's sons saw a great company beset- 
 ting every exit of their home. The Bathstead 
 men hurriedly put on their arms and went out ; 
 but there was a tent of gay stripes raised on 
 the slope against the hall, and Olaf 's sons stood 
 all around it with sixty followers.
 
 220 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 One man, taller than the rest, stood some 
 yards nearer the hall door, leaning on a pen- 
 noned spear, and clad in glittering mail. He 
 had a shield about his neck bearing a picture of 
 the Holy Eood, and out of his helmet fell long 
 yellow locks. His eyes were hidden by the brim, 
 but Oswif and his sons knew that it was Kiar-. 
 tan, and a great fear overtook them, notwith- 
 standing their fiery hatred of him and his kin. 
 
 Ospak alone among his fellows did not quail, 
 but strode out before the rest, crying, — 
 
 " We were wont to receive you inside, not 
 out, Kiartan Olafson. "What have you done, that 
 you are forbidden to enter?" 
 
 The tall man did not move, but a deep voice 
 came from the helm, — 
 
 " I am sick now, and somewhat deadly to those 
 who come near me. My sword has lost its scab- 
 bard. Beware of its naked edge !" 
 
 Then Ospak shook his spear aloft, but the tall 
 man stood forth and pushed back his helm and 
 showed the face of Kiartan. 
 
 " Back ! till I bid you come out," he cried. 
 " My father's sons have sworn to spare no man 
 of you if a single drop of blood is spilt. Back 
 to your hall ! We are here to take our due from 
 meadow and barn." Then he let down his helm 
 and returned to the tent, while the Bathstead 
 men, armed but helpless, sat silent within, and
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 221 
 
 heard the raiders drive their cattle froBi the 
 pastures. Bodli was in the high seat, but his 
 face was worn and sad ; yet he looked as if he 
 were thinking of gentle things, even while the 
 fierce eyes of Gudrun's brothers scowled upon 
 him. She herself paced restlessly hour after 
 hour through the hall, while old Oswif sat apart 
 with wrinkled brow, unnoticed by the surly 
 warriors. 
 
 The sounds of laughter and blowing horns 
 outside became louder and louder, and never 
 ceased till mid-day. It grew more quiet then, 
 though those within still heard the lowing of 
 cattle and the shouts of the victorious drivers. 
 
 Then a voice came from the hill-side : " Ee- 
 joice, men of Bathstead, that you need hold no 
 autumn feast this year. Come out : we will not 
 harm you now ; we have paid ourselves, and all 
 is peaceful." 
 
 They did not stir. Then the voice again cried, 
 " What ! are you all dead with fear ? Come out, 
 I say!" 'K^ 
 
 Then Ospak, with a great oath, cast down his 
 shield and spear and strode out, and the rest 
 followed him, one by one, till Bodli and Gudrun 
 were left alone. 
 
 " And you, — will you not go ? Do you know 
 who it is that shames us thus?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know," he said. " Farewell ; I will 
 
 19*
 
 222 Tales from Ten Foets. 
 
 go, but not without my sword." And lie drew 
 his sword, and went among Oswif s sons, who 
 stood foaming and impotent at the door. Kiartan 
 sat in his saddle outside, and his brothers stood 
 around him beside their horses, while a great 
 noise came from the cattle that thronged the 
 way below the hill. 
 
 Bodli stepped out and confronted his foster- 
 brother. 
 
 "Come, son of Olaf, meet me now," he cried, 
 " for long have I been weary of the earth, and 
 but one thing seems good to me, — that I should 
 take death at your hands." 
 
 Then the bright steel shone in the sunlight, 
 and Olaf 's sons would soon have ended all, but 
 Kiartan shouted, above the clash of arms, — 
 
 "Hold! make a hedge of your shields and 
 thrust him back. It is vain for him to win 
 death. Live, cousin, and get what you may of 
 joy and honor !" 
 
 Bodli held back his weapon and retreated 
 into the d'>or-way before the wall of shields. 
 Then Kiartan said, — 
 
 " Better, cousin, if you must die by me, that it 
 should be in some noble fight. Yet God grant 
 us many a day before it happens !" Then, turning 
 to the rest, " But listen, you thievish sons of a 
 wise old man. I gave you from Yule till this 
 day to pay your debt. I take it twice told now,
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 223 
 
 and I leave behind a double shame. This is 
 my bridal gift. Think well of it." 
 
 Bodli still stood in the door-way with drawn 
 sword, while amid the clang of arms and blare 
 of horns he saw the herd move up the dusty 
 road. He saw Kiartan, too, hnger behind the 
 rest and stare at the gray hall whose roof had 
 so often covered him, and he could fancy that he 
 sighed as he looked back at its spreading angles. 
 
 " Ah, would God I had died by that hand to- 
 day !" said the hopeless alien ; then he sheathed 
 his sword and was hustled by the sullen and 
 bailed brothers into the hall. 
 
 The time went far differently at Herdholt. 
 When evening came, Kefna, watching from the 
 knoll, saw a dust-cloud move toward her far 
 away on the road, and her heart beat fast when 
 she beheld in its midst helms and spear-heads, 
 and at last the guarded herd. She bade the 
 women put on their best array, and placed the 
 minstrels on either side the path to greet the 
 band, whose horns by this time blew close to the 
 garth-gate. Now they passed through the gate 
 and over the home-field toward the wall, wear- 
 ing the Bathstead flowers bound upon their 
 helms, while the cattle were garlanded with 
 wreaths from their own pastures. 
 
 From the close within came joyful cries and 
 sounds of harp and fiddle, and a shout ran all
 
 224 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 along the line of warriors in gay response. Old 
 Olaf came out to the door to greet his sous, 
 and Kiartan leapt down by Eefna's side and 
 threw his arms about her. 
 
 « Behold, Eefna ! the ' Queen's Gift' is fittingly 
 paid for," he cried. " These are yours, sweet, to 
 put from you all care and every word that grieves 
 you !" 
 
 Eefna tried to utter her thanks, but could find 
 no words, and, with a loving cry, hid her face in 
 his breast. 
 
 " A dear price to pay for a girl's coif!" Olaf 
 muttered. "Woe is me that I should live to look 
 upon these latter days !" 
 
 X. 
 
 Kiartan after this rode fearlessly about the 
 country, and the sons of Oswif made no open 
 attempt to take revenge for his foray into their 
 domain. 
 
 But one day, as three of the brothers sat to- 
 gether in Bathstead, Ospak came near and said 
 that the gabbling crone Thorhalla had just been 
 to the hall and spoken of Kiartan, whom she saw 
 on the road. She told, too, that Kiartan would 
 ride to Knoll in the west, which news she had 
 learned from his own lips, for he promised to 
 bring her back half a mark which one owed her 
 who lived on his way thither.
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 225 
 
 " Oh, enough of this gabbling idiot, God strike 
 her blind !" said Thorolf. 
 
 "Eather, God keep her eyes, say I," replied 
 Ospak, " for she told me that he would stay 
 three days at Knoll, and then ride through 
 Swinedale home, close by us, and with but few 
 at his back, — two at most. Good luck to his 
 pride ! What a chance for us then ! Bodli shall 
 lead or die!" 
 
 It fell out as the old woman had said, for 
 Kiartan rode from Knoll with goodraan Thorkel 
 and twelve others, who brought him well on his 
 way. But where the pass grew wider and opened 
 out into Swinedale, Kiartan stopped his com- 
 pany and said to Thorkel, — 
 
 " Thanks to you, goodman, for the guidance ; 
 but now get back. I fear nothing between this 
 and Herdholt." 
 
 " Well, but there is time enough yet for you 
 to be waylaid before you are safe at home," 
 said the old man. " Let us ride on." 
 
 But Kiartan was firm, and bade him and his 
 men farewell, saying that Bodli was still his 
 friend and restrained the brothers, and, besides, 
 he did not ride quite alone, for An the Black and 
 another, named Thorarin, were with him. 
 
 Now, early that morning Oswif's sons had 
 taken their stand along a stream, deep in a 
 hollow where the narrow pass turned to the 
 1.-P
 
 226 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 south ; aud there they waited for Kiartan to 
 come by the road. Before he approached, Bodli 
 lay high up ou the bank, so that his helm just 
 showed above the dip of the highway, and Ospak 
 went over and accused him roughly of tiyiug 
 to warn his kinsman of the danger. 
 
 " Come down," he cried ; " we have got you 
 aud the cursed Mire-blade in a trap, and we do 
 not mean that 3-ou shall escape us." 
 
 "If you knew anything of love or honor," 
 said Bodli, " I might tell you why I am here. 
 If I wanted to save Kiartan, I should do it an- 
 other way. How if I stood beside him ?" 
 
 "Down with you!" muttered Ospak. "Hold 
 your peace, or he will hear us !" 
 
 As Ospak said this they heard the chnkingbits 
 of Kiartan's horses, and he came merrily on, 
 singing an old ballad in praise of Odin. Then 
 suddenly the Bathstead horn rang out, and Kiar- 
 tan drew rein and looked about him. 
 
 Instantly the ambushed bi'others sprang forth 
 and made toward him. Kiartan and his men 
 leapt down, aud he led them toward a rock be- 
 side the road, where they stood at bay. 
 
 Kiartan looked most noble, as he paused there 
 in shining mail, with his drawn sword ready for 
 the fray; but when his eye fell upon Bodli a 
 change came, and at first he dropped his hands 
 like one who thinks all is over and gives up.
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 227 
 
 But in an instant his brow cleared, and he 
 hurled his spear at Thorolf, who fell clattering 
 to the ground. " Down goes the thief!" he cried. 
 " Brave men have met more than these and 
 come fairly off." 
 
 There was silence then, save for the noise of 
 the mail rings; but now the brothers rushed 
 across the dusty road, there came a confused 
 gleam of swords, and, through the tumult, now 
 and then a sharp cry or groan as the points 
 went home. Yet Bodli stood pale as death be- 
 side them with sheathed sword, and raised no 
 hand in the fight. 
 
 Presently there was a lull, and the Bathstead 
 men drew off, but the three still held out unhurt, 
 with backs against the rock. 
 
 Then Ospak railed at Bodli, and threatened 
 him with shame and hardship if he took home 
 a bloodless sword. But Bodli made no answer. 
 He stood like a man of iron, while the breeze 
 blew his long black hair around his cheek-pieces 
 and fanned his scarlet kirtle. 
 
 Then one cried out that they lost time, and they 
 fell to again ; but now their strokes were directed 
 most against Thorarin and An. The first of 
 these broke presently from the crowd and ran 
 swiftly away, followed by two stout men from 
 the Bathstead band; but An the Black fell 
 wounded to death, and over him instantly fell
 
 228 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Gudlaug, Oswif B nephew, with a limb shorn off 
 by Kiartan. 
 
 Now once again there was a short lull, and 
 then the four fell furiously upon Kiartan, but 
 soon gave back ; and the noble son of Olaf, with 
 his mail-coat rent and his shield hanging low 
 down, panted for breath, but stood without a 
 wound. 
 
 Still Bodli was passive ; and Ospak, enraged 
 at his inaction, struck him in the face with his 
 blood-smeared hand. 
 
 " Get home, you half-hearted traitor, and take 
 my blood to Gudrun !" he cried. 
 
 Not a word came from Bodli's lips, and his 
 sword rested in its scabbard. Ospak railed on : 
 
 "Are you grown too full of dread, O fond 
 lover, to look him in the face whom you did not 
 fear to cozen of his bride ? Why draw back, 
 when you may now gain all with one stroke ?" 
 
 Then Kiartan, too, called out Bodli's name 
 clear and loud, and at the first sound Bodli turned 
 his face about in a puzzled way, until he caught 
 Kiartan's eyes ; then his mouth quivered and he 
 hid his face in his mail-clad hands. 
 
 " They are right, kinsman, friend of the old 
 days, friend well forgiven now," said Kiartan. 
 " Come nearer, that you may know my face ; 
 then draw your sword, and thrust from off the 
 earth the fool who has destroyed your happi-
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 229 
 
 ness. My life is spoilt. I do not care longer to 
 bide and vex you, friend. Strike, then, for a 
 happy life !" 
 
 Bodli's hands dropped down, and his face was 
 full of doubt and shame. Yet he had grasped 
 his sword even before Kiartan spoke the last 
 word, and, still trembling, he now drew it forth, 
 while even the sons of Oswif shuddered at his 
 wild eyes as he slowly strode toward Kiartan. 
 
 The wind moaned on the hill-side, and a far- 
 oif hound barked by some homestead door ; but 
 the dull sound of Bodli's feet and the tinkle of 
 his mail rings drowned all the other noises as 
 the space between them lessened. 
 
 Like one who looks vainly for help, Kiartan 
 glanced around, then raised his shield and poised 
 his sword, as though he meant to fight to the 
 end. But there came a quivering smile upon 
 his lips as he gazed into Bodli's dreadful face, 
 and there was a flash of swords that never met. 
 
 "Ah, better to die than live on so!" cried 
 Kiartan, and his weapons fell clattering to the 
 road ; but almost before they had touched the 
 bloody ground, Bodli's sword was thrust into 
 his kinsman's unprotected side. Kiartan fell 
 down, then, and Bodli flung himself upon the 
 earth and bent over him and raised his head 
 upon his knee. 
 
 " What have I done ? what have I done ?" he 
 
 20
 
 230 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 cried. "I meant to die. 'Twas I who should 
 have died, not he. Where was the noble sword 
 I thought to take here in ray breast and die for 
 Gudrun's sake and yours ? Oh, friend, do you 
 not know me ? Speak but a word !" 
 
 But Kiartan made no answer. 
 
 " And will you not forgive ?" moaned Bodli. 
 "Think, brother, of the days I must still en- 
 dure!" 
 
 Kiartan opened his eyes and tried to get upon 
 his feet, but he failed, and only gazed hard in 
 Bodli's face. 
 
 " Farewell life, farewell Gudrun !" he mur- 
 mured, then fell back on Bodli's breast and 
 strove to take his hand, and was dead. 
 
 There was a long silence. Presently the 
 slayer arose and took up his sword. He spoke 
 now as one having the right to command the 
 rest: 
 
 " Here is a mighty one laid to earth, and yet 
 it is no famous deed to have done it. His great 
 heart overcame him, not my sword. Go, all of 
 you, to Bathstead, and name me everywhere the 
 slayer of Kiartan. Send hither men to bear the 
 body to our hall, then let each man of you hide 
 his head, for you will find it hard to escape 
 death. I will stay here, but I shall not be 
 utterly alone."
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 231 
 
 XI. 
 
 When the bearers of Kiartan's bier reached 
 Bathstead, near sunset of that fatal day. a black 
 figure stood in the porch to receive them. The 
 stern face looked cold and gray under its over- 
 hanging hood, but about the feet, as if in token 
 that the end of the journey was near, lay the 
 long rays of the dying sunlight. 
 
 Ever}^ heart in the melancholy throng about 
 Kiartan's body trembled at the thought of meet- 
 ing Gudrun. She had raved wildly all the long 
 day, and now, when he was borne into the hall 
 where he and she had spent so many happy hours, 
 her grief must overwhelm her and be pitiful to 
 look upon. Could she survive? Could she en- 
 dure the long grief? These questions were on 
 all lips as the bearers drew near the threshold. 
 
 But Gudrun had gained a stern command of 
 herself She made no outcry, only came near, and 
 in a low voice said, half to them and half to 
 him on the bier, — 
 
 " Enter and rest. There is too much change 
 and stir. Eest is good. No one is within but 
 Oswif, and he will not speak. As for me, I am 
 grown tired, and cannot vex you much." 
 
 She stepped aside then, and the dark shadows 
 of the porch hid her black dress from view, but
 
 232 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 the silent throng passed into the dim-lighted 
 hall, afraid to look upon her face. 
 
 Bodli went last of all, clashing through the 
 stone porch ; but he paused before he had quite 
 passed over the threshold, and, turning slowly 
 around, tried to see her face in the darkness. 
 
 " Your will is done," he said. " Are you enough 
 alone, as I am?" 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 " I did it for your sake, Gudrun. Speak one 
 word to me before I am crushed to death by my 
 shame." 
 
 Then she reached out her hand toward the 
 place where he stood, but did not touch him, 
 and he never knew whether she meant to ex- 
 press her pity or to thrust him farther from her. 
 
 Soon the bearers and their followers came tram- 
 pling slowly out, and Bodli shrank back against 
 the wall to let them pass. When the last one 
 was gone he looked again for her, but he stood 
 quite alone in the dim twilight. He listened 
 yearningl}'- to the noises within, but he did not 
 dare to follow her. 
 
 He lingered there, hoping for some favorable 
 sound, till the moon began to shine under the 
 porch eaves ; but he heard little, save the faint 
 clink of his own mail as he stirred restlessly 
 about the stone pavement. 
 
 " Can she have died with grief?" he wildly
 
 The Lovers of Gudrun. 233 
 
 thought. " Oh that she might still say one little 
 word to me who love her so !" 
 
 But he peered in vain through the dark 
 reaches of the hall. There was not a sound, 
 not a movement. At last he turned lingeringly 
 away, and his steel war-gear began to sparkle in 
 the open moonlight. 
 
 Then there came a loud wail out of the dead 
 hush of the hall, and the house-carles hurried 
 through the gloom with flaring torches. 
 
 They came out into the porch, seeking for 
 the cause of the cry ; but Bodli knew in his 
 heart that it was Gudrun's cry of despair, and, 
 smitten with a dreadful terror, he fled away 
 into the night. 
 
 Bodli came back to Bathstead before the Herd- 
 holt folk removed their fallen kinsman to a 
 grave in his own stead, but he was little loved 
 by any soul of either household, and at last he 
 met death in manly warfare, fighting against 
 his many foes. 
 
 Now, after Bodli was slain, and after Oswif 
 had passed away in peace, the dale grew too 
 fearful and full of sad memories for Gudrun 
 longer to remain there, and she exchanged Bath- 
 stead for Snorri's hall at Holyfell. There she 
 dwelt with Bodli's grown sons about her, and 
 took to her side one day, in fulfilment of Guest's 
 prophecy, another husband; but he, too, went 
 
 20*
 
 234 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 to the grave before her, and she who had grown 
 blind as she grew in years was "again alone for 
 all the long days to come. 
 
 But once on a summer evening as Gudrun 
 Bat in Holy fell, with another Bodli there beside 
 her, a travelled and mighty man in gay rai- 
 ment, he, perhaps growing weary of that tran- 
 quil life, stirred and sighed heavily. 
 
 " Mother," he said, " awhile ago it came into 
 my mind to ask you something. You have loved 
 me well, and this is no great thing to reveal to 
 one who loves you." 
 
 She smiled, with her sightless eyes turned on 
 him, but did not answer. Then he went on : 
 
 " Which of the men you knew, — who are dead 
 long ago, mother, — which did you love the best?" 
 
 Her thin hands pressed one on the other, and 
 her face quivered, as if some memory struffded 
 within her. 
 
 " Ah, son ! the years go by. When we are 
 young, we call this or that one the worst we can 
 ever know. But yet, as time passes, there comes 
 a day when the old sorrows are fair and sweet 
 to what we must then endure. ' Evil is bettered 
 by the evil that follows it,' says the saw." 
 
 They were both silent a little space, then she 
 spoke once more : 
 
 "Easy enough to tell about them, son, for my
 
 Lovers of Gudrun. 235 
 
 memory is unbroken. Thorkel was a great 
 chief, bounteous and wise. Bodli, your sire, was 
 mighty ; you would have loved him well. Thord, 
 my husband, was a great man, eminent at the 
 council-board ; and Thorwald, — he was a rash, 
 weak heart, like a stinging weed that must be 
 pulled up. Ah, that was long, long ago." 
 
 Bodli smiled. 
 
 " You do not speak your true thought, mother. 
 I know these things well." 
 
 " Alas, son," she said, " you ask of love. Folly 
 lasts long ; still that word moves my old, worn 
 heart." 
 
 She turned till her sightless eyes gazed as 
 though the wall and the hills had melted away, 
 showing her Herdholt in the soft twilight. Then 
 she passionately stretched out her hands as if to 
 embrace all she had lost. 
 
 " Oh, son," she wailed " I did the worst to him 
 I loved the most !" 
 
 END OP THE FIRST BOOK.
 
 THE SECOND BOOK.
 
 :A<^'CI WAA'X 01^^.0 A ,tVA 'A A .\ \
 
 A I. /RED, LORD T/uVN'VSOA'. 
 
 Ik
 
 ENOCH ARDEN. 
 
 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
 
 ENOCH ARDEN. 
 
 I. 
 
 Beyond a break in the cliff, and above the 
 yellow beach, where the waves foam in to shore, 
 lie some red roofs clustered about a narrow 
 wharf. Then comes a mouldered church, and, 
 higher yet, a long street that climbs towards a 
 mill with a tall tower. Behind these again, and 
 standing clear against the sky, are a gray down, 
 with Danish barrows, and a hazelwood which 
 rises out of the down. 
 
 Here, among the waste lumber and coils of 
 rope, fishing-nets, rusty anchors, and drawn-up 
 boats, three children played together a hundred 
 years ago, building sand castles or following up 
 and flying away from the white breakers. They 
 were named Annie Lee, the prettiest little maid 
 of the port ; Philip Eay, the miller's son ; and 
 Enoch Arden, an orphan, son of a rough sailor 
 who had been lost one winter in a storm. 
 
 There was a narrow cave in the cliff, and 
 there the children played at keeping house. 
 One day Enoch would be host, and the next 
 
 9
 
 10 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Philip, but Annie was always mistress, whoever 
 might be master. Then sometimes Enoch got 
 possession and held it for a whole week. 
 
 " This is my house and my little wife," he said. 
 
 " Mine too," Philip hotly returned. 
 
 But if they came to blows, Enoch, who was 
 larger and sturdier, was always victor in the 
 end, and Philip, with tears in his blue eyes, 
 trembled with helpless anger. 
 
 " I hate you, Enoch !" he would shriek out. 
 
 At this the little wife would fall to weeping 
 for company and beg them to stop quarrelling 
 for her sake. 
 
 " I will be a little wife to both of you," she 
 sobbed through her tears. 
 
 But, after a while, when the dawn of childhood 
 had gone well towards morning and Enoch and 
 Phihp felt a new warmth of life in their veins, 
 each one fixed his heart on Annie. Enoch 
 declared his love to her, but Philip remained 
 silent. Annie seemed kinder to Philip, but she 
 really loved Enoch, though she did not know it 
 and would have denied it. 
 
 From that time forth Enoch had but one pur- 
 pose in life. He hoarded all his savings to 
 the utmost farthing to buy a boat and make a 
 home for Annie. He prosjDered well, and along 
 the whole coast there was not a luckier or 
 bolder fisherman. He also served a year on
 
 Enoch Arden. 11 
 
 board a inercliantinan and made himself a full 
 sailor. More than once he had saved a life, and 
 all his comrades were proud of him. Then, be- 
 fore he had reached his twenty-first year, Enoch 
 bought his own boat and made a home for 
 Annie. It was a neat little nest, perched half- 
 way up the narrow street towards the mill. 
 
 But one autumn afternoon, when all the 
 younger people of the town went nutting to the 
 hazelwood, Philip, whose father was sick and 
 needed him, was an hour late. As he climbed 
 the hill and approached the edge of the trees 
 he saw Enoch and Annie, who were sitting there 
 hand in hand. Enoch's large gray eyes and 
 weather-beaten face were kindled by an inward 
 fire. Philip looked in their faces and read his 
 doom. Then, as they drew closer together, he 
 groaned and slipped away, down into the hol- 
 lows of the wood, like a thing wounded. He 
 could hear the merry shouts of the rest come 
 faintly through the leaves, but to him it was a 
 dark hour. He rose up after the struggle was 
 subdued and went down to his home, bearing 
 an insatiable hunger in his heart. 
 
 Enoch and Annie were married at last, and 
 then came seven happy years of health and 
 plenty. Their earliest child was a daughter, 
 and Enoch, when he heard his baby's first cry, 
 resolved to save all he could to give her a better
 
 12 ' Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 bringing-up' than his or his wife's had been. 
 The wish was redoubled when a boy came two 
 years later. He was the idol of Annie's solitary 
 life while Enoch was at sea, or when he was 
 journeying inland with his white horse and 
 load of fish for the neighbor housewives. 
 
 But there came a change before very long. 
 A larger haven opened ten miles farther north, 
 and there Enoch was accustomed to go very 
 often by sea and land. Once, when he was 
 clambering up a mast at that place, he slipped 
 and fell. When he was lifted from the deck they 
 found he had broken his leg. Then while he 
 lay in the town there recovering, Annie bore him 
 another son, which was meagre and sickly. Some 
 one else began to supply Enoch's customers 
 during his absence, and his trade was lost. He 
 was a God-fearing man enough, yet doubt and 
 gloom seemed to fall on him. In his painful 
 inaction he seemed to see his children leading 
 low and miserable lives and Annie become a 
 beggar. Then he prayed that Heaven would 
 save them from this fate whatever might befall 
 him ; and even while he was praying the master 
 of the ship he had served in, having heard of 
 his accident, came and offered him the post of 
 boatswain. He knew Enoch's worth and valued 
 him. His vessel, he said, was bound for China, 
 and wanted only a boatswain to complete her
 
 Enoch Arden. 13 
 
 crew. Would he go ? There were a good many- 
 weeks yet before she sailed, and she would leave 
 from that port. It seemed an answer to the 
 prayer, and Enoch gladly accepted the offer. 
 
 Thus the dark cloud passed away; but what 
 were the wife and children to do during his 
 absence ? Enoch lay pondering a long time on 
 this subject, and the thought of selling his boat 
 came to him. He loved her too much to part 
 with her without a pang. He had weathered 
 many a rough sea in her and knew her every 
 trait as a rider does of his horse, and yet the 
 one way out of his difficulty was to sell her. 
 He could buy goods and stores then and set 
 Annie up in trade. She could keep the house 
 and care for the children in that way while he 
 was 'gone. And then he would trade himself 
 out yonder. He might make the voyage a 
 number of times and return rich at last. Then 
 he would be the master of a larger craft and 
 make more profit, while he could lead a much 
 easier life. All the children, too, should be edu- 
 cated, and he would pass his days among them 
 in peace. 
 
 Thus Enoch dreamed, and when he was able 
 to walk he went home. Annie was nursing the 
 sickly baby, and she looked very pale and worn 
 herself But she started forward with a happy 
 cry when he appeared, and laid the baby in his 
 
 2
 
 14 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 arms. He took it and curiously handled all its 
 little limbs. Then he weighed it and fondled it 
 with father-like caresses. He had not the heart 
 to break the news of his departure to Annie 
 that day. He waited till to-morrow. 
 
 For the first time since Enoch had put the 
 ring on her finger Annie opposed him. She 
 was not harsh or violent, but entreated him 
 with tears and mournful kisses all day and night 
 long. 
 
 " Oh, Enoch, if you care for me or the dear 
 children, do not go, do not go !" 
 
 But because he did care for her and the 
 children Enoch resolved to go, and she pleaded in 
 vain, Enoch parted with his old seafaring friend 
 for the time and went to buy goods to set Annie 
 up in business. His hammer and axe shook their 
 pretty little home all day long as he worked 
 away at the shelves for Annie's stock in trade. 
 To Annie herself the noise sounded like the 
 raising of her own scaffold. But at last all was 
 in order, though the space was narrow enough, 
 and Enoch went to bed tired out with his work. 
 
 The next morning was the last which he 
 could spend at home ; but he faced it boldly and 
 brightly. He laughed Annie's fears away, yet 
 as a brave. God-fearing man he bowed himself 
 down and prayed for a blessing on his wife and 
 little ones, whatever might come to him.
 
 Enoch Arden. 15 
 
 " Annie," he said, rising, " by the grace of God 
 this voyage will bring us all fair weather. Keep 
 a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, for I'll 
 be back, my girl, before you know it." Then 
 he rocked the cradle. " And he, — this weakling, 
 — I love him all the better for it, God bless him, — 
 he shall sit on my knees, and I'll tell him tales 
 of foreign ports when I come home. He shall 
 be merry too. Come, Annie, cheer up before I 
 
 go." 
 
 At his hopeful words she began almost her- 
 self to hope. But when he talked more gravely 
 of Providence and trust in Heaven she heard 
 him as if in a dream. 
 
 " Oh, Enoch," she cried, " you are wise, and 
 yet for all your wisdom I feel I shall never look 
 into your face again." 
 
 " Well, then," said he, " I shall look into yours, 
 Annie. The ship passes here. Get a seaman's glass 
 and spy out my face and laugh your fears away." 
 
 The last moments came, but he kept his as- 
 sumed cheerfulness till the end. 
 
 " Annie, my girl, be comforted, cheer up," he 
 said again and again. " Look to the babies. 
 Keep things ship-shape till I come back. Have 
 no fear for me, for I must go. Cast your fears 
 on God. He is an anchor which holds." 
 
 Then he rose from where he had been sitting 
 and threw his strong arms about Annie's droop-
 
 16 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 ing neck. He kissed the little ones fervently 
 and fondly, except the third, the sickly one, who 
 was asleep after a restless night. To him he 
 leaned down and kissed him in his cradle. Annie 
 clipped a tiny curl from the little one's forehead 
 and gave it to Enoch, and he took it and kept 
 it through all that happened to him. But now 
 he hastily caught up his bundle, waved his hand 
 from the door, and went his way. 
 
 When the time came for the vessel to go by, 
 Annie borrowed a ship's glass, but she looked in 
 vain. Perhaps she could not fix it to suit her 
 eye, or perhaps her eye was dim and her hand 
 trembled. At all events she did not see him, 
 even though he stood waving on deck. In a 
 moment the ship went past and he was out of 
 sight behind the cliffs. 
 
 Then when the last dip of the sail had quite 
 vanished she turned away, weeping. She 
 mourned him as one who had died ; but she did 
 all as he had asked her. Nevertheless she did 
 not thrive in her trade, for she had not been 
 bred to the business and had little native 
 shrewdness. She did not know how to ask 
 enough for her wares, nor to lie when it was 
 needful. More than once when wants pressed 
 she sold for less than the goods had cost her, 
 wondering all the while what Enoch would say. 
 
 At last she failed, and her heart was broken.
 
 Enoch Arden. 17 
 
 She expected news from Enoch day by day, but 
 it never came, and she was forced to gain a poor 
 sustenance with hard work, while she lived a 
 life of silent endurance. 
 
 The third child, which was born sickly, grew 
 more and more feeble, but she cared for it with 
 all a mother's tenderest love. Yet her daily 
 work called her often away from it, and she 
 could not spare the money to get it what it most 
 needed, nor to engage a doctor. After a linger- 
 ing weakness, and before she was aware of it, 
 the innocent little soul suddenly escaped like a 
 caged bird and flitted away. 
 
 Now, since Enoch had left, Philip had never 
 seen Annie, but when he heard that the little 
 child had died, his heart accused him for having 
 neglected her so long. 
 
 " Surely," he said to himself, " there is no harm 
 in seeing her now. I may be of some little com- 
 fort to her." 
 
 He went therefore to Annie's cottage, and, 
 passing through the bare little front room, 
 paused a moment with a new emotion at an 
 inner door. He knocked, and, no one coming 
 to open it to him, entered uninvited. 
 
 Annie sat there, fresh from the burial of her 
 child, and did not care to see any human face. 
 Her own face was turned towards the wall, and 
 she was weeping silently. 
 II.— 6 2* 
 
 1
 
 18 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Philip faltered on the threshold. " Annie," 
 he said at last, — "I came to ask a favor of 
 you." 
 
 " What favor can you hope for from one so 
 sad and forlorn ?" she groaned. 
 
 He was abashed by her reply, but with- 
 out being asked he sat down beside her, his 
 bashfulness and tenderness struggling within 
 him. 
 
 " I came to speak, Annie," he said in a falter- 
 ing voice, " of what he — of what Enoch, your 
 husband, wished. I've always said you chose 
 the best man among us, strong and resolute. 
 And why did he go away and leave you ? Only 
 for the wherewithal to provide for his little 
 ones, to give them a better bringing up than his 
 had been, — that was his wish ; and if he comes 
 back again, he will be vexed to find all the 
 precious morning hours lost. It would torture 
 him even in his grave if he thought his children 
 were running wild here about the waste. So, 
 Annie, we've known each other all our lives, 
 haven't we ? Now don't say no to what I am 
 going to propose. Enoch can repay me when 
 he comes back if you will have it so, Annie. 
 I am rich, you know. Let me put the boy and 
 girl to school." 
 
 Annie leaned with her brows against the wall 
 and did not turn.
 
 Enoch Arden. 19 
 
 "I cannot look you in the face, Philip," she 
 said. " I am sad and foolish. When you 
 came in I was broken down by my sorrow, 
 and now your kindness breaks me down again. 
 But I know Enoch is alive. He will repay 
 you, — money can be repaid ; but your kindness 
 never can." 
 
 " Then you will let me, Annie ?" asked Philip. 
 
 She turned now and rose from her seat, fix- 
 ing her swimming eyes on him. Then she 
 called down a blessing on his generous head and 
 wrung his hand passionately. They passed into 
 the little garth beyond the door, and he went 
 away lifted up mightily in spirit. Thus Philip 
 came to have the boy and girl put to school, 
 and he bought them all the needful books, and 
 acted in every way as if they were his own 
 children. For Annie's sake he seldom went 
 down to see her. He sent her gifts by the 
 children of garden-herbs, and fruit, and roses, 
 or conies from the down, and now and then 
 some flour from his tall mill, which he offered 
 because it was so fine in the meal, thus disguising 
 his charitable purpose. 
 
 Philip never knew what was in Annie's 
 mind. She could scarcely utter the broken 
 words of thanks out of her full heart when he 
 met her. Yet he was all in all to the children. 
 They would run from distant corners of the
 
 20 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 street to greet him and receive his hearty wel- 
 come. They were lords of his house and mill and 
 went to him with all their wrongs or pleasures. 
 They hung on him, and played with him, and 
 always called him Father Philip. He gained 
 their love as Enoch lost it ; for their real father 
 was like a vision or a dream to them. No news 
 had come from him for ten long years. 
 
 One evening Annie's children coaxed her to 
 go nutting to the wood with them, and she said 
 she would. Then they begged for Father Philip 
 also, and went and found him at the mill, like 
 a bee in blossom-dust. 
 
 " Come, Father Philip, we are going nutting," 
 they cried. 
 
 But he would not go. Then they tugged at 
 him playfully, and begged so hard that he 
 laughed and went along. Was not she with 
 them ? he thought to himself. 
 
 After climbing half-way up the down just to 
 where the wood began, Annie's strength failed 
 her, and she sank to the ground with a sigh. 
 
 " Let me rest here," she said, wearily. 
 
 Philip was well content to do so, and he sat 
 beside her, while the younger ones broke away 
 with gleeful cries into the hazels and dispersed 
 in search of nuts, calling to each other about the 
 wood at each lucky find. 
 
 Philip forgot everything about him seated
 
 Enoch Arden. 21 
 
 there by her side. He remembered nothing but 
 one dark hour he had spent there in the wood, 
 when he had crept into the shadow to give way 
 to his grief. 
 
 " Listen, Annie," at last he said, lifting up his 
 honest forehead, " how merry they are down 
 yonder. Tired, Annie ?" he asked, for she did 
 not answer, — " tired ?" 
 
 Her face had fallen on her hands, and she was 
 still silent. 
 
 Then, with a kind of uncontrollable anger, 
 he spoke in a different voice : 
 
 " The ship was lost, the ship was lost ! 
 Why should you kill yourself and keep them 
 orphans ?" 
 
 " I did not think of that," said Annie ; ," but, I 
 do not know why, somehow their voices made 
 me feel so solitary." 
 
 Philip drew closer. " Annie," he said, " there 
 is a thing upon my mind, and it has been so 
 long there that although I do not know when 
 it first came, yet I know it must out at last. 
 Oh, Annie, it is beyond all hope, against all 
 chance, that he should still be alive. Let me 
 speak, then. I grieve, oh, so deeply, to see 
 you poor and wanting help. I can never help 
 you as I would like — unless — perhaps you know 
 what I want you to know, — I wish you were 
 my wife, Annie. I would be a father to your
 
 22 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 children. They love me already, I think, as a 
 father. I'm sure I love them as if they were 
 my own ; and I believe that, even after all these 
 uncertain years, we might still be happy if you 
 were my wife. Think of it. I am well-to-do ; 
 I have neither kin nor care, and we have known 
 each other all our lives. And, Annie, I've loved 
 you longer than you ever knew." 
 
 Annie spoke tenderly, for she was deeply 
 thankful to Philij). 
 
 " You have been like God's good angel to us, 
 Philip. God bless you for it, and reward you 
 with something far happier than I. Can one 
 love twice ? Could you ever be loved as Enoch 
 was ? "What do you ask ?" 
 
 "I am content to be loved a little after 
 Enoch," he said. 
 
 "Dear Philip, wait awhile," she said, as if 
 she were beginning to be scared. " If Enoch 
 comes — yet he will not come. Yet, wait a year, — 
 a year is not long. Surely I'll be wiser in a 
 year." 
 
 " Annie, as I have waited all my life, I may 
 well wait a little longer." 
 
 " Then you have my promise," she said. " In 
 a year." 
 
 And Philip repeated, ''In a year." 
 
 Both were silent, till, glancing up, Philip saw 
 the streaming red of the sunset falling in
 
 Enoch Arden. 23 
 
 through the trees. He rose then, fearing the 
 night and chill would do Annie harm. He 
 called loudly up the wood, and the children 
 came running in, laden with spoil. All went 
 down to the port; and at Annie's door Philip 
 paused and gave her his hand. 
 
 " Annie, when I spoke to you," he said, gently, 
 " that was an hour of weakness. I was wrong. 
 I am always bound to you ; but you are free." 
 
 The tears came into Annie's eyes. "No, 
 Philip, I am bound," she said. 
 
 II. 
 
 The autumn went and another autumn came 
 before Annie, in the round of her household 
 duties, realized that a year had passed. Dwell- 
 ing day by day on Philip's words, that he had 
 loved her longer than she knew, she seemed to 
 forget the passage of time ; and now, once again, 
 he stood at her door claiming a fulfilment of her 
 promise. 
 
 " Is it a year already ?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes, if the nuts are ripe again. Come out 
 and see," he said. 
 
 But she put him off. She had bo much to 
 look after, and then it would be such a change. 
 " Give me another month, Philip," she said. " Of 
 course we are bound by our promise ; but just 
 a month, — no more."
 
 24 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Philip's eyes were full of his lifelong hunger, 
 and his voice shook a little as a drunkard's hand 
 will. 
 
 " Take your own time, Annie, take your own 
 time," he said. 
 
 She could have wept for pity of him. Yet 
 she held him on with excuse after excuse, test- 
 ing his faithfulness and truth, till another half- 
 year had slipped away. 
 
 By this time the gossips of the port began 
 to chafe as if a personal wrong had been done 
 them. Nothing distresses the species more than 
 to have a calculation miscarry, and all their 
 fine prophecies about Philip and Annie seemed 
 to be coming entirely to naught. vSome thought 
 Philip was trifling with her, others that she held 
 him off simply to draw him on. Others laughed 
 at them as dallying people who did not know 
 their own minds. One, a little bolder and more 
 sinister than the rest, even hinted at a worse 
 thing. 
 
 Annie's own son was silent, though he often 
 enough expressed his wishes by his looks. But 
 her daughter continually pressed her to marry 
 Philip, who was so dear to all of them, and 
 hft the household out of its poverty. Philip's 
 rosy face grew pale and careworn with the sus- 
 pense, and all these things fell upon Annie with 
 a sharp reproach.
 
 Enoch Arden. 25 
 
 At last one night it happened that Annie 
 could not sleep, and lying in bed she prayed for 
 a sign from Enoch. Then, in the depth of the 
 darkness, urged by the expectant terror in her 
 heart, she started up and struck a light. She 
 found the Bible and let her finger fall suddenly 
 on the text, where it chanced to open. 
 
 " Under the palm-tree" were the words she 
 first touched; but they conveyed no meaning 
 to her, and she sadly closed the book and went 
 back to bed. 
 
 Yet, strangely enough, she dreamed of Enoch 
 sitting on a height under a palm-tree with the^ 
 sun above him. 
 
 " He is gone," she thought ; " he is happy up 
 there, singing ' Hosanna in the highest.' The 
 sun of Righteousness is above him, and the 
 palms are those the people were strewing while 
 they cried ' Hosanna in the highest.' " 
 
 Then she awoke and sent for Philip. " There 
 is no reason now why we should not be married," 
 she said wildly to him. 
 
 "Then for God's sake, for both our sakes," he 
 answered, " if you will marry me, let it be at 
 once." 
 
 So Philip and Annie were married, and the 
 bells rang merrily through the port ; but Annie's 
 heart did not beat in unison with them. She 
 seemed to hear a footstep falling always beside 
 
 B 3
 
 26 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 her. She could not tell where it came from, 
 nor could she catch the meaning of the whisper 
 that was always at her ear. She feared to be 
 left alone at home, and never ventured out with- 
 out company. Before she entered, too, her hand 
 always hesitated on the latch as if she dreaded 
 to enter. Philip thought he knew what ailed 
 her. Such doubts and fears were common to 
 women in her state : so, when her child was 
 born, she was herself again. She was a mother 
 as of old, and Philip was all in all to her. The 
 mysterious foreboding wholly disappeared from 
 her mind. 
 
 III. 
 
 But where was Enoch? The ship "Good 
 Fortune" sailed prosperously away, and at set- 
 ting forth met with some severe storms in 
 the Bay of Biscay. Unharmed by these, she 
 slipped across the Equator, and, after a long 
 tumble about the Cape, passed again through 
 the summer world in the opposite hemisphere, 
 and finally made anchor in her Oriental haven, 
 
 Enoch traded there for himself, and bought 
 such curiosities as were salable in the home 
 markets at that time. He also bought a gilded 
 dragon for his babies. 
 
 But the return voyage was less lucky than 
 the outward passage. At first, the good ship
 
 Enoch Arden. 27 
 
 floated day by day through the fair eea-circles 
 of that latitude, scarcely sending a ripple from 
 her bows. Then there were long calms, then 
 variable and baffling winds. At last there 
 came a storm which drove her onward until one 
 day, just as the lookout cried, " Breakers ahead !" 
 there was crash and ruin, and all were lost 
 but Enoch and two others. They drifted half 
 the night on broken tackle and spars, and in the 
 early morning were cast on an island which was 
 rich with vegetation, but seemed the loneliest 
 spot in that far-away sea. 
 
 There was no lack of human sustenance in 
 the place, soft fruits and great nuts or nourish- 
 ing roots ; nor was it hard to capture the help- 
 less animals, which were so wild that they were 
 tame. The three who were wrecked built a 
 rude hut in a seaward-looking gorge of the 
 mountains, which they thatched with palm- 
 leaves. Here they lived amid an Eden of 
 plenty; but they were ill content with their 
 solitary lot, and longed for home. 
 
 The youngest of the party, hardly more 
 than a boy, who had been hurt on the night of 
 the wreck, lingered on for five weary years in 
 a kind of living death. The others could not 
 leave him, and made no effort to depart while 
 he survived. After he was gone, the two re- 
 maining found a fallen trunk, which Enoch's
 
 28 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 comrade attempted to hollow out with fire after 
 the Indian fashion ; but he was sunstruck at his 
 work and died, leaving Enoch all alone. In 
 these two deaths the deserted mariner seemed 
 to read God's warning to wait. 
 
 Enoch daily saw the mountain, wooded up to 
 its peak, and winding lawns and glades high on 
 the slope, as if they were pathways to heaven. 
 There was the drooping crown of plumes on the 
 slender cocoa, and, through the foliage, the light- 
 ning-like flash of birds and insects. Then, too, the 
 lustre of long convolvuluses that coiled around 
 stately trunks and ran out to the very limit of 
 the land. He saw all these, but what he de- 
 sired with all his heart to see and hear — a 
 kindly human face and a sympathetic voice — 
 he was denied. He heard only the shrieks of 
 ocean fowl, and the roller, a league long, thun- 
 dering out on the reef; or he could listen, nearer 
 his hut, to the whisper of the huge trees that 
 blossomed up in the zenith, or the sweep of 
 some precipitous rivulet plunging to the sea. 
 He ranged up and down the shore with these 
 sounds in his ears all day long, or sat in the 
 gorge by his hut watching forever for a sail. 
 The sunrise came every day, broken among the 
 palms and precipices, with a blaze, first on the 
 eastern waters, then day-long on his island, and 
 finally a blaze on the western flood j then, after-
 
 Enoch Arden. 29 
 
 "wards, the great stars would globe themselves in 
 the sky, and the ocean would bellow with a 
 hollower voice, until once again the scarlet sun- 
 rise would come, — but no sail ever came. 
 
 Often as he sat watching or seeming to watch, 
 the golden lizard would pause upon him. A phan- 
 tom made out of many phantoms haunted him, 
 or he himself in fancy haunted people, or things, 
 or places he had known at home : the babies 
 and their babble, Annie, the small house, the 
 climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes, the horse 
 he drove, his boat, the chilly November dawns, 
 the gentle showers, the smell of dying leaves in 
 autumn, and the low moan of his native seas. 
 
 Once, too, in the ringing of his ears, very 
 faintly, but merrily, very for away, he heard 
 the parish bells pealing. Then, though he did 
 not know why, he started up shuddering, and 
 when the beautiful but hated island returned 
 upon him, if his poor heart had not spoken of 
 the Divinity which, being everywhere, lets no 
 one who speaks with Him seem alone, he would 
 have surely died of solitude. 
 
 Thus, over Enoch's head, silvering early with 
 grief, the sunny and rainy seasons came and 
 went year after year. His hope one day to seQ 
 his family and to pace the old familiar fields had 
 not yet entirely perished, when his lonely doom 
 came suddenly to an end. 
 
 3*
 
 30 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Another ship, blown from her course by baffling 
 winds like the " Good Fortune," anchored near 
 the island, not knowing what land she had 
 reached. At early dawn the mate had seen the 
 streams falling down the inland hills, and had 
 sent a crew to find water. They landed and 
 burst away towards the water, filling the island 
 with unaccustomed noises. 
 
 The long-haired and long-bearded solitary 
 stepped down from his mountain gorge, looking 
 brown and hardly human. He was strangely 
 clad, and muttered and mumbled like an idiot 
 with inarticulate rage, making signs the while 
 which the sailors could not understand. Yet 
 he led the way to the rivulets of sweetest water, 
 and as he mingled with the men and heard 
 theni talking, his long-silent tongue was loosened 
 and he made them understand him. When 
 their casks were filled they took Enoch on 
 board with them, and the tale he told in 
 broken words was at first scarcely credited, but 
 it more and more amazed and melted all who 
 listened to it, and his very looks convinced his 
 hearers of the calamity he had suffered. 
 
 They gave him clothes and a free passage 
 home, but he often worked among the rest to 
 shake off his isolation. None of the crew 
 came from his own country or could answer his 
 questions about his home. The voyage was dull,
 
 Enoch Arden. 31 
 
 and they endured long delays, for the vessel 
 was scarcely sea-worthy. But Enoch's fancy fled 
 away week after week before the lazy wind, till 
 one day, like a lover beneath a clouded moon, 
 he drew in through all his blood the morning 
 breath of England. On that same morning the 
 oflScers and men collected a purse among them- 
 selves and gave it to Enoch out of pity for his 
 loneliness. Then they sailed up the coast and 
 landed him in the very harbor whence, so many 
 years ago, he had parted. 
 
 Enoch spoke not a word to any one, but started 
 homeward. Home, — what home? had he a 
 home? The afternoon was bright and sunny, 
 but very chill. After a while the fogs began to 
 roll in through the chasms of the hills, and they 
 soon wrapped the landscape in gray. The high- 
 way on before him was cut off from Enoch's 
 sight as he trudged forward, and only a narrow 
 breadth of holt or pasturage on either hand 
 was left visible to him. The robin piped dis- 
 consolately on the almost naked trees, and the 
 sodden weight of the dead leaves bore them 
 down through the dripping haze. The drizzle 
 grew thicker and the gloom deeper. At last it 
 seemed to Enoch as if a great mist-blotted light 
 flared on him, and he came upon the place he 
 sought. 
 
 Then, having stolen down the long street, his
 
 32 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 heart foreshadowing some ealaniity and his eyes 
 on the stones, he reached the house where 
 Annie had lived and loved him, and where his 
 babies, in those far-off happy seven years, were 
 born. 
 
 Finding there neither light nor murmur, — a 
 bill of sale showed through the drizzle, — he 
 crept on downward, thinking they were dead, 
 or at least dead to him. 
 
 He went down to the pool and narrow wharf, 
 seeking for a tavern which he had known of 
 old. It had had a front of crossed timbers of 
 ancient fashion, and was propped up, and 
 worm-eaten, and ruinous. He thought it must 
 have vanished ; but only the landlord had van- 
 ished who once kept it, and his widow, Miriam 
 Lane, kept it now with profits that dwindled 
 daily. It was once a haunt of brawling seamen, 
 but now was silent, though it still offered a bed 
 to wayfarers. Here Enoch rested quietly for 
 many days. 
 
 But Miriam Lane, the landlady, was good and 
 garrulous, and would not let him be. She often 
 broke in upon his solitary musing, and once she 
 told him, among other annals of the port, — 
 Enoch was so bowed and brown, so utterly 
 broken, — the whole story of his house : his baby's 
 death, Annie's growing poverty, how Philip put 
 her children to school and kept them there,
 
 Enoch Arden. 33 
 
 how he wooed her so long, and how she finally 
 consented, the marriage, and the birth of Philip's 
 child. 
 
 No shadow passed over Enoch's countenance, 
 and he did not make a motion. Any one who 
 regarded him well would have thought that he 
 felt the tale less than the teller did ; only, when 
 she came to the end, — 
 
 "Enoch, poor man, he was cast away and 
 lost." 
 
 Then he shook his gray head pathetically and 
 repeated, " Cast away and lost." 
 
 Once more, after a pause, he said, in a deeper 
 inward whisper, " Lost." 
 
 But he yearned to see Annie's face again. 
 
 " If I might only look on her sweet face again 
 and know that she is happy," he murmured to 
 himself. 
 
 The thought haunted and harassed him and 
 drove him out and up the hill at evening, when 
 the November day was passing into a duller 
 twilight. 
 
 There he sat gazing on all below, and a thou- 
 sand memories rolled in upon him in unspeak- 
 able sadness. By and by the ruddy square of 
 light which streamed from the rear of Philip's 
 house allured him, as the beacon-light will allure 
 a bird of passage till he madly strikes it and 
 beats out his life. 
 II.— c
 
 34 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, the 
 last house landward. Behind it, with a gate 
 that opened on the waste beyond, flourished a 
 little garden. Within the walled enclosure was 
 an ancient yew-tree, and all around and across 
 ran walks paved with shingle. Enoch avoided 
 the middle walk, and stole up by the wall, be- 
 hind the yew-tree. There he saw what he might 
 better have shunned, if, indeed, griefs like his 
 ever have any worse or better. 
 
 Silver cups sparkled on the burnished board 
 in the reflected glow from the hearth. On the 
 right hand of the fireside he saw Philip, the 
 slighted suitor of the old days, stout and rosy, 
 with his baby across his knees. Over her second 
 father leaned a girl like a later and taller Annie 
 Lee. She was fair-haired and slender, and she 
 tossed a long ribbon with a ring tied to it to 
 tempt the baby, who held up his creasy arms 
 and caught at it, but always missed it, whereat 
 they all laughed gayly. On the left of the fire 
 he saw the mother, who often glanced towards 
 her baby. She turned now and then to speak 
 to her son, who stood beside her, tall and strong, 
 and smiling in response to what she said tg 
 him. 
 
 When the dead man come to life saw his wife, 
 who was no longer his wife, and saw the baby 
 that was hers but not his on the father's knee ;
 
 Enoch Arden. 35 
 
 when he saw all the warmth, the peace, and the 
 happiness, and his own children, tall and beauti- 
 ful, and Philip reigning there in his place, lord 
 of his rights as well as of his children's love, 
 then, though Miriam Lane had told him all 
 beforehand, he staggered and shook, caught at 
 the yew-tree branch, striving with all his will to 
 hold back the terrible cry he longed to utter. 
 He knew that one word would have shattered 
 all the happiness about that hearth like a blast 
 of doom. 
 
 Softly he turned away, therefore, like a thief, 
 to prevent the loose shingle from grating under 
 his feet. He felt all along the garden wall, fear- 
 ing he might swoon and tumble and be found 
 there insensible. He crept to the gate, and 
 opened it and closed it as lightly as he would 
 have done the chamber door of a sick man. 
 Then he came out on the waste. 
 
 He would have knelt there, but his knees 
 were feeble, and he fell prone and dug his fingers 
 into the wet earth and prayed. 
 
 =' Why, why did they take me away ! Oh, too 
 hard to bear ! O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, 
 thou that didst uphold me on my lonely island, 
 Father, uphold me here in my loneliness a little 
 longer. Aid me, give me strength not to tell 
 her, never, never to let her know. Help me 
 not to break in upon her peace. My children
 
 36 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 too! They know me not, — must I not speak 
 to these ? jS^ever ! I shoukl betray myself. No 
 father's kiss for me, — the girl so like her 
 mother, and the boy, my son, my son !" 
 
 Speech and thought failed him a little while, 
 and he lay as if in a trance. But when he 
 rose, by and by, and paced back towards his 
 solitary home again, all down the long, narrow 
 street he beat the burden out on his weary 
 brain, — 
 
 " Not to tell her, never to let her know." 
 
 He was not entirely unhappy. His resolve 
 bore him up. His faith was firm, and prayer 
 came from a living source within, like a fountain 
 of sweet water through the salt, keeping him a 
 living soul. 
 
 " This miller's wife you spoke about," he said 
 to Miriam, " has she no longer any fear that 
 her first husband may be alive ?" 
 
 "Ay, ay, poor soul," said Miriam, "she has 
 fear enough. If you could tell her that you had 
 seen him dead it would be a great comfort to 
 her." 
 
 " After the Lord has called me," thought Enoch 
 within himself, " she shall know. I will wait 
 His time, but she shall know." 
 
 He set himself to get work to live by. He 
 could turn his hand to almost anything. He 
 was a cooper and carpenter, wove fishing-nets,
 
 Enoch Arden. 37 
 
 or helped at loading and unloading the ships 
 which brought the scanty commerce of that 
 day. He thus earned a poor living sufficient 
 for himself; but as he did not care for himself, 
 he worked without hope, and there was little 
 life in his labor. As the year rolled round and 
 the day when he had returned came again, a 
 languor overtook him, a kind of gentle sickness 
 which gradually weakened him, till he could no 
 longer work. He was obliged to keep in-doors 
 first, then he was confined to his chair, and 
 lastly to bed. He bore his sickness very cheer- 
 fully, for not more gladly does the wrecked 
 sailor see the boat approach that bears him the 
 hope of life than Enoch saw death dawning on 
 him, the close of all his troubles. 
 
 There was one gleam of kindly hope through 
 the darkness. He thought, " After I am gone 
 she will learn how I loved her to the very 
 last." 
 
 One day he called for Miriam Lane. " Good 
 woman," he said, " I have a secret ; but you 
 must swear, swear on the book, not to reveal it 
 till I am dead." 
 
 " Dead," she clamored. " Hear him talk ! I 
 warrant, man, we'll bring you round soon 
 enough." 
 
 "Swear on the book," repeated Enoch, 
 sternly. 
 
 4
 
 38 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 So Miriam, a little frightened by his voice 
 and look, swore as he desired. 
 
 Then Enoch turned his gray eyes full on her. 
 " Did you know Enoch Arden of this town ?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " Know him ?" she said. " I knew him slightly. 
 I mind him coming down the street. Held his 
 head high and cared for no man." 
 
 Enoch answered slowly and sadly : " His head 
 is low now, and no man cares for him. I think 
 I have scarce three days more to live, and I am 
 the man." 
 
 Miriam gave a half-incredulous, half-hyster- 
 ical cry : " You, Arden, you ! No ; sure he was 
 a foot higher than you be." 
 
 " God has bowed me down to what I am now," 
 said Enoch. " My grief and solitude have broken 
 me. Nevertheless I am he who married — but 
 her name has been changed twice — I married 
 her who married Philip Eay. Sit down now, 
 and listen." 
 
 Then he told her of his voyage and the 
 wreck, his lonely life, his coming back and 
 seeing Annie, his resolve, and how he had kept 
 it. 
 
 As she listened her tears flowed fast, while 
 she yearned in her heart to rush out and tell 
 the whole village about Enoch Arden and his 
 woes. But she was awed by the man, and bound
 
 Enoch Arden. 39 
 
 by oath to keep silence, and she forbore to 
 betray him, 
 
 "See your bairns once before you go. Eh, 
 now, let nie fetch 'em, Arden," was all she said ; 
 and she rose, eager to brin^ them down, for he 
 seemed to hang half consentingly for a moment 
 on her words. 
 
 But his will conquered in the end. " Woman," 
 he said, " do not disturb me now at the last. 
 Let me hold to my purpose. Sit down again, 
 marlv me well, and understand while I have the 
 power to speak. I charge you now when you 
 see her, tell her I died blessing her, praying for 
 her, loving her; save for the bar between us, 
 loving her as when she first laid her head beside 
 my own. And tell my daughter Annie, whom 
 I saw, so like her mother, that my latest breath 
 was spent in blessing and praying for her. Tell 
 my son that I died blessing him. Say to Philip 
 that I blest him too. He never meant anything 
 but good to us. And if my children, who hardly 
 knew me when living, care to see me dead, let 
 them come ; I am their father. But she must 
 not come, for my dead face would disturb her 
 after life. There is only one of all my blood 
 who will embrace me in the world-to-bo. This 
 is his hair. She cut it off and gave it to me, 
 and I have borne it about all these years, and 
 thought to bear it to the grave with me. But
 
 40 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 my mind is changed, for I shall see my babe in 
 bliss. When I am gone, therefore, take this to 
 her. It may comfort her. It will be a token 
 to her that I am he she lost." 
 
 He ceased, and the landlady made a voluble 
 answer, promising all he asked. Once more he 
 rolled his eyes on her repeating his request, 
 and once more she promised. 
 
 The third night after this, while Enoch slept 
 pale and still and Miriam was watching and 
 dozing at intervals, there came such a loud roar 
 from the sea that all the houses in the village 
 rang with it. 
 
 Enoch awoke and rose up. He spread his 
 arms wide, and cried in a loud voice, — 
 
 "A sail! a sail! lam saved!" Then he fell 
 back and spoke no more. 
 
 Thus the strong and heroic soul of Enoch 
 Arden passed away; and when he was buried, 
 the little port had seldom seen a more costly 
 funeral.
 
 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON. 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING.
 
 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON. 
 
 Gerard, the warrener, sat apart at the de- 
 serted table in the lodge of Lord Tresham's 
 park, while all the rest of his Lordship's re- 
 tainers crowded to the window which looked 
 out towards the entrance of the mansion. Ge- 
 rard's back was turned to the table, which was 
 filled with emptied flagons and other evidences 
 of holiday revelling, and in his face was a brood- 
 ing look which contrasted strongly with the 
 gayety pictured in the countenances of his fel- 
 low-servants. 
 
 It was a notable day in the annals of Lord 
 Tresham's household, for his great neighbor, the 
 young Earl Mertoun, was coming to offer his 
 heart, his lands, and his noble name to Lady Mil- 
 dred Tresham, sister of my Lord. Though the 
 estates adjoined each other, there had seldom, 
 until now, been much intercourse between the 
 families, peers as they were in wealth and station. 
 The offered alliance was a very acceptable one 
 to Lord Tresham, who was the guardian of his 
 
 43
 
 44 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Bister ; but he had not seen the young Earl, and 
 until he had done bo he could come to no deci- 
 sion about his offer of marriage. The visit was 
 to be a formal one. The lady's consent had not 
 been obtained, nor had any other preliminaries 
 been arranged. 
 
 Old Gerard was unusually morose and quiet 
 that day. He was one of the oldest retainers 
 of the Tresham family, and was looked upon 
 as a leader in the servants' hall. He was al- 
 lowed unusual liberties by my Lord in recogni- 
 tion of his faithful service, and he was an oracle 
 upon all that related to the family history. 
 
 The throng of men at the lodge window 
 looked eagerly down the avenue which led to 
 the mansion gates, expecting the approach of 
 the Earl and his party, while out on the lawn 
 in front were numerous other functionaries of 
 the Tresham household, who were to do honor 
 to the guests when they arrived. Old Eichard, 
 the butler, was there, white staff in hand, berib- 
 boned, and ruddy of face, and not a little awk- 
 ward in his unusual array. Beside and about 
 him was a troop of varlets in silk and silver, 
 who were constantly moving from place to place 
 with the restlessness of a waiting crowd. 
 
 Every now and then an expectant movement 
 would run through the group outside and pass 
 on to the group at the window. Then Philip,
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 45 
 
 the cook, who stood tiptoe on the window-scat, 
 would reach eagerly forward, beckoning the 
 while to old Gerard and urging him to come up 
 and have a look at the Earl. 
 
 Gerard sat stolidly with his back to the table 
 and fronting those at the window. His head 
 was bent a little forward, as if he did not care 
 to see the faces about him, and his hands were on 
 his knees in a tight grip. 
 
 " Here's a place yet, Gerard," called the cook. 
 "Come up ; they are near now." 
 
 " Save your courtesies, my friend," growled 
 the old man. " Here's my place, and here I mean 
 to stay." 
 
 Then one and another fell to jeering him ; 
 but he gave them sullen answers which a little 
 cowed them, and the laugh at his expense passed 
 into an uneasy titter. 
 
 At last the Earl's retinue actually arrived, 
 and the men in the lodge went fairly wild over 
 it. They feared, each one, that in some respect — 
 the groom, in the matter of horses ; the falconer, 
 in the matter of hawks — the Earl's equip- 
 ment might surpass their own. "When the Earl 
 got down, there was a buzz of admiration at his 
 youthful beauty, his blue eyes, and his lithe 
 and manly figure. But next came forth Lord 
 Tresham, and the Earl sank into nothingness 
 in the esteem of his servants beside him. Old
 
 46 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Eichard was half cursed for his awkwardness, 
 and a knave behind him was besought in a 
 frantic whisper to prick him upright, so much 
 lower he bent than the Earl's retainer. The 
 horses too were scanned and found full of 
 defects ; and when Gerard feigned to take part 
 with the Earl's men, he was jeered at by a dozen 
 voices as a crab and a churl. 
 
 When all the new-comers were alighted, the 
 company, led by Lord Tresham and the Earl, 
 moved off towards the entrance of the mansion 
 and paced slowly into the great saloon. After the 
 last retainer had disappeared through the door, 
 those in the lodge jumped down from the win- 
 dow and gathered about the table where Gerard 
 was seated. They filled up the flagons and 
 drained a stout health to Lord Tresham and his 
 house. 
 
 " God bless Lord Tresham, Lady Mildred, and 
 the Earl," added the cook. 
 
 " Here, Gerard, reach your beaker." 
 
 But Gerard kept his hands on his knees, and 
 did not raise his head. 
 
 " Drink, boys," he said. "Don't mind me. All's 
 not right with me to-day. Drink without me." 
 
 " He's vexed that he let the sight pass without 
 looking," said a yeoman. " Eemember, Gerard," 
 he continued in a louder voice, " the Earl comes 
 back this way. You can see him then,"
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 47 
 
 " This way ?" asked Gerard, pointing to the 
 window, and raising his hand and face for the 
 first time, a toil-worn hand and a bronzed and 
 wrinkled face. 
 
 "Just so," said the other. " This way." 
 
 " Then my way's here," said Gerard. And he 
 rose and stalked out of the lodge. 
 
 " Old Gerard will die soon, mark my word," 
 said the same yeoman. " Why, it used to be he'd 
 be the foremost man on an occasion not a 
 quarter as important as this. He knows more 
 about heraldry than a king-at-arms. But see 
 his humor now. Die he will, mark me." 
 
 " God help him," said the cook. " But who's 
 for the great servants' hall ? It joins the saloon, 
 and we can hear what's going on inside." 
 
 There was a chorus of approval ; and then, 
 after draining each a pot of ale to the honor of 
 the house, the revellers ran across the lawn and 
 flocked laughing into the servants' hall. 
 
 II. 
 
 When the Earl arrived, amid a group of his 
 retainers, all in gala attire and handsomely 
 mounted. Lord Tresham came forth, through 
 the open ranks of his own servants, and wel- 
 comed him as he descended from his chariot. 
 It was a noble meeting, full of fine courtesy,
 
 48 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 and like a fair picture in its wealth of gay color 
 and flashing harness. The old mansion of the 
 Treshams served as a dim and stately back- 
 ground, and the ancient trees of the estate 
 spread above the heads of the master and his 
 guest in a sheltering canopy of green. 
 
 AYhen the Earl had been duly -welcomed by 
 my Lord, old Eichard bowed low before them, 
 and led the way with decrepit dignity, wielding 
 his white staff before him, and shaking all his 
 ribbons and rosettes, into the great saloon, where 
 Lord Tresham's brother and Lady Gwendolen, 
 his cousin, with a number of the upper ser- 
 vants and dependants, were clustered to meet 
 the Earl. 
 
 The company paced down the length of the 
 long wainscoted hall and stopped at the end. 
 Lord Tresham walked with his guest, pointing 
 out to him the ancestral portraits on either 
 hand, until at last they arrived in front of 
 Austin and Lady Gwendolen. Here the march 
 stopped, and the crowd of followers of both 
 houses broke into groups about the dimly-lighted 
 old hall which had echoed to the voices of gen- 
 erations of noble Treshams. 
 
 " This, my Lord," said Lord Tresham, " is my 
 cousin, the Lady Gwendolen." 
 
 The Earl bent low arid touched his lips upon 
 the lady's hand. She was tall and dark, and
 
 A Blot in the ^Scutcheon. 49 
 
 her black eyes looked searchingly at the young 
 man as he greeted her. 
 
 Lord Tresham turned towards Austin. 
 
 " And this," he said, " is my brother Austin. 
 He is the King's — and Gwendolen's." 
 
 The Earl bowed to Austin Tresham, looking 
 askance the while at Gwendolen. 
 
 " You have made a noble conquest in winning 
 this gallant soldier, lady," he said. 
 
 Lady Gwendolen cast down her eyes : " And 
 you, my Lord, we welcome you, and give you 
 God-speed in your own quest." 
 
 " That do we all," said Lord Tresham, taking 
 the Earl's hand in both his own, and speaking 
 with his friendly eyes as well as his voice. 
 " Your noble name would win you a welcome 
 anywhere, but it is yourself we welcome here." 
 
 " Thanks, thanks," said the Earl, with a dep- 
 recating movement. 
 
 " But add to that," went on Lord Tresham, 
 " you come to ue with a fair proposal to bring 
 our houses into closer union. Beheve me, we 
 are all yours, — Austin, Gwendolen, all my peo- 
 ple." And his lordship waved his hand towards 
 the admiring groups who watched this cordial 
 meeting between the two oldest houses in the 
 province. 
 
 " I thank you, my Lord," began the Earl, " less 
 for the praise — though I take it to my heart — 
 II.— c d 6
 
 50 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 than for your implied indulgence towards the 
 object of my visit. I may ask, then, may I, for 
 the gift I have come to seek ? I love your sis- 
 ter, Lord Tresham, and as truly as you would 
 have one love her, — even more — more than you 
 can believe. All the world values me for is 
 yours if you will give me, my true self, with- 
 out a title or a rood of land, that lady. Tell 
 me, in one word, is it death or life ?" 
 
 Lady Gwendolen switched her fan lightly to 
 her face and leaned towards Austin. 
 
 " Now, there's loving, Austin," she whisj^ered. 
 
 " Oh, he's so young," breathed Austin in half 
 a laugh. 
 
 "Young? Old enough, I'll wager, to know 
 he would never have gained an entrance here 
 if all this fear and trembling had been needed." 
 
 " Hush !" cautioned Austin. " See how he 
 blushes." 
 
 " Well, that must be true love indeed," 
 answered the lady. " Ours must begin over 
 again." 
 
 Lord Tresham and his guest had taken seats 
 during this whispered colloquy, and now Austin 
 and Lady Gwendolen also sat down in an alcove 
 near an open casement which looked out upon 
 the sunlit lawn under the oak boughs. They 
 were within ear-shot of the Earl and Tresham, 
 and lost no word of what they said.
 
 A Blot in the ^Scutcheon. 51 
 
 His Lordship told the young Earl that he 
 was fully satisfied with his advances and more 
 than satisfied with himself, but that the Lady 
 Mildred's hand was her own to give or to with- 
 hold. He said he would encourage the suit with 
 all his heart provided the lady herself found 
 the suitor acceptable. 
 
 " By the way," he asked, with a quick turn 
 of the head towards the Earl, " have you ever 
 seen the Lady Mildred?" 
 
 Earl Mertoun seemed a little confused by the 
 abrupt question : " I — I — that is, my Lord, our 
 estates join, yon remember, and sometimes I 
 have carelessly wandered across the border 
 after wounded game. Then — once or twice — I 
 have come unawares upon the lady's wondrous 
 beauty — and — I have seen her then." 
 
 There was a quick sparkle in Lady Gwen^ 
 dolen's black e^^es. Whether it was half of 
 distrust or not, it was a penetrating look, and 
 even while she hid her lips with her fan her 
 eyes were riveted sidewise upon the Earl. 
 
 " Notice how he falters, Austin, that when a 
 lady passed he, having eyes, saw her ! If it 
 had been you, you would have said, 'Yes, I 
 saw her on such a day and scanned her from 
 head to foot ; there was something red at her 
 elbow which ought not to have been there ; but, 
 on the whole, I was well enough pleased.' !Xow,
 
 52 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Austin, after this no more of such lukewarm 
 wooing." 
 
 The two laughed quietly together, and Lord 
 Tresham went on with his talk. He told the 
 Earl how his sister Jiad never had a mother's 
 care. He himself, he said, stood for her father ; 
 and then he praised all her gentle and sweet 
 traits as a brother should whose sister was as 
 fair as the Lady Mildred. 
 
 The Earl thanked him warmly for his counsel ; 
 but his Lordship continued : 
 
 " And yet I have never attempted to control 
 Mildred. Her wish to please me quite outstrips 
 my desire to be pleased. But my heart will 
 prefer your suit to her as if it were its own. 
 Can I say more than that, my Lord?" 
 
 " Indeed, no more ; thanks, a thousand thanks," 
 replied the Earl, and he craved pardon if some- 
 times his mind seemed to wander from their 
 discourse, because, as he said, he was conscious 
 that he was in her very home, under the selfsame 
 roof Then he rose to take his leave, and Lord 
 Tresham bade him adieu, assuring him that as 
 soon as the lady had made known her wishes a 
 messenger would be despatched to him with the 
 news. 
 
 The Earl made a courtly bow to Lady Gwen- 
 dolen and to Austin, then turned and passed on 
 to the door with Lord Tresham.
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 53 
 
 When his Lordship came back after parting 
 with his guest he was radiant with enthusiasm. 
 
 " Come," he cried to Austin and Lady Gwen- 
 dolen, " what do you think of him ? how does 
 he seem ?" 
 
 " He's young," said the lady. 
 
 " Well, and what is she ? — only an infant, ex- 
 cept in heart and brain. Why, she's only foui'- 
 teen. And you ?" Then turning with a laugh to 
 his brother and pointing to Gwendolen, " How 
 old is she, Austin ?" 
 
 " Now, there's tact for you," mockingly replied 
 the lady. " I meant that being young was a good 
 excuse for lack of wit." 
 
 " He lack wit !" said his Lordship. " Wherein 
 now did he lack wit ?" 
 
 Lady Gwendolen spoke frankly and from a 
 mind not easily deceived. She conceived her 
 intuitions to be as wise as her cousin's judgment- 
 She imitated the Earl standing as stiff as the 
 steward's rod and making tiresome harangues ; 
 instead, as she said, with a mock-angry toss of 
 the head, of slipping over to her side and plead- 
 inof his cause in her ear. 
 
 " You are right, cousin," said Tresham. " You 
 will help us all. You are— just what Austin can 
 best tell. Come up, all three, for she is in the 
 library, no doubt, — the day's fast wearing." 
 
 Lady Gwendolen did not move. As his Lord- 
 
 5*
 
 54 Tales from Ten Foefs. 
 
 ship and Austin stepped towards the door, she 
 called, " Austin, now we must " 
 
 " Must what ?" asked Tresham. " Must speak 
 truth, you malignant tongue ! If you detect a 
 single fault in him I'll challenge you!" 
 
 " Witchcraft's a fault in him, for he has be- 
 witched you," laughed Gwendolen. 
 
 Then his Lordship fell into more serious talk. 
 He urged that Mildred should be induced to see 
 the Earl as soon as possible, — say to-morrow, or 
 next day at farthest. 
 
 The Lady Gwendolen playfully refused to 
 be instructed, but affected to be softened 
 somewhat at his Lordship's offer to give 
 her his favorite hunter, ITrganda, as a re- 
 ward for securing Mildred's consent to see the 
 Earl the next day. 
 
 This compact duly entered into, they left the 
 hall and went directly to the library in search 
 of Lady Mildred. 
 
 III. 
 
 Some hours after. Lord Tresham and his 
 brother having parted from them in the library, 
 the ladies ascended the narrow stone flight to 
 Lady Mildred's bower. It was a shadowy, wain- 
 scoted room, looking out on the park through 
 painted windows, which when the sun shone
 
 ' A Blot in the ^Scutcheon. 55 
 
 against them through the great yew boughs, 
 cast tinted patterns on the floor. 
 
 But it was nearly midnight now, and the 
 moon struggled feebly with the light of the 
 candles on Lady Mildred's table. She and her 
 cousin were seated beside each other in their 
 glow, Gwendolen having taken a low stool at 
 Mildred's feet, from which she looked up coax- 
 ingly into her face with her arms resting on 
 Mildred's knee. Mildred was languid and in- 
 attentive, and Gwendolen, abandoning her rail- 
 lery, fell a little into chiding her. 
 
 " Don't think, cousin," she said, " that I've 
 worked such prodigies in sparing you from 
 Lord Mertoun's pedigree and in defending Aus- 
 tin's attack on the beauty of his eyes, only to 
 come up here and be coolly dismissed." 
 
 " Gwendolen !" said Mildred, " what have I 
 done — what could suggest such a thing ?" 
 
 " There, there !" soothingly, " I know you 
 want to be alone, dear, yet " 
 
 " And did my brother really receive him well?" 
 interrupted Mildred. 
 
 " If I said ' weir I only half expressed it. 
 But which brother, Mildred ?" 
 
 " Why, Thorold, of course ; who else ?" And 
 then, as if heedless of her question, she looked 
 furtively about her. " But, dear Gwendolen, see, 
 it is getting late. When the moon reaches that
 
 56 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 purple pane I know it is midnight." She pointed 
 with more animation than she had yet shown 
 to a pane in the casement opposite to her. 
 
 " Well," said Gwendolen, yawning, " that Thor- 
 old should find no flaw in any one who came 
 to engraft himself on his peerless stock, — that 
 quite astonishes me !" 
 
 " But who finds a flaw in Mertoun ?" asked 
 Mildred, turning suddenly from watching the 
 moon. 
 
 "Not your brother, and therefore not the 
 whole world," mocked Gwendolen. 
 
 " Oh, I'm so weary, Gwendolen !" sighed Mil- 
 dred. " Bear with me, dearest." 
 
 " How foolish I am !" exclaimed Gwendolen, 
 rising. 
 
 " Oh, no, so kind ; indeed, very kind," said 
 Mildred, reaching her arms up to her for 
 a caress. "But I am so weary. 1 must 
 rest." 
 
 " Good-night, and good rest to you, then," 
 called Gwendolen, as she tripped towards the 
 door. But her gay humor got the better of her 
 before she lifted the latch, and she cried, " I 
 told you, his mantle lay most gracefully under 
 his rings of light hair ?" 
 
 " Brown hair," said Mildred, without turning 
 her head, and half forgetful that she spoke at 
 all.
 
 A Blot, in the ^Scutcheon. 57 
 
 " Brown ? Why, it is brown," said Gwendolen, 
 with a step towards her. " How could you know 
 that ?" 
 
 " How ?" asked Mildred, awakening to the 
 
 real purport of her answer. " Did you not 
 
 Oh, no, it was Austin declared his hair was 
 light, not brown. My head !" And she raised 
 her hands to her temples ; then, seeing the moon 
 again, " And look, the moon has reached the 
 purple pane. Good-night, sweet cousin." 
 
 <■<■ Forgive me, dearest," cried Gwendolen, waft- 
 ing her a kiss, " and sleep all the sounder for 
 me !" But before she had quite closed the door 
 behind her she flung it open again and leaned 
 into the room, crying, " Perdition ! Thorold finds 
 that the Earl's greatest of all grandmothers 
 was grander daughter to the fair dame whose 
 garter slipped down at the famous dance !" 
 Then the door clicked to and she was gone. 
 
 Mildred hurriedly rose and went on tiptoe 
 over to the door to see if her cousin had really 
 left. When she was satisfied of this, she lifted 
 the small lamp which was suspended before the 
 Yirgin's image in the window and placed it in 
 front of the purple pane, then returned to her 
 seat. 
 
 As she sat there, musing, with her eyes on 
 the moon, but with a suggestion of expectancy 
 in her alert attitude, there was a noise of rus-
 
 58 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 tling leaves outside too loud and irregular to 
 have been caused by the wind. Then a low 
 voice, passionately sweet, and with a man's rich 
 accents, began to sing : 
 
 " There's a woman like a dew-drop, she's so purer than 
 
 the purest ; 
 And her noble heart's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's 
 
 the surest : 
 And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth 
 
 of lustre 
 Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the 
 
 wild-grape cluster, 
 Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted 
 
 marble : 
 Then her voice's music, — call it the well's bubbling, the 
 
 bird's warble I" 
 
 As he reached these words the singer stepped 
 from the boughs, where he had clung to offer 
 his serenade, on to the casement ledge, and then 
 lightly into the room. His figure was wrapped 
 in a long mantle, and he approached Lady Mil- 
 dred's seat and bent his head, still singing, but in 
 a softer and tenderer voice, down to her up- 
 turned lips. "When he had finished his song he 
 threw off his cloak and slouched hat, and stood 
 revealed to her. 
 
 " My very heart sings, so my lips sing, too, 
 dearest," he said, taking her hand. 
 
 She drew it away and asked him to sit by
 
 A Blot in the ^Scutcheon. 59 
 
 her side. He took the stool left by Lady 
 Grwendolen, and claimed her hand again, as his 
 own, he said. She did not withdraw it now, but 
 looked down lovingly into his eyes. 
 
 "Well," he exclaimed, shifting his attitude, 
 " the meeting we dreaded so much is ended at 
 last." 
 
 " And what begins now?" asked Mildred, pen- 
 sively. 
 
 " Happiness !" said he, turning again to look^ 
 fondly in her face. " Happiness such as few on 
 this earth can know !" he repeated. 
 
 "Ah, Henry," she said, " so it might be if we 
 deserved it. But my soul has heard a death- 
 knell. It can never be." 
 
 "Listen, Mildred," he broke out passionately. 
 " Have I met your brother face to face ? have 
 I gained him at last ? does a new light begin to 
 break on the long unrest of our night, and still 
 do you see no glory in the east? When I am 
 by you, dear, to be always by you, after I have 
 won and may openly worship you, can you still 
 say. This can never be ?" 
 
 Mildred let her hand fall gently on his brow. 
 She looked long and fondly into his eyes, then she 
 shook her head, and glanced up musingly at the 
 moonlight as itstreamed through thepurple pane. 
 " Sin has surprised us, Henry, and so will 
 punishment," she said.
 
 60 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " No, no, me alone, who alone have sinned," 
 he said in a deep whisper. 
 
 " And has our life been storm throughout to 
 you, Henry," she asked, " that you liken it to a 
 night of strange unrest ?" 
 
 " Your life, yours, Mildred, I meant. What am 
 I that I should waste a thought on myself when 
 you are by me ? No, no, it has been a perpetual 
 dawn with me. It was you I pulled the night 
 down on !" 
 
 " Come what come will," she said, softly, " we 
 have been happy, Henry." And she reached her 
 hand into his. 
 
 He took it and sat with fixed eyes, as if liv- 
 ing over again in thought the life they had led 
 together. Then suddenly turning to her, he 
 said, abruptly, " How good your brother is I 
 I thought he was a cold and haughty man." 
 
 " They told me everything," she said, as if 
 anticipating his thought. " I know all." 
 
 "Yes, it will soon be over now." And he 
 pressed her hand to his lips. 
 
 But, as if his words were a spark among her 
 ashen thoughts, she glowed for a moment with 
 a new warmth. 
 
 " Over !" she exclaimed. " What over ? What 
 must I live through before I can say it is over ? 
 Is our meeting before them over? Have I 
 received the partner of my guilty love in their
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 61 
 
 ( 
 presence with a brow that tries to appear a 
 
 maidenly one, with hps that try to make believe 
 that, when they reply to you, it is the nearest 
 they have ever apj^roached a stranger's? Some 
 prodigy sent by (rod will put a stop to this de- 
 liberate piece of wickedness. I shall murmur 
 no smooth speeches, but pour forth our whole 
 woful story in a sudden frenzy, — the love, the 
 shame, and the despair ! Oh, Henry, you do not 
 wish me to draw this vengeance down on us ? 
 How can I affect a grace that is gone from me, 
 gone once, and forever?" 
 
 He soothed her as best he could with speech 
 and caress, and offered to break the morning's 
 contract with her brother and part from her, 
 leaving their love to the care of healing time. 
 
 His manly and persuasive tone brought her 
 to herself again, and once more she said, softly 
 but firmly, that she would meet them, — go 
 through the ordeal and do all as it was planned. 
 
 " But when ?" he urged, — " to-morrow ? Yes, 
 say to-morrow, dearest, and let us be done with 
 it!" 
 
 She took fright again at his hurry, and asked 
 him to delay till the day after. 
 
 " I shall never be able to prepare my words 
 and looks and gestures sooner than that," she 
 pleaded. " But how you must despise me, 
 
 Henry !" 
 
 6
 
 62 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 He took lier gently around the waist and 
 raised her from her seat, then paced the room 
 back and forth with her several times, as if to 
 render more deliberate what he meant to utter. 
 
 "Mildred," he said, at last, "break my heart 
 if you will ; but answer me, where do you see 
 contempt, — you did say contempt, didn't you? 
 — where do you see contempt for you in me ? 
 I would pluck it otf and cast it out of me ! But 
 you'll not repeat that, Mildred, will you ?" 
 
 " Dear Henry," she murmured. 
 
 Then, as if to justify what he had so fervently 
 said, he repeated the story of their love : how he 
 was scarce a boy when they met, and she almost 
 an infant with her hair falling loose on either side 
 her face ; how his cheeks had reddened to find 
 her such a sweet fulfilment of all his boyish 
 dreams ; how he had revealed his passion to her 
 and sworn her to secrecy ; how at last he grew 
 mad with love, and felt that he must see his 
 beauty in her own bower or perish in the un- 
 dertaking. When he had finished this passion- 
 ate retrospect he poured out all the old adora- 
 tion, which had never waned but had grown as 
 they grew in years. She listened with eyes 
 looking far away and half-parted lips. She was 
 living over again the raptures of their early 
 days together. Then, still with wide, thoughtful 
 eyes, she spoke :
 
 A Blot in the ^Scutcheon. 63 
 
 " I scarcely grieve for the past. We'll love 
 on, Henry, — you will love me still ?" 
 
 " Who could ever love less what he has in- 
 jured?" he broke out vehemently. He touched 
 her lips as if to seal the vow to shield her through 
 all that might come. 
 
 " There," she said, gently forcing him away 
 from her. " Let that be your last word. Go 
 now. I shall sleep to-night." 
 
 He asked eagerly, as if startled by her words, 
 whether they were to meet no more. 
 
 " One night more, Henry," she said. 
 
 "And then, — think, then !" he cried. 
 
 She made a sad answer to his enthusiasm. 
 There was no sweet courtship for her, no dawn- 
 ing consciousness of love, no innocent hopes 
 and fears, — the morning was over. 
 
 " But you are cautious, dear ?" she said, as he 
 prepared to leave. " You are sure no one sees 
 you scale the walls?" 
 
 " Oh, trust me !" he answered, in careless con- 
 fidence. " Our last meeting's fixed, then ? To- 
 morrow night?" 
 
 He snatched a single passionate kiss and was 
 gone before she could waft him a farewell. He 
 climbed across into the yew-tree boughs and de- 
 scended to the ground. She could see his form 
 glance through the moonlight as he ran up the 
 avenue of old, knotted trunks.
 
 64 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 He turned once and waved an adieu to the 
 window where he knew she was standing, and 
 she responded to it, though she was conscious 
 he could not see her. 
 
 " I must believe him, believe every word," she 
 murmured to herself, as she passed back into 
 the room. " I was so young — I loved him so — 
 I had no mother — God forgot me." 
 
 Then she put out the candles, and in the flood 
 of pallid moonlight that slanted across the room 
 paced silently to and fro with many an anxious 
 thought to bow her fair head. 
 
 lY. 
 
 "VYhen Lord Tresham entered the library the 
 next morning after the Earl's visit he brought 
 Gerard, the warrener, with him. He bade him 
 come quickly in, and when the old man had done 
 so, with an awkward gait unused to such luxu- 
 rious places, his Lordship hastened to lock the 
 door. Then my Lord drew himself up and 
 looked keenly at his aged retainer, faithful 
 servant of the house through two generations. 
 
 " Now repeat firmly and circumstantially what 
 you told me," said he, his face wearing a look 
 half doubtful of Gerard's tale, yet not a httle 
 alarmed. 
 
 " It is God's truth," began Gerard ; " night 
 after night "
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 65 
 
 "Since when?" interrupted his Lordship. 
 
 " At least a month — every midnight some 
 m.an has access to Lady Mildred's chamber." 
 
 " Tush, ' access' ! " broke in Lord Tresham. 
 " No wide words like ' access' to me !" 
 
 " He runs along the woodside," continued 
 Gerard, with a meek bow of obedience, " crosses 
 to the south, takes the tree on the left at the 
 end of the avenue " 
 
 "The last great yew-tree?" asked Lord 
 Tresham. 
 
 " Yes, my Lord ; you can stand on the main 
 boughs as if you were on a platform. Then 
 he " 
 
 " Quick!" exclaimed his Lordship, both hands 
 knit together in an agony of doubt. 
 
 " Climbs up," went on the old warrener, stol- 
 idly conscious of the pain he was giving, " and 
 where the limbs lessen in size at the top — I can- 
 not see distinctly, but I think he throws a line 
 that reaches over to the lady's casement." 
 
 " But he never enters !" said Tresham, appeal- 
 ingly. " No, Gerard, it is some wretched fool pry- 
 ing into her privacy. Sometimes to a youth it 
 seems a precious thing to have even approached 
 the bower of the lady -he has set his thoughts 
 upon. Of course he could not enter, Gerard ?" 
 
 The old man began again as if no interrup- 
 tion had occurred : 
 
 II.— e 6*
 
 66 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " There is a lump that's set in the midst of 
 the casement, under a red square in the painted 
 glass of Lady Mildred's " 
 
 " Leave the name out !" said his Lordship, 
 impatiently. " Well, the lamp ?" 
 
 " It is moved up higher at midnight," replied 
 Gerard, " to a small dark-blue pane. He waits 
 for that among the boughs. At sight of it — • 
 plain as 1 see you now, my Lord — he opens the 
 lady's casement and enters." 
 
 " And stays ?" asked Lord Tresham, with a 
 step forward and looking keenly into Gerard's 
 face. 
 
 " An hour, perhaps two hours." 
 
 " And you saw this once ? twice ? Be quick, 
 answer !" 
 
 " Twenty times," said Gerard, with eyes always 
 on the ground. 
 
 " And what brings you under the yew-trees at 
 that hour ?" asked his Lordship, trying to throw 
 doubt on the old man's story as a means of 
 allaying his own pain. But Gerard had an 
 honest answer. It was a hard duty he was 
 performing, and he was unconscious of every 
 other thought. 
 
 " I left my range one night to track a strange 
 stag that broke through our pale, and then I 
 first saw the man." 
 
 " But you had your cross-bow, why not have
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 67 
 
 sent a shaft through hiin ?" asked Lord Tresham, 
 fiercely. 
 
 "It was bright moonlight, — bright as day, 
 and he came from Lady Mildred's chamber." 
 
 His Lordship seemed not to heed the words. 
 He stood pondering a long time. His head was 
 turned towards the window, but his thoughts 
 were not upon what he saw. A score of ex- 
 planations of the strange news were passing 
 through his mind. At last, abruptly, he turned 
 to Gerard, who had never moved, but stood hat 
 in hand with his eyes bent upon the floor. 
 
 " You have no cause, Gerard, — who could have 
 cause, — to do my sister a wrong?" 
 
 " Oh, my Lord," broke out the old warrener, 
 as if he could no longer keep his feelings in 
 check, " let me speak my mind this once. Since 
 I have known it I have lived as if I were 
 plucked hither and thither in a fiery net. There 
 was fire if I turned to her, fire if I turned to 
 you, and fire if I flung myself down and tried to 
 die. Why, she could not have been seven years 
 old when I was first trusted to conduct her safe 
 through the deer-park to stroke the snow-white 
 fawn, which within a month I taught to eat 
 bread from her tiny hand. She alwa3^8 greeted 
 
 me with a smile — she Oh, if I could undo 
 
 what's done ! — I mean I could not speak and 
 bring her a hurt for conscience' sake ; but yet
 
 68 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 when I was forced to hold my peace, every 
 morsel I ate beneath your roof, my own birth- 
 place, choked me. This morning it seemed that 
 either I must confess to you or die. Now it is 
 done, I seem the vilest worm that crawls !" Ho 
 stopped with a sob in his throat and took his 
 handkerchief from his hat, mopping his brow 
 and eyes with it. 
 
 " No, no, Gerard," said Lord Tresham, sooth- 
 ingly, and putting his hand on the old man's arm. 
 
 But Gerard retreated from his touch. " Let 
 me go !" he said. 
 
 Lord Tresham did not heed him. His mind 
 was fixed on what he had heard. 
 
 " A man, you say, Gerard ? What man ? 
 Younor ? ]^ot a low hind ? How was he dressed?" 
 He asked the questions rapidly without waiting 
 for replies. 
 
 "A slouched hat and a large dark foreign 
 cloak," said Gerard, answering only the last. 
 " His face is hid, but I judge him to be young ; 
 no hind, be sure, my Lord." 
 
 "Why?" asked his Lordship, 
 
 "Because he is always armed. His sword 
 shows beneath his cloak." 
 
 " Gerard," said Lord Tresham, as he dismissed 
 him, " it is needless for me to say that you 
 must not breathe a word of this." 
 
 " Thanks, thanks, my Lord !" exclaimed the
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 69 
 
 old man, bowed down with grief and scarcely 
 knowing what he uttered. Lord Tresham un- 
 locked the door, and, with a bow, Gerard passed 
 out. 
 
 When he was gone, my Lord paced up and 
 down the room with long nervous strides. He 
 was not yet prepared to believe all he had heard, 
 plausible as it sounded. Gerard was old and 
 likely to be mistaken. Moreover, it was not in 
 his sister's nature to do what he had charged. 
 He laughed the suspicion away. That she, the 
 pure, beautiful girl, could err so, much less 
 practise treachery and craft such as she must 
 have used to deceive him, — the thought was 
 preposterous ! But yet his heart ached with a 
 dread that he could not conquer, and his head 
 sank between his arms on the table. He had 
 not sat there more than a moment or so when 
 there was a knock at the door, and Lady Gwen- 
 dolen called, — 
 
 " Lord Tresham !" 
 
 Then after a pause another knock, and again : 
 
 " Is Lord Tresham there ?" 
 
 He lifted his head at this and looked be- 
 wildered towards the door, then hastily rose and 
 pulled down the first book he could reach. 
 When he had opened it on his knees and pre- 
 tended to be reading he called, " Come in," and 
 Lady Gwendolen entered.
 
 70 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " Ah, Gwendolen," he said, — " good-morn'mg." 
 
 "Nothing more?" she asked, archly. 
 
 " What more should I say ?" he said, with half 
 a smile. 
 
 " Pleasant question," she retorted, with mock 
 vexation. " More ? This more, then : Did I be- 
 siege poor Mildred last night with ' the Earl' till 
 
 I am fain to hope that But, Thorold !" she 
 
 hiu-ried close to him, " what is all this ? You 
 are not well !" 
 
 " Who ? — I ?" he said, in apparent surprise. 
 " JSTo, you are laughing at me." 
 
 " Has what I hoped for come to pass, then ?" 
 she asked, gayly. " Do you find some blot in the 
 Earl's 'scutcheon in your huge book there ?" 
 
 " When did you leave Mildred's chamber, 
 Gwendolen?" he asked, abruptly. 
 
 " Oh, late enough, I told you. The main thing 
 to tell is, how I left her chamber. Content 
 yourself; she'll treat this paragon of Earls to 
 no such ungracious " 
 
 " Send her here," interrupted his Lordship. 
 
 « Thorold ?" she said, doubtfully. 
 
 "I mean — acquaint her, Gwendolen. But 
 mildly !" 
 
 " Mildly ?" asked Gwendolen, with a look of 
 surprise on her cheerful face, 
 
 " Yes," said Lord Tresham. " You guessed 
 right, Gwendolen, I am not well. There's no
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 71 
 
 hidincr it. But tell her I would like to see her 
 at her leisure, — that is, at once, — here in the 
 library. Tell her the passage we hunted for in 
 that old Italian book is found, and if I let 
 
 it slip again You see, Gwendolen, that 
 
 she must come — and instantly!" His tone 
 grew more and more peremptory as he pro- 
 ceeded, but Lady Gwendolen feigned not to 
 notice it. 
 
 " I'll die piecemeal, record that, if some blot 
 in the 'scutcheon has not turned up !" she ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 " Go !" he said, impatiently ; then, changing 
 his mind as she retreated, " Or, Gwendolen, just 
 be at call — you and Austin, if you choose — in 
 the adjoining gallery. There now, go !" And 
 the lady tripped out with a backward glance 
 which showed her astonishment at my Lord's 
 unusual humor. 
 
 Tresham felt that he had made but poor success 
 at disguising his agitation, and he was little hope- 
 ful that he could question his sister with any bet- 
 ter avail. He was of an outspoken and candid 
 nature, and concealment was a new trait for him 
 to assume. He could not master his thoughts 
 now. They would stray away in spite of him to 
 the one theme in his mind, — How could Mildred 
 be guilty ? Prove Gerard's charges, and you 
 might prove anything afterwards, — that she
 
 72 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 was a poisoner or a traitress. IN'o, the thing 
 was impossible ! 
 
 As he sat there with bowed head brooding in 
 this fashion, Mildred came into the room. 
 
 " What book is it I wanted, Thorold ?" she 
 asked. "Gwendolen thought you were pale, — 
 you are not pale." She looked anxiously into 
 his face. " That book ?" she said, pointing to the 
 one in his hand. "Why, that's Latin, surely!" 
 
 " Mildred," he said, softly and tenderly, " here's 
 
 a line " but as she bent over him he moved 
 
 nervously away, saying, "Don't lean on me." 
 Then he went on: "Here's a line I'll put into 
 English for you : ' Love conquers all things.' 
 What love conquers them, Mildred ? what love 
 would you say was the best ?" 
 
 " True love, Thorold," she answered, looking 
 half alarmed at him. 
 
 " No, no," he said ; " I mean, whose love is the 
 best of all those who love or profess to love ?" 
 
 She looked down as if divining his intention, 
 then answered with a little hesitation, — 
 
 "The list's so long, Thorold; there's father's, 
 mother's, husband's " 
 
 "Mildred," he said, gravely, "I do believe a 
 brother's love for an only sister exceeds them 
 all. There's no alloy in his love, nothing for 
 which she must feel gratitude. He never gave 
 her life, nor what keeps life, never tended her,
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 73 
 
 nor instructed, nor enriched her. His love can 
 claim no right over her saving pure love alone. 
 That's what I call freedom from earth liness. I 
 think such love, — apart from yours and mine, — 
 I think — I am sure — a brother's love exceeds all 
 other loves in the world in pure unselfishness." 
 
 " But what is this for, Thorold ?" she asked, 
 half jestingly and half fearful that it preluded 
 the discovery of her wrong-doing. 
 
 " It means this, Mildred," he answered, and he 
 rose as he said the words ; but when he looked 
 into her fair, innocent face, all his courage and in- 
 dignation left him. " No, no," he said, " I cannot 
 come to it so soon! That's one of the many 
 points I left out in my haste. Every day and 
 horn* throws its slight film between you and the 
 being who is tied to you by birth, until those 
 slender threads grow to a web that shrouds her 
 whole life from yours. You live so close together 
 yet so far apart. Must I rend this web, Mildred, 
 and break down the sweet mystery that makes 
 a sister sacred ? Shall I speak or not?" 
 
 " Speak, Thorold," she said, faintly, and with 
 downcast eyes. 
 
 " I will, then. Is there a story men could tell 
 of you, Mildred, which you would conceal from 
 me ? I cannot think there is falsehood on those 
 lips. Say there is no such story, sister, and I'll 
 believe you." 
 
 D 7
 
 74 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Mildred did not look at him, nor did she move 
 or say a word. There was a long pause while 
 he stood gazing at her downcast eyes and reach- 
 ing inwardly the awful conviction of her guilt. 
 
 "Not speak?" he cried at last. "Explain, 
 then ! Clear it up ! Move away some of this 
 miserable weight from my heart. Ah, if I 
 could bring myself to plainly make theii' charge 
 against you ! Must I, Mildred ?" 
 
 There was another pause, but she did not 
 move nor raise her head. He broke out again : 
 " Is there a gallant who has admittance to your 
 chamber night after night?" He paused once 
 more, but she was silent. " Come, then," he 
 exclaimed, pleadingly ; " come, Mildred, if it 
 must be so. Give me his name. Till now I had 
 only thought of you ; but now, — his name !" 
 
 She could endure it no longer. She raised 
 her head, but looked away from him. She did 
 not weep. She spoke as if her grief was too 
 great for tears. 
 
 " Thorold, do what you will with me. I will 
 submit, and bless you for it. But do not, oh ! 
 do not plunge me into owj other wrong. I can- 
 not tell his name." 
 
 "Then judge for j'^ourself," he said, with the 
 first real anger he had shown. " How shall I 
 act?" 
 
 " Oh, Thorold, you must not tempt me so !"
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 75 
 
 The tears had come now and she could look at 
 him again. " Could I die here by your sword it 
 would seem like punishment, and I should glide 
 like an arch -cheat into bliss. But what would 
 become of you ?" 
 
 "And what will become of me, Mildred?" 
 He threw his hands wide apart and paused for 
 her answer, " I'll hide your shame and mine 
 from the world. You may wed your paramour 
 above our mother's tomb ; she cannot move from 
 beneath your feet. We two will somehow wear 
 this out one day. But to-morrow the Earl 
 comes. Last night I despatched a missive at 
 your command bidding him present himself 
 You encouraged him to come. Now this morn- 
 ing you must dictate another letter to counter- 
 mand last night's." 
 
 " But, Thorold," she said, with a sudden im- 
 pulse, "what if I will receive him as I said?" 
 
 " The Earl !" cried Tresham, horrified. 
 
 " Yes, I will receive him ; why not ?" said Mil- 
 dred, glad at so easy an issue from the ditficulty. 
 
 Lord Tresham paced to and fro several times, 
 looking steadily and fearfully at her as if she 
 were some unnatural thing. Then he called 
 loudly, — 
 
 " Ho, there ! Gwendolen !" 
 
 Lady Gwendolen and Austin entered in haste 
 from the outer gallery.
 
 76 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " Look !" said Trosham, pointing at Mildred. 
 "Look there, the woman there!" 
 
 " How ? Mildred ?" said the others in a breath. 
 
 " Mildred once," he thundered, " but now the 
 receiver, night after night beneath this roof that 
 covers us all, of an accomplice in her guilt. Know 
 her for what she is ! Know her for a wanton !" 
 
 Gwendolen had taken Mildred in her arms 
 while he spoke, and clung about her, trjnng to 
 move her with sympathy and sisterly words. 
 
 " Oh, Mildred, Mildred, look at me at least !" 
 she pleaded; then turning to Tresham, "Oh, 
 pity, pity! Thorold, she stands here as if she 
 were turned to stone !" 
 
 But Tresham took no notice of the appeal. 
 He walked excitedly up and down repeating 
 fragments of Mildred's story. Gwendolen mo- 
 tioned him to be quiet for Mildred's sake, who 
 looked as if she were frozen with shame and 
 grief 
 
 Mildred saw the gesture, and spoke with her 
 eyes still on the ground : " All he says is true. 
 You had best go away from me now." 
 
 She tenderly unwound her cousin's arms from 
 about her. 
 
 But Tresham was too deeply stirred to cease 
 because his words gave pain. He meant that 
 they should bite deeply into the conscience of 
 their victim, and he went over and over again
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 77 
 
 the unhappy details. It was not, he said, be- 
 cause Mildred had fallen from grace that he re- 
 proached her 80 sternly. She was unprotected 
 and without a mother's care ; and he too was 
 half to blame for her fault. He had lacked, 
 perhaps, in brotherly attention. What roused 
 all his feelings of repugnance and made him 
 loathe her now was, that she could come from 
 the guilty intercourse with her gallant and 
 wantonly propose that he, her brother, should 
 help her to allure the young and trustful Earl 
 into an alliance with her. 
 
 Mildred gave no sign that she listened to his 
 words until he reached the climax of his indig- 
 nation. 
 
 "Shame hunt her from the earth!" he cried, 
 rushing towards the door. 
 
 She did not look around at him, but her face 
 grew suddenly pallid, and she fell fainting into 
 Gwendolen's arms. 
 
 Austin followed Tresham to the door, but he 
 was recalled by Gwendolen. He also would 
 have deserted his sister ; but the truer heart of 
 his betrothed won him back. He came to her 
 side and bent tenderly over the unconscious 
 Mildred. 
 
 " Here's Austin, Mildred," whispered Gwendo- 
 len. " He says he does not half believe what he 
 has heard. He says, look up and take his hand." 
 
 7*
 
 78 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Austin repeated what she said : " Yes, look 
 uj) and take my hand, dear." And, softened by 
 his soothing voice, the poor girl lifted up her 
 languid hand and laid it on his. 
 
 Then as if she were dreaming the words, she 
 said over again, slowly and brokenly, " I was so 
 young. Beside, I loved him, Thorold — and I had 
 no mother — God forgot me." 
 
 She raised herself upon her feet at last and 
 went towards the door with groping hands 
 stretched out before her. They tried to detain 
 her, but she entreated them to let her go. 
 
 Gwendolen followed her, and running in front 
 before she reached the door, bade her rely on 
 her two friends, who would do her bidding in 
 all things. " Here's Austin waiting patiently to 
 help you," she said. " There's one spirit to com- 
 mand and one to love. Why, Mildred, the 
 world has been won many a time by just such a 
 beginning as this." 
 
 Mildred understood now, and was touched by 
 their devotion. She spoke as if a deep relief 
 had come to her heart. 
 
 " I believe if I could once throw my arms 
 about your neck and sink my head on your 
 breast, Gwendolen, that I could weep again." 
 
 Gwendolen whispered to Austin to let go Mil- 
 dred's hand and wait for them in the hall ; and 
 he quietly withdrew.
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 79 
 
 Mildred leaned her head on Gwendolen's 
 shoulder, but she could not weep, 
 
 " No more tears from this brain," she mur- 
 mured ; " no sleep, no tears !" Then with a sud- 
 den impulse born of her old self she said, " Oh, 
 Gwendolen, how I love you !" 
 
 Gwendolen urged her to confide in her, to 
 reveal her lover's name ; it was so needful to 
 know his name were anything to be done for 
 her. But she would not tell it. 
 
 " At least he is your lover ? And you love him 
 too ?" said Gwendolen. 
 
 " Ah, do you ask me that ? But I am fallen 
 80 low," she answered, piteously. 
 
 "You love him still, then?" said Gwendo- 
 len. 
 
 " My only prop against the guilt that crushes 
 me!" 
 
 " But how could you even let us talk of Lord 
 Mertoun ?" inquired the puzzled Gwendolen. 
 
 Mildred did not answer at once. She seemed 
 struggling with some painful problem. At last 
 she said, wearily, " There is a cloud around me, 
 Gwendolen." 
 
 " But you said you would receive his suit in 
 spite of this," urged her cousin. 
 
 " I say there is a cloud " began Mildred ; 
 
 but Gwendolen interrupted. 
 
 " No cloud to me 1" she exclaimed, a sudden
 
 80 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 light breaking in upon her; "Lord Mertoun 
 and your lover are the same." 
 
 " What mad fancy !" said Mildred, raising her 
 head and turning full on Gwendolen to see if 
 she really meant it. 
 
 Gwendolen called to Austin, but he did not 
 come in; then to Mildred she said, firmly, 
 " Spare your pains. When I have once got a 
 truth I keep it." 
 
 "By all your love, sweet cousin," pleaded 
 Mildred, " forbear, forbear !" 
 
 Austin did not appear, and Gwendolen called 
 again. 
 
 "Oh, not to have guessed it at first!" she 
 cried. « But I did guess it ; that is, I divined it,— 
 felt how it was by instinct. How else could I 
 absolve you from all that heap of sins ? But, 
 dear, the secret is wholly mine. If the Earl 
 
 returns to-nia:ht " 
 
 " He is lost !" groaned Mildred. 
 " There, I thought so !" said Gwendolen, and 
 again she called Austin. 
 Presently he came in. 
 
 " Where have you been hiding, Austin ?" she 
 said. He did not notice her agitation. He 
 thought solely of his brother. 
 
 " Thorold has gone across the meadow-lands," 
 said he. " I watched him till I lost him in the 
 skirts of the beech- wood."
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 81 
 
 " Gone ! Everything is against us !" cried 
 Gwendolen. " But first we must help Mildred 
 to her room. You go on the other side, Austin." 
 They supported her up the stone flights to the 
 chamber whore the painted window looked out 
 upon the yew-tree avenue. 
 
 Y. 
 
 There was a glimmer of light shining through 
 a pane in Lady Mildred's casement, but no other 
 token of life was visible in that room high up 
 among the yew-tree boughs. Down on the path 
 below a man was pacing restlessly back and 
 forth. It was nearly midnight, and he muttered 
 to himself as if he were vexed or distressed. 
 Now and then, as he paced near, he looked up 
 at the slender ray of light, and at last, as it fell 
 faintly on his face, it revealed liord Tresham. 
 
 He had wandered far away over the heath 
 and through the woods after he had left the 
 library. He longed to forget himself and his 
 despair in the paths which had once bewildered 
 him as a boy. Yet he was inevitably led back 
 to the one place he wished to avoid. The 
 darkest shade in the trees broke up, and the 
 old trunks seemed to open wide £o let him go 
 out ; the river, too, seemed to put its arm about 
 him and conduct him to the detested spot. 
 There was no use for him to strive against his 
 
 n.-/
 
 82 Tales from Teyi Poets. 
 
 fate. He let the trees and the river do as they 
 would with him. But when he had reached the 
 avenue of yews and entered its dark reaches, 
 he could not tell why he had come there nor 
 what he must do. 
 
 A bell struck midnight while he was still 
 pacing restlessly about, and he seemed to gather 
 a definite purpose from its sound. As his hand 
 reached instinctively for the sword-hilt, there 
 was a noise behind him of approaching steps. 
 He hid behind a huge trunk and watched, while 
 a tall figure, muffled in a long cloak, stole past. 
 
 It was Mertoun come for his final meeting 
 with Mildred. He stood at the foot of the 
 great tree with his face upturned to the case- 
 ment, waiting for the signal. He was buoyant 
 with hope. This was the last time he would 
 ever watch for the rise of his love-star to the 
 purple pane. The past was to be made precious 
 by the happiness of the present. He longed to 
 see Mildred revive and cast away all evidence of 
 their long concealment. 
 
 As he was musing thus, the light was lifted 
 slowly to the purple pane, and with a passionate 
 exclamation he prepared to ascend the old tree ; 
 but before his feet had quite left the ground 
 Tresham grasped his arm. 
 
 " Let me go, — peasant, by your grasp !" he said, 
 in a menacing whisper. Then, alarmed by the
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 83 
 
 man's persistence. " IN'ay, here's gold ; it was a 
 mad freak of mine. I said I'd pluck a branch 
 from that white-blossoming shrub near the case- 
 ment up there. Here, take this and hold your 
 peace." He offered a purse, but the grim in- 
 truder made no motion to take it. 
 
 " Come into the moonlight yonder with me." 
 The stranger spoke sternly and firmly. 
 
 " But, fool, I'm armed," said Mertoun. 
 
 " Yes or no, — you'll come into the light or no ?" 
 Tresham's hand was on his throat, and there was 
 no escape. As they advanced, the Earl wondered 
 where he had heard that voice before. It sounded 
 80 like one he remembered, but that was mild 
 and slow. 
 
 " You are armed," Tresham said ; " that's well. 
 Your name, now, — who are you ?" 
 
 The Earl now recognized his captor, and his 
 heart gave a great bound of fear for Mildred. He 
 said nothing, and Tresham uttered a scornful 
 exclamation. 
 
 " Your name ?" he asked again, sharply. 
 
 Mertoun implored him not to desire to know 
 his name ; but his plea was in vain. He threw off 
 his disguises and stood revealed in the moonlight. 
 
 « Mertoun !" 
 
 Lord Tresham fell back as though stunned. 
 But he paused only a moment. " Draw now !" 
 he said, fiercely.
 
 84 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " Hear me first," urged the Earl. 
 
 " Not one word ! I will strangle in your throat 
 the least word that informs me how you can live 
 and still be what you are. I know now it was you 
 who taught her to sin and keep that innocent 
 face. Draw !" He repeated his challenge sternly. 
 
 " I do not ask it for my own sake ? For hers 
 — for yours !" the Earl implored. 
 
 " How should I know your cowardly ways !" 
 said Tresham, with a cruel laugh. "Tell mo 
 what will force you to fight. Must I sting you 
 with a blow ?" And he taunted him with base 
 names and insulting threats. 
 
 The Earl drew his sword, calling on Heaven 
 to judge between them. 
 
 " Have your will, my Lord," he said at last, 
 falling into the attitude of defence. 
 
 There were but a few passes between them, 
 and Mertoun fell. 
 
 Tresham bent over him. 
 
 " You are not hurt ?" he asked, anxiously. 
 
 " You will hear me now." The Earl spoke 
 as if in pain but with calm assurance. 
 
 Lord Tresham bade him rise, and would have 
 helped him ; but he was desperately hurt. 
 
 " Ah, Tresham," he said, " what gives a man 
 a more sacred right to speak in his own defence 
 than the thought that presently he may have 
 leave to speak before his God?"
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 85 
 
 Tresham grew alarmed. His anger had cooled, 
 and the impulsive wrong he had done began to 
 touch him with remorse. 
 
 "Not hurt?" he went on, oblivious of the 
 Earl's words. "It cannot be! You made no 
 effort to resist me." He put his hand upon 
 Mertoun's side. " Hurt here ?" he asked, 
 
 Mertoun half groaned as he touched him. Then 
 he pleaded with Tresham to hear him and believe 
 him. He told of the early wrong he had done 
 his house, and said if he could forgive him he 
 would hope to speak of Mildred. Lord Tresham 
 not only forgave him, but in the fulness of his 
 regret for what had happened craved himself 
 to be forgiven. 
 
 "Ah, Tresham, that a sword-stroke and a 
 drop of blood or two should have brought about 
 all this !" The Earl spoke brokenly but with a 
 deep happiness. " Why, it was my fear of you, 
 my love of you, that ruined me. I burned to 
 knit myself to you ; but I was young, and your 
 surpassing reputation kept me aloof And yet 
 I know you did not see this. Let me look into 
 your face now ; I feel it is changed." He tried 
 to hft himself, but could not see. "Where, 
 where are you, Treshani?" he asked; but the 
 lamp at the window caught his eye as he strove 
 to rise, and he wailed her name. " What will 
 Mildred do, Tresham ? Her life is bound up in 
 
 8
 
 86 ^ Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 the life that is bleeding away. I must live. 
 There ! If you will only turn me I shall live 
 and save her ! Oh, had you but heard ! Had 
 you but heard me! What right had you to set 
 a thoughtless foot on our lives and then say as 
 we perish, ' If I had thought all would have 
 gone well '? We've sinned and we die. Never 
 you sin, Lord Tresham, for you'll die, and God 
 will judge you." 
 
 Tresham murmured some soothing words, but 
 he could not stem the tide of the dying man's 
 utterance. 
 
 " Now say this to her," continued the Earl. 
 "You — no one but you — say, I saw him die, 
 and he breathed this : ' I love her.' — You don't 
 know what those three small words mean, 
 Tresham. — Say loving her lowers me down the 
 
 bloody slope to death with memories I 
 
 speak to her, not you, who had no pity." 
 
 Then he broke forth into a passionate appeal 
 against those who might misuse her after he 
 was gone. He entreated her to die with him, 
 and leave a world which had cast them out. 
 
 His burning words were cut short by the 
 sharp sound of a whistle near by. 
 
 " Ho, Gerard !" called Lord Tresham. And the 
 old warrener, with Austin and Gwendolen, came 
 hurriedly through the trees, carrying lights in 
 their hands.
 
 A Blot in the ^Scutcheon. 87 
 
 " No one speak !" commanded Tresham. " You 
 see what is done ! I cannot bear another voice." 
 
 "There's light, light all around me, and I 
 move towards it. Tresham, you have prom- 
 ised ?" said the dying Earl. 
 
 " I will bear those words to her," answered 
 Tresham, slowly and tenderly. 
 
 " Now ?" he asked. 
 
 " Now !" said Tresham. He beckoned to Ge- 
 rard : " Lift the body, Gerard, and leave me the 
 head." 
 
 Mertoun gave a sudden start as they raised 
 him. 
 
 "There!" he moaned, "I knew they turned 
 me. Do not turn me away from her! Stay! 
 stay !" 
 
 He lifted his hand towards the light in the 
 casement above, but it fell heavily. 
 
 He was dead in their arms, and they laid him 
 softly on the path beneath the old yew-trees. 
 
 Lady Gwendolen spoke first. " Austin," she 
 said, " you remain here with Thorold until Ge- 
 rard comes with help, then lead him to his 
 chamber. I must go to Mildred." 
 
 Tresham was kneeling near the dead Earl. 
 He did not look up, but in a voice broken with 
 grief he warned Gwendolen that he alone must 
 go to Mildred. 
 
 At his command Austin and Gerard carried
 
 88 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 the body up through the trees; but Tresham 
 pulled Gwendolen aside to show her where they 
 had fought. He was half dazed with remorse 
 and sorrow, and spoke wildly of the haunting 
 shades which would forever linger near the spot. 
 
 "What is done is done," said Gwendolen. 
 " My care is for the living, Thorold." 
 
 She gently led him onward after the others, 
 murmuring as he went a farewell to his old 
 ancestral trees under which he had done so dark 
 a deed. 
 
 YI. 
 
 Lady Mildred sat in her chamber above the 
 yew-tree avenue, waiting for the Earl who lay 
 slain on the path below. She was alarmed at 
 his delay, but there were numberless excuses 
 with which she might quiet her fears. Yet he 
 had never failed her before, and it was doubly 
 strange that on this last night of all he should 
 not come as he had appointed. With the pass- 
 ing hours she grew more and more fearful for 
 his safety. There was nothing that she could 
 do. She was helpless and utterly alone. Any 
 voice, any presence, would have been welcome, 
 and she silently prayed for some relief 
 
 Just then there were footsteps in the hall 
 outside her door, and a voice called, — 
 
 " Mildred !"
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 89 
 
 " Come in ! Heaven has heard my prayer," 
 she said. But when she saw who it was she 
 shrank back. 
 
 "You, Thorold, and alone? Oh, no more 
 cursing!" 
 
 He motioned her to sit down, and he himself 
 sank exhausted into a chair. He was very pale, 
 and dared not look at her. She was engrossed 
 with her own fears, but she saw his face and 
 trembled at its expression. 
 
 " Say it, Thorold." She spoke in a hard and 
 bitter tone. " Deliver all you came to say, — the 
 thought that makes you so pale." 
 
 " My thought?" he asked, absently. 
 
 " All of it," she muttered. " I can bear it." 
 
 " My thoughts were of long ago, Mildred," he 
 said, reflectively. " How we waded after those 
 water-lilies till the plash surprised us, and you 
 did not dare to go on or turn back, so we stood 
 laughing and crying till Gerard came. How 
 idle some men's thoughts are! Dying men's, 
 Mildred " 
 
 He spoke the name kindly, and she asked, 
 with eyes half turned his way, how it happened 
 that he had softened towards her. 
 
 He had been too severe in the morning, he said, 
 and asked her to forgive him. She thought 
 he might be mocking her, and was distressed 
 anew, but he soothed her tenderly, and asked 
 
 8*
 
 90 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 her again to forgive him. Then she started up 
 with quick fright. She had instinctively divined 
 the reason for the change in him. 
 
 "Why does not Henry Mertoun come to- 
 night ?" she asked, vs^ith wild alarm. 
 
 There was a pause. Each looked at the other 
 doubtfully. 
 
 " You've murdered him !" she screamed. " And 
 must I forgive this, this and all ? And yet I do 
 pardon you, Thorold. How very wretched you 
 must be !" 
 
 " He bade me tell you," began Tresham, gain- 
 ing courage to speak from her pitying accents ; 
 but she cut him short with an imperious gesture. 
 
 " I forbid your utterance of it ! What you 
 will not tell, that I will hear : — how you mur- 
 dered him — but no! — you'll tell me that he 
 loved me. Enough, I pardon you !" 
 
 He was indeed wretched. Sunken in shape 
 and pale of face, misery had overtaken and 
 broken him completely. Pardon, he said, must 
 come from another Judge, whose doom he waited 
 with despondency and fear. 
 
 Mildred was aroused to a newer and fiercer 
 Womanhood. She stood erect and spoke with- 
 out pity the bitterness that was in her heart. 
 
 " He shall tell me his last words and take my 
 answer ; not in words, but in my heart of hearts, 
 which death "
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 91 
 
 " Death," gasped Tresham. " You are dying 
 too ? Well said, Grwendolen ! I dared not hope 
 it." 
 
 " Tell Gwendolen I loved her, and tell Aus- 
 tin " 
 
 " You loved him," broke in Tresham ; then in 
 beseeching tones, " And me, Mildred ?" 
 
 She was softened by his humility, and re- 
 proached him but little for the deed. He told 
 her how he had done it not in wantonness, but 
 in ignorance, and under sudden impulse to 
 avenge her wrong. Had he but seen her purity 
 through the troubled surface of crime, — had he 
 but known their story before, he would have 
 stayed his hand. She forgave him, and fell at 
 last upon his bosom. 
 
 " There," she murmured, " do not think too 
 much on the past, Thorold. You hurt him 
 under the shadow of a cloud, and is that past 
 retrieve ? I have his heart, you know. I may 
 dispose of it, — I give it to you, Thorold. It loves 
 you as mine loves you !" 
 
 With a sudden spring she rose from his arms. 
 Her hands were at her throat, and she gasped 
 for breath. Then she fell heavily forward and 
 threw her arms anew about him. He laid her 
 gently in the chair. But she was dead, clasping 
 him in a sweet embrace. 
 
 Gwendolen came hurriedly to the door. " Mil-
 
 92 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 dred ! Tresham !" she called, and presently rushed 
 in with Austin. " Thorold ! I could desist no 
 longer. Ah, she swoons, — that's well." 
 
 " Oh ! better far than that, Gwendolen," he 
 said, gravely. 
 
 " She's dead !" said Gwendolen, touching her 
 cold brow. "Let me unlock her arms from 
 about you." And she tried gently to free Tresham 
 from the pathetic embrace. 
 
 " She threw them about me so, and blessed 
 me, and then died. You'll let them stay now, 
 Gwendolen ?" he asked, pleadingly. 
 
 Gwendolen directed Austin to leave Mildred 
 and look to Thorold. He was whiter than she, 
 and a froth was oozing through his clinched 
 teeth. 
 
 "Thorold, Thorold! why was this?" cried 
 Gwendolen. 
 
 He told her in faltering sentences. He had 
 drunk the poison because earth could be no 
 longer earth to him ; the life was gone out of life, 
 
 "Already Mildred's face is peaccfuller," he 
 said, faintly. " I see you, Austin. Here is my 
 hand ; put it in yours. You, Gwendolen, yours 
 too. You are Lord and Lady now. You are 
 Treshanis. Name and fame are yours. You 
 hold our 'scutcheon up, Austin ; no blot on it. 
 You see how blood must wash our blot away ; 
 the first blot came and the first blood came."
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 93 
 
 "No blot shall come again," said Austin, 
 soothingly. 
 
 "I said that," murmured Tresham, "yet it 
 did come. Should it come again, remember, 
 , vengeance is God's, not man's!" 
 
 His fluttering spirit passed out, and the stain 
 of Mildi-ed's guilt had rich atonement.
 
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 EI.IAABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 It is my own story that I mean to tell you. 
 I am still young. I have not gone very far 
 inland from the shores which babies see when 
 they smile in their sleep. I can recall my 
 mother beside the nursery door with a warning 
 finger. " Hush !" she would say ; " too much 
 noise," while her sweet eyes took part against 
 her. I still sit, as after she had left us, and feel 
 my father's hand stroke my curls out across his 
 knee. Even now I can hear Assunta's daily 
 jest, — she knew he liked it far better than a 
 better jest, — "How many golden scudi go to 
 make up such ringlets ?" 
 
 My mother was a Florentine, whose rare blue 
 eyes were shut upon me forever when I was 
 scarcely four years old. I was born to make 
 my father a sadder man, for she was weak and 
 frail, and could not endure the joy of giving me 
 life. Women know best how to rear up chil- 
 dren. They have a simple and tender knack 
 of tying sashes, and of stringing pretty words 
 II.— E 9 97
 
 98 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 that have no meaning till they kiss one into 
 them. Children learn by such merry play the 
 real truth of love, and early find out the kind- 
 ness of life without succumbing to its solemnity. 
 Fathers, perhaps, love as well, — mine did, I 
 know, — but in a more conscious and heavier 
 way. 
 
 My father was an austere Englishman, who, 
 after a life spent at home amid the gossips of 
 his college and his native parish, was overtaken 
 with a sudden passion which blotted out all the 
 traditions of his past. 
 
 One day in Florence, where he had come for 
 a month to study Da Yinei's drains, ho was 
 musing absently along the streets, when, in the 
 great square of the Santissima, he saw drifting 
 by him a train of priestly banners and some 
 maidens in white veils, crowned with roses. 
 They were holding up tall waxen tapers, which, 
 so heavy were they for the slight wrists, slanted 
 into the bright air, and dropped the melting 
 wax as they went. Among this long trail of 
 chanting priests and girls, one face flashed on 
 his inattentive sight and shook him to the heart 
 with an unaccustomed vibration. The maidens 
 were on their way to eat the Bishop's wafer, 
 and he also, like them, received his sacramental 
 gift, for instantly he fell in love. 
 
 But, beloved as she was, my mother died. I
 
 Aurora Leigh. 99 
 
 have heard it said that to see him in the first 
 surprise of his widowhood, nursing me as if 
 his large hands were afraid to touch my curls 
 and tarnish the gold, and his grave lips con- 
 triving somehow a miserable smile, would almost 
 make the stones cry out for pity. 
 
 But he set a pathetic verse over her grave in 
 Santa Croce, and then we left Florence and hid 
 among the mountains above Pelago : he with 
 his silent grief, and I, his prattling child. He 
 thought a motherless babe had need more than 
 others of Mother Nature, and he would often 
 tell me how Pan's white goats had once come to 
 feed two poor orphans like his own. His friends 
 say that he loved to talk such scraps of scholar- 
 ship, for even the most prosaic of men who 
 wear grief overlong begin to tip it aside like a 
 hat with a flower stuck in it. 
 
 "We lived for many years there in the moun- 
 tains, with God's silence outside and our own 
 within-doors. Old Assunta, who made up the 
 fires, would often cross herself when a sudden 
 flame lighted up my mother's portrait which 
 hung on the wall above. It was painted after 
 she was dead, and when the artist had finished 
 the face and hands, instead of the hateful Eng- 
 lish shroud, they gave him the brocade she last 
 wore at the Pitti palace. "He should paint 
 nothing sadder than that," swore her faithful
 
 100 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 cameriera, and the effect was therefore very- 
 strange. I, as a little child, would crouch for 
 hours on the floor, with drawn-up knees, gazing 
 across half in terror at it with its swan-like and 
 supernaturally white throat and face sailing up 
 from the stiff red silk which seemed to be no 
 part of it, nor to have power to keep it from 
 breaking out of bounds. 
 
 Assunta's awe and my father's melancholy 
 both pointed to some mysterious connection 
 with the picture, and my thoughts all wandered 
 that way even when it was out of my sight. 
 But while I stared my childish wits away upon 
 it, my father, who, through the kindling in- 
 fluences of love, had thrown off the old conven- 
 tions, yet had found no time to grow familiar 
 again with the sun, — whom love had unmade 
 from a common man, but not yet made anew 
 into an uncommon man, — my poor father taught 
 me what he knew best before he died. I learned 
 all his love and grief, and, as we had no lack of 
 books among the hills, I learned from them also 
 under his grave guidance the vanity of human 
 wisdom. 
 
 They tell me I am like my dear father, but 
 with broader brows upon slenderer features ; 
 paler, but nearly as grave. But my mother's 
 smile breaks up my face now and then and 
 makes it better than it truly is.
 
 Aurora Leigh. 101 
 
 Well, we spent nine full years hidden with 
 God among the mountains. I was just thirteen, 
 still growing, and with an intense, strong, strug- 
 gling heart. Then my father died. His last 
 word was, " Love — love, my child, love, love !" 
 but before I could answer he was gone, and I 
 had no one to love in the wide world. 
 
 Thus ended my childhood. What next suc- 
 ceeded I recollect as men do after fevers, 
 threading back the passages of delirium. But 
 at last, one day, a stranger came with authority 
 to take me away from old Assunta. She let 
 my arms go from about her neck with a shriek, 
 while I, too full of my father's silence to cry 
 back, stared with a child's astonishment at her 
 grief, and saw the wharf, where she stood moan- 
 ing, slowly recede from me. The white walls 
 and blue hills of my Italy drew backward from 
 the shuddering steamer-deck ; then the sea 
 pushed between us, and, sweeping up the ship 
 and my despair together, threw us out to the 
 hovering stars. 
 
 We travelled on for ten nights and days, then 
 came to the frosty cliffs of England. How 
 could I ever find a home among those mean red 
 houses I saw through the fog? When I first 
 heard my father's language from alien lips I 
 wept aloud and laughed by turns, until they said 
 I was mad from too much sea-sickness. But the 
 
 9*
 
 102 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 train sped on, and, as I looked from its flying 
 windows, I could not believe this cold and dull 
 land to be the England so much loved by my 
 father. I asked myself, " Did Shakesjjeare and 
 his mates really absorb the light here ?" Not a 
 hill or stone was there to strike up a ray of color 
 in the whole blurred landscape. 
 
 At last we arrived. Even now I can see 
 my father's sister stand on the hall-step of 
 her country-house to welcome me. She was 
 straight and calm, her forehead, somewhat nar- 
 row, braided tight, as if to bridle her thoughts 
 from wayward impulses. She had brown hair 
 pricked with gray, though she was not old: 
 she was my father's elder by only a single year. 
 Her nose was sharply drawn, yet in delicate 
 lines, and her mild mouth was a little soured 
 about the ends through speaking unrequited 
 loves or niggardly half-truths. The eyes were 
 of no positive color. They might have smiled 
 once, but they had never forgotten themselves 
 into actual laughter. The cheeks still bore a 
 rose from far-away summers, like those pressed 
 in a book and kept rather for sorrow than pleas- 
 ure. If they were past bloom, they were also 
 past fading. 
 
 She had lived a harmless life of tranquillity 
 and passive virtue, which was in fact scarcely a 
 life at all. The vicar, the country squires, and
 
 Aurora Leigh. 103 
 
 now and then, as a special condescension, the lord- 
 lieutenaat, would drop in to drink tea. Once a 
 year, too, the apothecary was admitted, to prove 
 that humility was not lacking in the household. 
 She was a constant continbutor to the poor-club, 
 because, after all, as she said, we are of one flesh 
 and blood, and need the same flannels, — of course, 
 with a proper difference in quality ; the book- 
 club, guarded, as it properly was, from the 
 vanities of literature, supplied her a tepid men- 
 tal nutriment. She lived a sort of cage-bird 
 life. Having been born in a cage, she considered 
 it quite joy enough for any bird just to leap 
 from one perch to another. 
 
 But, alas, I, a scarcely fledged wild bird, was 
 brought to her cage, and she was there to meet 
 me, oh, so very kind ! She called promptly for 
 the clean water, and commanded them to give 
 out the fresh bird-seed ! 
 
 She was on the steps calmly waiting to receive 
 me, — she wore a black dress, — and I came up 
 and clung about her neck. I could hear my 
 father's words : " Love, love, my child !" Even 
 she in her black garb might be brought to feel 
 the ardor of my love. She was his sister once, 
 and I clung to her. 
 
 For a moment she really seemed moved, 
 and kissed me with her cold lips. She drew 
 me feebly through the hall into her sitting-
 
 104 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 room. Then, in a strange spasm of pain and 
 passion, she wrung nay hands loose with an im- 
 perious movement and held me at arm's length. 
 Her two steel-gray eyes searched through my 
 face feature by feature, as if to find a wicked 
 murderer in it. Drawing a long breath, she 
 tried to assume her ordinary calmness, but 
 sadly missed it, and told me not to shrink, just 
 as if she were telling me not to lie or swear. 
 " She loved my father," she said, " and would 
 love me too, if I deserved it." 
 
 I understood afterwards what she had scanned 
 my face for. She expected to find a likeness 
 of my mother there. She had loved my father 
 as truly and fondly as she was able ; but she 
 hated, with all the bitterness of gentle souls 
 when they are brought to hate another, the 
 Tuscan woman who had fooled a wise man 
 away from his habitual courses and obvious 
 duties, deprived his sister of the household 
 precedence, wronged his tenants, robbed his 
 native land, and made himself mad in life as 
 well as in death. She had pondered for years 
 what sort of woman could be suitable to her 
 sort of hate, until her very curiosity had be- 
 come hate also. All the idealism she had ever 
 known had been used with the same malevo- 
 lence, till hate exceeded the love out of which 
 it originally grew, and wrinkled her conscience
 
 Aurora Leigh. 105 
 
 with a sense of its presence in her, so that she 
 winced when Christian doctrine was preached 
 of a Sabbath. 
 
 Thus, to me, my father's sister was my 
 mothei^'s enemy. From that day forth she did 
 her duty by me, and I appreciate it, but it 
 was a duty well pressed out and always pru- 
 dently measured. She was generous, bland, 
 more courteous than tender, and always gave 
 me the first place, as if fearing the Saints might 
 look down suddenly and accuse her of missing 
 a point through lack of love. But a mother is 
 never afraid to speak crossly to her child, be- 
 cause she knows that love fully justifies all her 
 acts. 
 
 I was, on the whole, a good child, quite meek 
 and very manageable. In fact, I did not live 
 a free enough life to have the graver faults. 
 There seemed to me more true life in my 
 father's grave than in all England beside. I 
 thought only of lying quiet there where I had 
 been cast, and, as with sea-weed on the rocks, 
 suffering her to prick whatever pattern in me 
 she chose until all the sea-salt had dried out of me. 
 For this reason I bound up my curls in braids: 
 she liked smoothly-combed hair. I also left off 
 saying my sweet Tuscan words, which would 
 come back to me at any stirring of the heart, 
 because she desired my father's child to speak
 
 106 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 his own tongue. I learned the collects and 
 catechism to please her, and read various popular 
 synopses of inhuman doctrine which had never 
 been taught by John, because she liked in- 
 structed piety. I learned also my complement 
 of classic French, — carefully excluding Balzac, — 
 and German as well, since she liked a liberal 
 i-ange of education. I went briefly into algebra 
 and mathematics, and touched lightly on the 
 sciences. I drew neatly-draped goddesses from 
 French engravings, and washed in — ^rather say 
 washed out — landscapes from nature. I learned 
 to dance, the polka and Cellarius ; spun glass ; 
 stuffed birds ; modelled wax-flowers ; and read 
 a score of books on womanhood to prove that 
 if women do no*t think much themselves they 
 yet may teach thinking quite ably to others. 
 In brief, my aunt liked a woman to be womanly, 
 and Englishwomen, she thanked God, and 
 sighed (some people always sigh in thanking 
 God), were models to the universe. Then at 
 last I learned the cross-stitch, because she dis- 
 liked to see me sit through the evenings with 
 empty hands. 
 
 As I look back over those years of education, 
 I wonder if Brinvilliers could have suffered more 
 in the water-torture, flood succeeding flood as 
 it did to drench the impotent throat and split 
 the veins. Some feeble souls go out under such
 
 Aurora Leigh. 107 
 
 a process ; many pine away to lifelong sickness ; 
 I somehow endured: I had relations in the Un- 
 seen, and drew elemental nourishment and heat 
 from Nature, just as earth feels the sun at night. 
 I kept the life which was thrust upon me on 
 the outside ; and I thank God for all the inner 
 life, with its ample room for heart and lungs, 
 and for will and intellect, unhindered by conven- 
 tions. 
 
 At first I was the personification of patience : 
 did whatever she bade me without heed of any- 
 thing else beyond it. I sat in the chair she 
 would place for me with its back to the window 
 to keep out the sight of the great lime-tree on 
 the lawn, that seemed to have come there from 
 the woods on purjDOse to bring a message to us ; 
 I walked demurely through her low carpeted 
 rooms ; I read her books ; was civil to her cousin 
 Eomney Leigh ; listened to her vicar ; served 
 tea to her visitors, and heard them whisper (I 
 blushed for joy to hear it), as I handed a cup, 
 "The Italian child, notwithstanding her blue 
 eyes and quiet ways, thrives badly in England. 
 She is paler even than when we came the last 
 time. She will die in this climate." 
 
 My cousin, Eomney Leigh, blushed also at 
 this, and, approaching me with sudden anger, 
 said low, between his teeth, "You're wicked 
 now ! Do you wish to die and leave the world
 
 108 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 dark for others when your own light is blown 
 out?" 
 
 I looked defiantly into his face. He might 
 have known, I said, that being what I was, it 
 was natural for me to like to get away as far as 
 I could ; indeed, some people cause less trouble 
 by dying. He turned and slammed the door 
 abruptly and shut his dog out. 
 
 Roniney Leigh, my cousin, was my elder by a 
 few years ; but he was cold and shy, yet tender 
 enough, too, when he thought of it. He was 
 master of Leigh Hall, the nightmare of which 
 sat upon his youth, repressing all its delights. 
 When he came back from college to the country, 
 he very often crossed the hill on visits to my 
 aunt, to whom he brought blue grapes from his 
 hot-houses, while in his other hand he carried 
 a book, — which proved always to be mere statis- 
 tics if I chanced to turn over its leaves. She 
 almost loved him, and even sometimes allowed 
 that he seemed to sigh my way. It made him 
 easier to be pitiful, and as for sighing, it was 
 his gift. 
 
 So, sometimes, she would let him shut up my 
 music, or push down my needles, and lead me 
 out to see the figs that grew black at the south 
 angle of the house, almost as if they throve by 
 a Tuscan rock. At other moments she W'Ould 
 turn her head or go to fetch something, and
 
 Aurora Leigh. 109 
 
 leave me long enough to speak to him, — of 
 course, for his sake, — that was simple enough. 
 Sometimes, too, he looked as if he would like 
 to rescue me utterly and forever from my un- 
 congenial life. Once he stood so near me that 
 he suddenly dropped a hand on my head, which 
 was bent down over my woman's work. It 
 touched me as soft as rain, but I rose up and 
 shook it off as if it were fire, — a stranger's 
 touch to take the place of my father's and yet 
 dare to seem soft ! 
 
 I used him for a friend before I ever knew 
 him to be one. It was better, but also worse 
 afterwards. We came so close together we saw 
 our differences too intimately. Eomney Leigh 
 was always looking for the worms, I for the 
 gods. His was a godlike nature, in that it 
 looked downward incurious of itself; and per- 
 haps it is well I should remember how, in those 
 days, I was a worm too, and he looked down on me. 
 
 Maybe through his acts of kindness, yet more 
 through something in myself, I certainly did 
 not die. Slowly, like one in a swoon, to whom 
 life creeps back in the form of death, with a 
 sense of separation and a roar in the ears as 
 of retreating chariots, I awoke and rose up. 
 Where was I ? I asked myself In the world, 
 my heart said, and for uses I must count worth 
 fulfilling. 
 
 10
 
 110 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 I had all to myself a little chamber as green 
 as a privet hedge where a bird might choose to 
 build, though her nest itself were only of- dead 
 sticks and straws. The carpet was pure green, 
 the small bed was curtained with green, and the 
 folded shades hung green about the window 
 that let in the out-door world with its own 
 abundant greenery. You could not so much 
 as push your head forth without getting a dash 
 of dew from the honeysuckle, — but you were 
 baptized so into the privileges and graces of 
 seeing. 
 
 First came the lime, — I had enough, there, 
 of the lime, be sure, — my morning dream was 
 hummed away by the bees in it. Past the 
 lime was the ample lawn, which, after sweeping 
 in wide slopes around the house, went trickling 
 down through the shrubberies in a stream of 
 tender turf, and lost itself among the acacias, 
 over which you saw the irregular line of elms 
 that bordered the deep lane. The lane itself 
 was out of sight. It was sunk so deep that no 
 foreign tramp or driver of Welsh ponies could 
 guess whether such odors came from a lady's 
 hall or a tenant's lodge, yet his crooked stick 
 might pull down the low trails of blossoming 
 brier that dipped from the wall. 
 
 Behind the elms, again, and through their 
 tops, yow. could see the folded hills, among the
 
 Aurora Leigh. Ill 
 
 burly oaks of which smoked my cousin Eomney 
 Leigh's chimneys, showing where Leigh Hall 
 was hid by the woodlands about it. 
 
 Thus entreated and helped by the sweet in- 
 fluences without-doors, I could not be wholly 
 unthankful. Before the house was awake, and 
 long after it slept, I would sit alone in my room 
 drawing in the blessings of nature. The great 
 mother came in softly, with a gradual step 
 among the leaves, a breath, or a ray of light, 
 and the angels seemed to make a place for her 
 beside me as they swept the room clean of 
 foolish thoughts. The sun would come in, too, 
 saying, " Shall I lift the light thus against the 
 elm-tree and you not look ? Listen, I make the 
 birds sing for jon, yet God never hears your 
 voice save when you lie on your bed at night 
 and weep." 
 
 Then something moved me. I wakened very 
 slowly ; but at last I threw the window of 
 my soul wide open and let the out-door sights 
 sweep new gospels in. I used to get up very 
 early just to watch the morning quicken in the 
 gray light. I liked to hear the silence draw 
 apart like a flower leaf after leaf, while I 
 stroked the woodbine through the casement; 
 and at last I came to do it at unawares with a 
 sort of foolish love. 
 
 Temptation comes with the experiences of
 
 112 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 joy, and I often, after this, slipped down-stairs 
 through the noiseless house, and escaped, like 
 a soul from a body, into the garden. I would 
 glide through the shrubberies, drop into the 
 lane, and wander an hour or two on the hills 
 before the household was up. I had my books, 
 too, in my little chamber, and read them as I 
 liked, without considering much whether they 
 were fit for me or not. Indeed, we get no good 
 from a book by being ungenerous to it and cal- 
 culating the profits that may accrue from read- 
 ing it. It is rather when we gloriously forget 
 ourselves and plunge headlong into a book's 
 heart that we get the right good from it. After 
 I had read much for memory I began to read 
 for hope. I trod the pathway my father had 
 traced out for me, striving to push through the 
 thorny underwood and gain the shelter of the 
 trees. 
 
 At last, one day, I found a secret garret-room 
 in the old house, which was piled high with 
 cases marked with my father's name. I nibbled 
 here and there at these, and pulled through the 
 gaps in a kind of joyous terror the first book I 
 could reach. Ah, how I felt it beating under 
 my pillow of a morning, a whole hour before 
 the sun would come up and let me read it ! 
 
 At last, perhaps it was because the time was 
 ripe, I chanced upon a set of the poets. My
 
 Aurora Leigh. 113 
 
 soul, at the touch of their immortal verse, 
 altogether let go conventions and sprang up 
 convicted of the great eternities. 
 
 Then I found that I, too, could write, and I 
 strung myriads of false verses together like the 
 rest, thinking them true, perhaps, because I was 
 sincere in writing them ; and yet I have, perad- 
 venture, written true ones since with less com- 
 placence. 
 
 But I could not long hide my kindling inner 
 life from those about me. They now and then 
 saw a light at a window which they had not 
 set there, and they questioned. Who had set it 
 there? My aunt started when she saw my 
 awakened soul looking out of my eyes. She 
 could not tell me I had no business with that 
 sort of soul, but she plainly objected to it. 
 
 "Aurora," sometimes she would ask, "have 
 you done your work this morning ? Have you 
 read that book, and are you ready for the 
 crochet?" It was as if she had said, "I know 
 there's something wrong. I have not ground 
 you down enough to bake you into a wholesome 
 crust for household proprieties." Then I would 
 answer, quietly, " Will you hear my lesson and 
 verify the abstract I have made from the book, or 
 shall I sit down to the crochet-work ?" Perhaps 
 1 would sit down and ply the needle for hours 
 together. But I was not sad, for my soul was 
 II.— A 10*
 
 114 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 singing at quite another kind of work behind 
 its walls of sense, as safe from all harm as the 
 lark seems up in the blue air. 
 
 Thus between enforced and spontaneous work 
 the inner life formed the outer, reducing the 
 irregular blood to settled rhythms which struck 
 some fresh color across my cheeks, faint though 
 it was. I clinched my brows above my blue 
 eyes in the looking-glass, and said, "We'll live, 
 Aurora ! we'll be strong. The dogs are upon 
 us, but we will not die without a struggle." 
 
 Whoever lives a true life will learn to love 
 true love. I learned to love England so, and 
 very often before the day was up, or through 
 the long windings of the afternoons, I would 
 throw oif my hunters and plunge among the 
 deep hills, like a stag that takes to the water 
 shivering with the fear and passion of the 
 course. But sometimes I was admitted to the 
 company of Eomney and his friend Vincent 
 Carrington, a rising artist, who was said to have 
 a bee in his bonnet because he held that if you 
 painted a body well you also, by implication, 
 painted a soul. They were pleasant enough 
 walks, these I took in company, for if the artist 
 happened to say, "When I was last in Italy," 
 it sounded to me like an instrument played too 
 far off for the tune, and yet sweet to listen to. 
 
 Often, if Cousin Eomney was pleased to tako
 
 Aurora Leigh. 115 
 
 me out, there were only two of us abroad to- 
 gether. We would read, talk, or quarrel as it 
 might chance. We were not lovers, nor even 
 very well matched friends, scholars rather on 
 different tracks, thinkers who disagreed. He 
 was overfull of what is, and I was overbold for 
 what might be. 
 
 When the thrushes sang, I would hold up my 
 finger and bid him mark that notwithstanding 
 it was an evil world, as he said, certainly the 
 thrushes still sang in it. Then his brow would 
 soften, and he bore with me in a sort of melan- 
 choly patience. " See !" I would cry, " God is 
 surely with us on this earth ; and shall we put 
 him down by the things we do ? Who says 
 there's nothing but poverty for the poor and 
 vile ? See this !" And I jumped ankle-deep in 
 the grass and clapped my hands for the very 
 joy of being. 
 
 II. 
 
 So time went on, and one day I stood upon 
 the brink of my twentieth year. I was very 
 happy that June morning, for I felt young and 
 strong and seemed very sure of God. I bounded 
 forth in the early dawn without thinking of a 
 bonnet, for I intended to keep my birthday, at 
 least till my aunt awoke, in the open air. I 
 pulled down the branches to choose a wreath for
 
 116 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 myself, for my brows longed to feel the touch 
 of a poet's garland. All the leaves were fair 
 and sweet, and I did not know where to choose ; 
 but at last I plucked a spray of ivy, because not 
 a leaf of it grows without meaning to become 
 one day a wreath, and because, too, I liked its 
 strength in climbing and its boldness in leaping 
 a height; then, moreover, how pretty it looks 
 twisted around a comb. So thinking, I twisted 
 the wreath about my head, and was fastening 
 it behind, when, turning suddenly, I faced my 
 cousin Eomney. His grave eyes scanned me 
 with a serious glance, and his mouth was graver 
 even than his eyes. 
 
 I stood there fixed. My arms were up, like 
 those of a caryatid, in a helpless gesture which 
 mocked their original purpose. I blushed very 
 consciously. 
 
 " Aurora Leigh," he said, " the very earliest 
 of Auroras !" 
 
 I took the hand he stretched out, like a ship- 
 wrecked man inditferent to his means of suc- 
 cor. The tide had caught me at my foolish 
 pastime of writing my name down near the sea, 
 and I was drowned in a blush. 
 
 " You, cousin !" I exclaimed. 
 
 The smile died out of his eyes and for just a 
 moment hovered across his lips. 
 
 " Here's a book I found. !No name on it.
 
 Aurora Leigh. 117 
 
 Poems, I suppose, by the form. Some Greek on 
 the margin, — lady's Greek, without accents. 1 
 did not dare to read it. I saw at a glance the 
 thing had witchcraft in it, so I brought it to the 
 witch herself." 
 
 "My book," I said,— "you found it?" 
 
 " Yes ; in the hollow down there by the stream." 
 
 " Thank you, cousin." 
 
 " Thank you, rather, cousin, that I have not 
 found you too much of a witch and poet to be a 
 woman as well." 
 
 The smile came in his grave eyes again as he 
 glanced at my ivy wreath. 
 
 " Well, poets must needs exist, whether they 
 be men or women," I said. 
 
 " True ; but neither men nor women need be 
 poets. Keep to the green wreath, pretty cousin. 
 Even to dream of stone or bronze will bring 
 headaches and soil white dresses." 
 
 " So you judge !" I answered, warmly. " For 
 my part, I choose headaches, and to-day's my 
 birthday." 
 
 " Dear Aurora," he said, " choose rather to 
 cure them. You have balsams." 
 
 " The headache, then, is too noble for my sex ; 
 you think the heartache a likelier malady. 
 That's woman's special ache, and very tolerable 
 — except, perhaps, to a woman." Saying this, I 
 loosed my wreath and swung it beside me as we
 
 118 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 walked onward. 1 looked askance at him, try- 
 ing to divine his thought. He did not answer, 
 and we paced on until, just in sight of the house, 
 he abruptly caught at one end of the swinging 
 wreath. 
 
 " Aurora," was all he said. 
 
 I stopped short. 
 
 Then he began anew : " Aurora, come, let 
 us be serious, and stop playing at this game 
 of head and heart. Life means both, and both 
 in earnest. That book of yours, I have not 
 read a word of it, and yet the chances are that, 
 being a woman with such a pair of large, calm 
 eyes, you'll write as well — or ill — on the whole, 
 as other women. Even if as well, what then ? 
 Even if a little better, still, what then ? We 
 want the best, the best only, in art. The time 
 is gone by for facile rearing of small gods. 
 The world's hard pressed: the sweat of labor 
 has turned to acid on the yeoman's brow. 
 There's no time to sit upon a bank and hear 
 the cymbals tinkle in white hands. When 
 Egypt's slain, then let Miriam sing, say I ! Be- 
 fore, — our cr}" is, Where's Moses ?" 
 
 " Exactly," I replied. "Where's Moses? Can 
 a Moses be found ? Not in the bulrushes of to- 
 day. I, at any rale, may be of use. with my 
 cymbals in colonizing the bees." 
 
 " There it is !" said he. " You play like a child
 
 Aurora Leigh, 119 
 
 beside a death-bed. Women never understand 
 these things. You make doting mothers and 
 perfect wives, even sublime Madonnas ; but we 
 get no Christ from you, and, in my mind, we 
 shall never get a poet." 
 
 " From which you conclude ?" said I. 
 
 " Only this, Aurora : that you, with that large, 
 live brow, cannot condescend to play at art. 
 You will never be satisfied with the kind of 
 praise men give a woman when they judge her 
 book, — not as mere work, but as mere woman's 
 work. ' What delicate discernment ! It nearly 
 approaches to thought. We make room among 
 our female authors for another fair writer. The 
 country that can produce such women, com- 
 petent to — spell ' " 
 
 " Stop there !" I cried. " You have read my 
 soul, if not my book. Surely, I would not con- 
 descend for such praise. Far better to pursue 
 a frivolous trade seriously than a sublime art 
 frivolously." 
 
 " Then choose nobler work than either," he 
 said. " You and I are young, Aurora. We 
 have come too late into the world. It is swollen 
 hard with the sins of perished generations. But 
 can we stand calmly by and make no effort to 
 cure the disease ?" 
 
 " Ah, cousin," I said, " I have not been very 
 long on the strand of life, and these salt waters
 
 120 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 have Bcarcely yet wet my feet. I cannot judge 
 the tides now. Perhaps I shall do better here- 
 after. A woman is always younger than a man 
 of the same age, because she is kept away from 
 the maturing out-door sun and air. You men 
 judge otherwise, I know. You think a woman 
 grows ripe as a peach does, chiefly in the cheeks. 
 I am not able to solve your hard social ques- 
 tions, but I can applaud Christian thoughts that 
 outrun personal aims. Accept my reverence, 
 cousin." 
 
 He glowed upon me with all his face and 
 eyes. 
 
 " No other help ?" he said. " !N^o more than 
 that ?" 
 
 "What help?" I asked. " You'd scorn other 
 help from me, as ISTature, you say, has scorned 
 to intrust her music to me, because I am a 
 woman. Now you turn round and ask for 
 what you say a woman cannot give you." 
 
 " I ask for what she only can give," he said, 
 catching my hands and looking down on me 
 with all the passion of his soul. " I ask for 
 love ; for a life of fellowship through bitter 
 duties; for wifehood, — will she give me 
 that ?" 
 
 " Now may God be witness betwixt us two," 
 I said, and, with the words, I seemed to float 
 in a sudden light far above his stature. " Am I
 
 Aurora Leigh. 121 
 
 too weak to stand alone," thought I, " yet 
 strong enough to bear such an added weight on 
 my shoulders?" I paused a moment, — perhaps 
 my face darkened a trifle, — then I went on : 
 " Yes, that's always the way : anything will do 
 for a wife." 
 
 "Aurora, dear," he said, eagerly, "you trans- 
 late me ill. I do not contradict my reverent 
 thought of you with another which is any the 
 less so. If your sex is weak in art, — and when 
 I said so it was but to use truth in courtship, — 
 it is strong in life and duty. Ah, my sweet ! 
 come with me, and we'll go together where your 
 touch shall heal the world's victims. Every 
 man there will seem a brother, every woman 
 will wear your mother's face." 
 
 " You do well to name her face," I answered, 
 slowly. ("Though she was taken from me so 
 soon, I. have found little love since, save in that 
 one face. What you love is not a woman, Rom- 
 ney : you simply want a helpmate. Your cause 
 is noble, indeed ; but I have another conception 
 of love, so fare you well !" 
 
 " Farewell, Aurora ? You rejecfme, then ?" 
 
 " Oh, you were married long ago, Eomney, 
 to your social theory. Bless you both !" 
 
 " So you jest as usual," he said, bitterl3\ 
 
 " No ; I speak in good earnest." 
 
 " And must it indeed be farewell ?" he pleaded, 
 p 11
 
 122 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " Was I so much mistaken when I took woman 
 to be nobler than man, and yourself the noblest 
 of women? Wrong, too, in venturing to say 
 the truth out bluntly to you, instead of using 
 the old romantic formula, ' Lady, thou art won- 
 drous fair ; turn round and love me or I will 
 die !' " 
 
 " You misconceive the question," I broke in, 
 with restrained indignation. " Whoever says 
 ' Love me and work with me' to a woman will 
 get a fair answer if the work and love, however 
 good in themselves, are good for her, — the very 
 best she was born for. For me, your work is 
 not the best, nor your love. You force me, sir, 
 to be overbold in thus speaking of myself; but 
 I, too, have my vocation. The artist must keep 
 roads open between the seen and the unseen. 
 It takes the ideal to blow a hair's-breadth from 
 the dust of the actual. Perhaps, as you say, 
 I'm not worthy of work like this ; yet I aspire, 
 and if I fail, why, burn up my straw like other 
 false works, and all's done." 
 
 I remember the very last word I said that day 
 like the creaking of a door which has once let in 
 some bad news. I know I did not love him, 
 nor he me, and what I said I have never re- 
 pented of, as the truth never is repented of 
 Yet he was a princely fellow, and if he had 
 loved me truly — well, I might have been a con-
 
 Aurora Leigh. 123 
 
 ventional mother now, perhaps happier and 
 better after all. 
 
 But as we were parting, a hurried footstep 
 came towards us on the grass, and my aunt, 
 with her smile of welcome distorted by the sun, 
 broke in with, — 
 
 " Eomney — here ! Why, my child, entreat 
 him to come into the house, and have your talk 
 out there, if girls must talk on their birthdays." 
 
 He answered for me very calmly. His pale 
 lips seemed to try in vain to smile. 
 
 " The talk is ended, here where we stand, 
 madam," he said. " Your brother's daughter has 
 dismissed me. Farewell." 
 
 Then he vanished. I could hear his heel 
 ringing bluntly down the lane. 
 
 " What means this, Aurora Leigh ?" cried my 
 aunt. " My brother's daughter has been dismiss- 
 ing my guests ?" 
 
 The lion in me was tamed at the keeper's 
 voice. I was quelled before her and prayed her 
 pardon. 
 
 " I little thought to dismiss a friend of yours, 
 aunt. I simply let a friend go who came to 
 take me into his service as a wife." 
 
 " Why, you must be mad !" she flashed back 
 at me. " Do you mean to tell me to my face 
 that Eomney Leigh has asked you to marry 
 him and you have refused him ?"
 
 124 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " Did he ask ?" said I. " Eather, I think he 
 stooped to employ me to do certain duties he 
 had for a wife. He never asked at all." 
 
 " What stuff!" she said. " Why, they act like 
 queens, these haughty girls. They must have 
 mantles stitched with twenty silks and spread 
 out at their feet before they'll take a step towards 
 the noblest lover ever born." 
 
 " But, dear aunt," I said, " I was born to walk 
 in other ways than those of his choosing." 
 
 " You walk ! you walk !" she cried. " Why, a 
 year-old baby will walk as well as j'ou. God 
 help you, you are groping in the dark. You 
 suppose, perhaps, that you, the sole offspring of 
 a wealthy man, are rich and free to walk where 
 you will ? You think, too, — and it's reasonable 
 enough, — that I, being well-to-do, will leave my 
 handful to you. But pray, child, pray, even 
 though you do not love me, that I may not die, 
 for when I do out you go, unless I make room 
 for you in my grave, — out j^ou go from house and 
 home, without the right to a single blade of 
 grass beneath these trees. This is the fruit my 
 brother planted in his foreign loves, — don't look 
 astonished at me with your mother's great eyes, 
 — for it was they who set you where you are 
 now, a dowerless orphan. Your father's choice 
 of that mother disinherited his daughter. Men 
 do not think of sons and daughters when they
 
 Aurora Leigh. 125 
 
 are in love, much less of sisters, otherwise he 
 would have paused before he broke that clause 
 ill the entail excluding offspring by a foreign 
 wife, — the clause set up a century ago by a Leigh 
 who wedded a French dancing-girl and had his 
 heart danced upon as his reward. Our cousin 
 Vane, Eomney's father, wrote directly after }^ou 
 were born to your father in Italy : ' I ask your 
 daughter for my son, in whom by law the entail 
 now mei'ges. Betroth her to us for love alone, 
 and she shall not lose either by love or law 
 hereafter.' You remember Vane, and how he 
 drew you up to his knees just before he died and 
 wished your cheeks redder? And now his son, 
 to whom my pittance shall go, — except a few 
 books and a pair of shawls, — is generous like 
 him and prepared to carry out his word and 
 thought to you. Surel}^, a fine young man is 
 Romney, though he is fevered now with these 
 dreams of doing good to good-for-nothing people. 
 But a wife will put all that straight." 
 
 Here I interrupted. I could scarce lift my 
 head to breathe till now, but at last I raised it, 
 and the words came in broken syllables : 
 
 " There's no need for him to wait. The dream 
 of doing good to me, at least, is ended. We've 
 escaped that danger, and thank Heaven for 
 it." 
 
 "You, too, have taken the fever!" she cried. 
 
 11*
 
 126 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 "What! I tell you plainly that you will be 
 homeless, friendless, without your cousin, and 
 you still maintain there's room between you for 
 flirting fans and such coquetry ! Why, you do 
 not value a noble heart above book-patterns. 
 Fie, fie — but stay, I'll write to Eomney and set 
 all straight again." 
 
 She would have hurried in, but I clung to her 
 arm. 
 
 "Oh, dear aunt, hear me! I say no, no! I 
 can at least live my soul's life without alms 
 from men. If it must be in heaven instead of 
 earth, why, I am not afraid." 
 
 She seized both my hands in hers and pierced 
 me through with her probing eyes. 
 
 "And yet, you foolish sweet, you love this 
 man," she said, slowly and coaxingly. " I've 
 watched you when he came and went, and when 
 we've talked about him. I know the weather- 
 signs of love. You love him, Aurora." 
 
 I blushed, I know. I can feel the brand on 
 my forehead even now ; and she interpreted 
 this for a sign. Then the next minute I grew 
 white and cold. As my blood recoiled from the 
 indignity, I made my heart great with it. I 
 spoke at last some passionate words all ground 
 up with sobs. She let my hands drop, and her 
 smile vanished into sedate disgust. 
 
 " We'll have no Italian manners, if you please,"
 
 Aurora Leigh. 127 
 
 elie said. " Yoa had an English father, and might 
 find it possible to speak a quiet yes or no like 
 English girls. In another month youU give a 
 different answer." 
 
 With this she went in and left me standing 
 in the garden. 
 
 I cried a little with agitation and dread, and 
 then I could not help smiling. 
 
 "Farewell, good Eomney," I murmured to 
 myself " Even if I loved you I could not afford 
 to let you be so generous to me." 
 
 I stooped down then and picked up the soiled 
 garland from where it had fallen. I have kept 
 it ever since. It is in the drawer over there. 
 It was the first, and the rest are all like it. 
 
 Afterwards, before evening, I had a note, 
 which ran : 
 
 " Sweet Chaldean, you read me backward as 
 they do Eastern books. Eead a little plainer 
 now. Did you really hate me yesterday? I 
 loved you truly, for my part. If I spoke un- 
 tenderly this morning, pardon me, and believe 
 that I love you so much I place you on the level 
 of my own soul. Henceforth you shall be 
 planted out of the reach of my habitual 
 thoughts, and lean any side you please ; only 
 let me have your perfume always about my 
 home." 
 
 In answer to this I wrote :
 
 128 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " We Chaldeans see deeper than we read. I 
 did not hate you yesterday, and yet I do not 
 love you enough to-day. Take this word frankly, 
 and let it stop you from speaking further. This 
 flower you would transplant has to say to you 
 only what the antique tomb said to travellers : 
 ' Siste, viator.^ Pause." 
 
 A week passed without incident, and several 
 after likewise, Eomney did not come, and my 
 aunt refrained from chiding me. I lived on 
 and on as if my heart were kept beneath a 
 glass cover, and everybody stood all eyes and 
 ears to see it and hear it tick. 
 
 But in the sixth week the dead sea suddenly 
 broke up. The clock had struck nine one morn- 
 ing, the lark's song came floating down to me 
 through the still July weather, and the wood- 
 bine blew in and out of my window. There I sat 
 in peace, and wished such a morning truce could 
 last forever. Oh that my aunt might sleep on 
 and spare me from her prying eyes ! 
 
 Suddenly, from the bottom of the house, 
 there arose a single ghastly shriek, and in an 
 instant the whole interior was alive with the 
 clamor of voices and slamming of doors. 
 
 I sprang up and stood in the middle of the 
 room. There, confronting me at my door, was 
 a white face with shivering lips. 
 
 " Come, come !" they said. And, without asking
 
 Aurora Leigh. 129 
 
 a question, I went reeling down-stairs as if I 
 were drawn by a ghost. 
 
 TJaere sat my aunt bolt upright in the chair 
 by her bed. She had used no bod that night, 
 yet she slept overwell. The silent derision pict- 
 ured on her face seemed to mock at the sun 
 which had streamed into the chamber when 
 Susan drew the curtains, ignorant of who sat 
 open-eyed behind her. The rigid figure held a 
 letter with an unbroken seal in its hand, as 
 Susan had delivered it the night before. 
 
 I could not believe that those were the eyes 
 which had watched me so searchingly and 
 dogged me up and down for days together. I 
 had prayed only a half-hour back to be rid of 
 their burden, had bid them sleep late and free 
 me of their scrutiny, and now they slept indeed. 
 ' God answers some prayers with a strange sud- 
 denness. Every wish is like a prayer with Him, 
 and at last I had my one wish gratified, — to 
 fashion my life in my own way, and marry or 
 not marry as I pleased. 
 
 The heir came over to the funeral, and we 
 met once more by the dead. When the will 
 had been read and all the rest had left the 
 house, we rose up in a silence which was almost 
 hard and looked keenly at one another. 
 
 " Farewell, cousin," I said. 
 
 He just touched my hat-strings, already tied 
 Il.-i
 
 130 Tales from Ten Poets.   
 
 for going. The carriage stood waiting at the 
 door. 
 
 " Sisfe, viator" he said in a low voice, a little 
 unsteady. 
 
 " Is there time to stop for a moral in these 
 days of railroads ?" I asked. 
 
 " For necessary words, there is," he gravely 
 answered. " We have just heard a will which 
 gives you all the money and personal property 
 of 3^our aunt." 
 
 " I thank her memory for it," I said. " With 
 three hundred pounds I can buy standing-room 
 to work in." 
 
 " Yet, cousin," he said, " you are richer than 
 you imagine. The will says, ' Three hundred 
 pounds and any other sum which the said testa- 
 trix dies possessed of She died possessed of 
 other sums." 
 
 "Dear Eomney," I said, "need we count the 
 odd pence? I'm richer than I thought I was, 
 that's evident." 
 
 " But listen ; you've got to do with a cousin 
 who understands business. The other sum is 
 thirty thousand pounds. It is unspecified in 
 any will which dates after its possession, yet it 
 is bequeathed to you as clearly as this three 
 hundred pounds, ^ow, when and where will 
 you have it paid?" 
 
 " Pause there," I said. " You are delicate in
 
 Aurora Leigh. 131 
 
 your manner of making gifts ; but I, who am 
 also a Leigh, am made rather for giving than 
 for taking like a pensioner." 
 
 I turned to go, but he stopped me with a 
 proud gesture. 
 
 " A Leigh gives love or largesse, but never 
 glosses in giving. Least of all would he do that 
 to a Leigh. But now let me make it clear to 
 you that your aunt owned this money." 
 
 " You must bring documents and prove dates, 
 then," I said. 
 
 " Ah, now you throw off your bonnet as if you 
 had time for a logarithm. I know your thoughts, 
 cousin. I inherit your father's wealth and make 
 you poor. Under ordinary conditions you might 
 feel like taking some compensation. But, beside 
 this, I love you, and you reject me. You cannot 
 take from a suitor's hand what would come with- 
 out objection from a relative's. Yet you'll trust 
 me, won't you, to keep your honor pure ?" 
 
 " I believe in no honor kept by another," I 
 answered. "You face a man who wants in- 
 struction, not a woman who wants protection. 
 Speak out plainly as you would to a man. Be 
 precise ; give dates and facts. My aunt inher- 
 ited this sum, you say " 
 
 " I said she died possessed of it, cousin." 
 
 "Not by heritage, then? We're getting at 
 last to the facts."
 
 132 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " Well, there was no cause why your aunt 
 should refuse a deed of gift from me, was 
 there ?" 
 
 " Ah, I thought so !" I exclaimed. " A gift !" 
 
 " Yery natural to think so," he said, " and a 
 very natural gift." 
 
 " Surely," I replied ; " yet, her own life being 
 placed safe above all want, she was too proud to 
 accept a gift without some ultimate aim. Ah, 
 I see: the gift was plainly intended for her 
 heirs. I am snared then, perhaps. Just so. 
 But, sir, how can you justify such an insult?" 
 
 " What need is there to tremble and pant like a 
 netted lioness, Aurora ? Is it my fault that you 
 are a wild creature of the woods and hate the 
 stall built for you ? At any rate, you're entirely 
 free from me." 
 
 " And this gift of yours, when was it offered 
 and accepted ?" I said. " Come, bring your dates. 
 When was it?" 
 
 " What matters that ?" he answered. " A half- 
 hour or a half-year before she died makes the 
 gift just as binding. No power can make you 
 poor again now, cousin." 
 
 " Well, sir, I ask you — I insist on the special 
 date," said I, with firmness. 
 
 " The gift was placed in her hands the day 
 before she died. We will find the deed and 
 certify the date to you."
 
 Aurora Leigh. 133 
 
 I looked at him in triumph. " My .dear cousin 
 Eomney," I said, "we have at last reached the 
 top of this difficult question. But I had forgot- 
 ten to tell you before that this letter — unread, 
 remember, still sealed — was found in the poor 
 dead hand. I know your writing, Romney. 
 You'll find that famous deed of gift in this 
 letter, which, not being mine, I give you back. 
 You refuse to take it ? Well, then, you and I, 
 as writer and heiress, open it. Even so, — the 
 words are noble, cousin. Here's a proof of gift, 
 but no proof of acceptance. Eather disproof" 
 As I spoke, I tore the paper up and let it flut- 
 ter away on the floor. 
 
 Then, foiled in his eflbrts to do me a service, 
 but still serene, he broke the silence : 
 
 " I may ask, perhaps, although no stranger, 
 only Romney Leigh, which means even less 
 than Vincent Carrington, what plans you have 
 in leaving here. That cannot be a secret ?" 
 
 " 1 am going to London," I said, " to live my 
 life straight out, vocally in books, or, should I 
 fail, still, to live it my own way. And you, 
 Romney ?" 
 
 " I ?" he said. " And you care to ask ? Well, 
 girls have curious minds. I've my woi-k, you 
 know. While you sing your happy pastorals, I 
 shall be trying to prove to stifled brains that 
 nature sings itself and asks for no accompany- 
 
 12
 
 134 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 ing poet. You lovers of the beautiful despise 
 my system." 
 
 " I despise ? The scorn is your own, cousin. 
 Men become poets only by scorning nothing. 
 They respect your practical good as being a 
 part of beauty itself," 
 
 He did not answer, and we stood for an in- 
 stant in silence. Then I said," Adieu, Eomney." 
 And he helped me into the carriage, and I 
 drove away. 
 
 It is seven years since then. I am used now 
 to other ways from quite different men. But 
 we let go our hands, my cousin and I, that day, 
 and the world rushed between us in a torrent, 
 barring forever our mutual sight and touch. 
 
 III. 
 
 When my cousin and I had thus parted, I 
 travelled to London and took a chamber in 
 Kensington. It was up three flights of stairs, 
 dark and steep, but I worked there serenely for 
 three good years in spite of the solitude. I did 
 some excellent things indifferently and some 
 bad things excellently. I bent to my task day 
 and night. I suppose the roses went out of my 
 cheeks, for people would come and say, " You 
 are working too hard. You look ill." But I 
 smiled pityingly in return for their sympathy, 
 and thought I should be better soon.
 
 Aurora Leigh. 135 
 
 One day a lady called whom I had never seen 
 before. She had a low voice, a self-possessed 
 manner, and yet withal was gracious and con- 
 ciliating. She told me quite simply that her 
 name was Lady Waldemar, as if it meant but 
 little, yet still something. She took my hands 
 and smiled : 
 
 « Is this, then, the Muse ?" 
 
 " Not even a sibyl," I answered, " since she 
 fails to guess why you have taxed yourself to 
 visit her, madam.'' 
 
 " Good ! I value sincerity. Perhaps if I had 
 found a real Muse I should indeed have been 
 taxed by the visit." She still panted from the 
 long climb up the stairs, but a silvery laugh 
 ran through her quickened breath. 
 
 " Still, your ladyship has left me curious to 
 know why you took the risk of finding such a 
 Muse." 
 
 " Well, naturally, you think I've come here 
 as a lion-hunter to entrap you for my drawing- 
 room. But that is not my errand." She bent 
 her head an instant ; then, raising it suddenly 
 with a look of queenly command which dis- 
 dained even to spare herself, she said, — 
 
 " I think you have a cousin called Eomney 
 Leigh." 
 
 " You bring me word from him ?" I said, with 
 my eyes leaping up to hers, — " word from him !"
 
 136 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 "Word about him. But first," she asked, 
 coaxingly, " you do not love him — do you ?" 
 
 " You are frank, madam, at least," I replied. 
 " I love Romney in a cousinly way, — nothing 
 more." 
 
 " So I guessed," she said. " I'm ready to be as 
 frank in answering, if you will question me. I 
 can speak to you, an artist, who rise somewhat 
 above the common sex, without the shame one 
 feels in confiding in those on our own level. 
 The saints are so far off we lose our modesty 
 before them. May I confide in you ? Well, 
 then, frankly, it is I who love Romney Leigh." 
 
 "But why make such a confession to me? 
 I am not the Muse, still less am I a saint, or 
 even a friend." 
 
 " That's unkindly said ! If not now a friend, 
 what forbids me to make you one ? Indeed, I 
 love your cousin, be it wise or foolish. I have 
 not come to it, however, without a struggle. I 
 tried travel, study, even gaming, but, after all, 
 this love — you eat of love as you do of garlic, 
 and everything else you eat tastes acrid. All 
 my cards turned up Romney Leigh. I came 
 home uncured, convicted to myself of being 
 hopelessly in love. That's coarse, you will 
 say " 
 
 " Never apologize for love," I replied, coldly. 
 " I believe in love and God. I know my cousin ;
 
 Aurora Leigh. 137 
 
 I do not know you. Yet I can say this : who- 
 ever loves him truly should not excuse, but 
 purify herself." 
 
 " Ah, dear, be kinder to me," she said. " Let 
 us be friends." 
 
 " But I can see no way in which a confidence 
 like this can avail you or him." 
 
 " Well, let it pass," she replied ; " and yet, if 
 I marry him I save him. Let that pass too." 
 
 "Pass, pass!" I cried. "He knows what's 
 worthy of him ; the choice remains entirely 
 with him. What he chooses cannot be un- 
 worthy." 
 
 " I would not ask help for myself," she said. 
 " I ask it only for him. When he, a Leigh, is 
 fairly married to a girl of doubtful life, even 
 you will perhaps call his choice unworthy." 
 
 " Married ! Eomney !" 
 
 " Ah, you are moved at last," she said. 
 
 "Then there's really a marriage?" I eagerly 
 ask-ed. 
 
 " Eeally and unhappily there is. Yesterday 
 I taxed him with it. ' Mr. Leigh,' I said, ' shut 
 a thing up and it makes more noise. This boil- 
 ing town is ill at keeping a secret. I've known 
 yours since last week; and do you not choose 
 that even your kin — even Aurora Leigh — should 
 think your act more of a fancy than a sacrifice ?' 
 He grew so pale, dear — to the very lips. I 
 
 12*
 
 138 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 knew I had touched him, ' Do you know her, 
 Aurora Leigh ?' he said. ' Yes,' I answered. I 
 lied, but, truly, we all know you by your books ; 
 and I offered to go straight to you and justify 
 his cause, and take you to Saint Margaret's 
 Court to see this miracle — a drover's daughter, 
 believe me, named Marian Earle." 
 
 " JSTow," said I, " I begin imperfectly to under- 
 stand your drift. But how this plan serves 
 your ends I cannot see." 
 
 She knit her restless forehead : " Then de- 
 spite that radiant name, Aurora, you are as 
 dull as a London afternoon. I wanted time, 
 and I gained it. I wanted you, and I gain you. 
 You'll go and see the girl, then you'll speak 
 your mind, and prove to Eomney in your own 
 brilliant way that he'll wrong you, wrong all 
 who are concerned, by such an execrable mar- 
 riage." 
 
 " But you err," I said, " in supposing that I 
 have power to break the match. I would not 
 do it to save Eomney's life." 
 
 " You take it so ?" And she rose with a tone 
 of bitter surprise in her voice. " Farewell, then. 
 Write your books in peace." She touched my 
 hand lightly and bent her head, then departed, 
 without looking back, down the dark stairs. 
 
 Two hours afterwards I stood alone in Saint 
 Margaret's Court. A sick child jeered weakly
 
 Aurora Leigh. 139 
 
 at me as I crossed the uneven pavement, while 
 a woman, rouged on her angular cheek-bones 
 and with dangling locks of hair, leaned out at 
 a window and cursed me and some bedridden 
 creature in-doors by tui'ns. 
 
 I pushed back a little side door in spite of her 
 menacing voice, and quickly found my way to 
 a low door in the attic. I knocked, and there 
 was a hurried movement within, then some one 
 said, — 
 
 " So soon ! Can it be Mr. Leigh, so soon ?" 
 
 I was met by an ineffable face upon the 
 threshold. 
 
 " Oh, not you, not you !" she said. And the 
 dropping of the voice implied that if it were 
 not he, it was not any one for her. 
 
 I looked full in the sweet eyes and held her 
 hands in my own. 
 
 " I am Eomney Leigh's cousin, and I have 
 come now to see my other cousin." 
 
 Her face and voice touched me deeply. " How 
 can soft flowers like this grow from such 
 rough roots ?" I mused, as I felt her hands lie 
 timidly in mine. She was not beautiful at all. 
 She was neither white nor brown, but could 
 look either, like a mist which is colored by the 
 changing sun. Her hair hung in rich curls, — 
 too many perhaps for so small a head, which 
 seemed to droop to one side like a full-blown
 
 140 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 roae. The mouth was a trifle large, but the 
 white teeth dissolved it to an infantine smile. 
 The eyes smiled too, but a remembrance of 
 weeping seemed to mingle with their gayety. 
 
 We talked on, and she told me her brief story. 
 Her father had been a wandering laborer who 
 had died of drink. Her mother was a fitting 
 mate for him, brutal and coarse ; and, because 
 nothing profitable could be done with a delicate 
 child who was always gazing up at the sky or 
 peering listlessly at the fields rather than earn- 
 ing her way, the woman treated her harshly, and 
 welcomed anv means of getting rid of her. 
 
 One day, her mother, who had been badly 
 beaten, came in suddenly and snatched the comb 
 from Marian's hair, letting the curls fall all 
 about her face. ^Yhen she could at last see 
 through the blinding mass, the girl beheld a man 
 outside with hungry-looking eyes. His breath 
 seemed to hurt her cheek, he came so close to 
 her. The mother held her tight, saying be- 
 tween her teeth, — 
 
 " Why, wench, the squire speaks to you ; he's 
 too good: he means to set you up and make 
 your fortune. Be mannerly now." 
 
 Marian turned round and looked piteously in 
 her mother's face, but there was no mercy there ; 
 then, with a sudden desperation, she tore her- 
 self away and bounded headlong down the hill.
 
 Aurora Leigh. 141 
 
 They yelled after her like hounds, and she sped 
 on and on till she gained the uplands and was 
 beyond sound of the voices. She ran madly 
 along the white roads mile after mile until she 
 grew dizzy and her heart seemed to bo growing 
 bigger and bigger. At last it burst and the 
 light went out of her eyes. 
 
 She had fainted and dropped by the roadside. 
 
 As her senses returned she found it was night, 
 and she was on a creaking and rumbling wagon, 
 which, in the morning, landed her in the town 
 where the good wagoner's business led him to 
 travel. He took her to a hospital, where she 
 lay sick for many weeks ; but a new life of 
 kindness and tender care had opened to her 
 there, and when at last she was able to be sent 
 away, she burst into tears at the thought of 
 leaving. 
 
 But on the day before her departure, as she 
 sat dumb and lost among the other convales- 
 cents, a visitor who was being ushered through 
 the wards paused among the group and spoke 
 some soothing words. Marian said that his look 
 was like a sweet speech, and his speech was like 
 a song. His name was Romney Leigh, and that 
 was the first time she had seen him. 
 
 When it was her turn to hear his comforting 
 talk and he asked her where she meant to go, 
 she burst into sobs.
 
 142 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " "Where I go ?" she said. " JSTobody ever asked 
 me till now. How can I tell where I am going, 
 when it has not seemed worth while, even to 
 God himself, to think of me ?" 
 
 " You have lost your father and mother ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 She told him her story. 
 
 " Poor child !" he said, with such pity in his 
 voice it soothed her more than her own tears. 
 And even now she could tell me word for word 
 the generous counsel he had given her that 
 happy morning. 
 
 He sent her to a sempstress-house in London, 
 and they parted for many months to come. 
 
 About a year after this the sewing-girl who 
 sat next to Marian in the work-room where she 
 was employed fell sick, and the gossips said that 
 she was dying. Her name was Lucy Grresham, 
 and the night before, on her way home, she had 
 fainted and been carried to her room, and laid 
 beside her bedridden grandmother. 
 
 " The old crone's paralytic," said one of the 
 girls, " and that's why Lucy had to work so 
 hard." Then, seeing tears in Marian's eyes, 
 " But, Marian Earle, you're not fool enough to 
 cry about it, are you ?" 
 
 Marian stood up, and, breaking abruptly from 
 the circle, left the place. She went directly to 
 Lucy's home, resolved to nurse her as long as
 
 Aurora Leigh. 143 
 
 she needed help. Day after day she sat by 
 Lucy's poor bed, constant in her chosen duty. 
 Lucy sometimes thanked her, and she was 
 strangely touched at hearing herself called kind 
 and good, — she, who had been beaten and sold ! 
 
 But Lucy slipped gently away in sleep one 
 night, and then a man came in and stood by the 
 death-bed, which also held the shrivelled body 
 of the old paralytic. The poor woman feebly 
 screamed that they must not bury her, she was 
 not the corpse, and then she appealed to Marian 
 Earle to show the gentleman where Lucy lay. 
 
 *' Marian Earle !" said a voice which she seemed 
 to know. 
 
 It was the hour for angels to hover near, and 
 there stood hers. And yet she was scarcely 
 surprised to see Eomney Leigh. He seemed to 
 come by instinct wherever grief was. 
 
 He was not angry with her for leaving the 
 house where he had placed her, and when he 
 found that she was bent on nursing the old 
 woman he did not oppose it. She felt in his 
 eyes and speech a tenderer presence of the soul 
 which understood her and acquiesced. 
 
 But at last one day when Marian had smoothed 
 the now empty bed and swept the floor of the 
 coffin-dust, as she stood in the cold room with 
 the door-key in her hand prepared to go, he 
 spoke to her.
 
 144 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " Dear Marian," said Jie, " God moulded us all 
 of one clay. What difference does it make that 
 I was born to a noble name and you came from 
 the noble people ? Wc all go back to the original 
 clay at last, and why should we wait for that ?" 
 
 She looked blindly in his face, and he held her 
 hand, while her heart beat so thick and fast she 
 could not gather the full sense of his words. 
 
 " You are my fellow- worker, Marian, why not 
 be my wife?" 
 
 With a childish simplicity and earnestness 
 Marian told me her story down to this point, and 
 here she stopped with no sense of embarrassment 
 or affected shame. I kissed her lips as she ended. 
 
 " So indeed he loves you, Marian ?" I said. 
 
 *' Loves me !" She looked up with an infant's 
 wonder. "He loves everything, and me, of 
 course, or he would not have asked me to work 
 with him and be his wife." 
 
 Her words reproved me. Obviously she had 
 not thought about his love at all. Women of 
 my own class haggle for the small change of 
 love. She knew that she was crowned, and 
 asked no more. 
 
 But before I could say anything in reply 
 Eomney was there himself I think he had 
 been standing in the room while she spoke. He 
 looked as if he had been suddenly arrested in 
 his movements, and he was very pale.
 
 Aurora Leigh. 145 
 
 " You here, Aurora ?" he said. 
 
 « Why, yes, dear Eomney. Lady Waldemar 
 sent me here in haste to find a cousin of mine 
 that is to be." 
 
 " Lady Waldemar is very good," he said, with 
 measured coldness. 
 
 " Here's one, at least, who is good," I said, as 
 I touched Marian's head. 
 
 "You accept a gift from me at last, then, 
 Aurora ? I have actually pleased you." How 
 changed his voice sounded, 
 
 " You cannot please a woman who wills not 
 to be pleased, and, once, you vexed me, — but 
 shall we speak of that ? Let it pass rather, for 
 now you please me when you please yourself" 
 
 He said nothing, and I went on : 
 
 " Poets, you know, Eomney, are democrats, 
 and I understand and wholly justify your 
 choice." 
 
 " ISTo, no, no !" he sighed, impatiently. " You 
 do not, cannot comprehend my end or my mo- 
 tives ! But no matter now. I thank you for 
 your generous cousinship, and I accept for her 
 all your favorable thoughts." 
 
 I turned and kissed Marian, for he had baffled 
 and chafed me, and I was driven to her for 
 refuge. 
 
 " Good-by for this time," I said ; " and, Eom- 
 ney, pardon me the word, I hope you may be 
 II.— G k 13
 
 146 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 happy, — I mean, of course, in an esoteric sense ; 
 and you'll let Marian come to see me, and be 
 married from my house, won't you ?" 
 
 " I take my wife from the people," he said ; 
 " and she comes as Austria's daughter to im- 
 perial France, between her eagles, with no 
 shame for her race, from St. Margaret's Court 
 to St. James's, What we do, we do openly with- 
 out a blush." 
 
 He came after me down the stairs and offered 
 to escort me through the hideous streets. We 
 had a strange, melancholy walk in the drizzling 
 rain, talking of many irrelevant things to avoid 
 the one topic which lay closest to our hearts. 
 
 When we parted at my own door his good- 
 night sounded strangely, like a parting at a 
 death-bed, and I thought all that night of its 
 ominous sound. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A MONTH passed, and then came the announce- 
 ment of the marriage. 
 
 The day finally arrived, and I went to St. 
 James's with the fashionable throngs who had 
 been invited and the ragged mob drawn there 
 by curiosity. They clogged the streets and 
 oozed into the church in a dark, slow stream. 
 Noble ladies stood up in their pews to see the 
 sight, while all the aisles were alive with black 
 heads that crawled slowly towards the altar,
 
 Aurora Leigh. 147 
 
 showing here and there a hideous face, or in the 
 midst some squalid mother with a baby hang- 
 ing like a rag at her neck. 
 
 We waited long beyond the hour fixed for the 
 wedding, and the confusion grew with the pass- 
 ing time. The buzz of light voices and the 
 rustle of rich dresses mingled with a low growl 
 from the bride's impatient followers. Then a 
 new movement swept through the human mass 
 and an ominous whisper reached us. Some- 
 thing was wrong. What? The black crowd, 
 like an overstrained cord, swayed back and 
 forth, and I caught a glimpse of Eomney's face, 
 scarce recognizable in its pallor, where he stood 
 on the altar stair and tried to speak to them. 
 But he failed to make himself heard, and impo- 
 tently raised an open letter which he held in 
 his hand high above his head to make them 
 attend. 
 
 " My brothers, bear with me," he cried. " I 
 am very weak, but I meant only good. Per- 
 haps I was too proud, and God has snatched the 
 circumstance and changed it to punishment. 
 There will be no marriage ! She leaves me, 
 disappears ; I lose her. Yet I never forced her. 
 My friends, you are dismissed. Go eat and 
 drink according to the programme ; but I bid 
 you farewell." 
 
 As he ended there was unbroken silence in
 
 148 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 the church. A man spoke somewhere through 
 the hush, and the spell was over. 
 
 " Look to it, boys. Don't be robbed of the 
 beef and beer. They're not honest with the 
 poor. They'll try to cheat us." 
 
 Then others yelled out coarse jokes and com- 
 ments on the marriage, and some, fancying them- 
 selves wronged by the failure of Marian to 
 secure a noble husband, claimed their rights in 
 loud, threatening voices. 
 
 Through the rage aud roar I could hear the 
 broken words which Eomney flung helplessly 
 from his post on the altar stair among the tur- 
 bulent crowd. From end to end the church 
 rocked around us like a stormy sea. Men cried 
 out " Police !" and women shrieked for God, or 
 dropped and swooned. The last sight I saw 
 was Eomney's terrible, calm face above the tu- 
 mult, and the last sound I remember were the 
 cries of " Pull him down !" « Kill him !" Stretch- 
 ing out my arms like one in a dream who vainly 
 wards off some evil, I struggled head-foremost 
 to reach and rescue him. Then some one pulled 
 me back, and the light went out of my eyes and 
 I knew nothing more. 
 
 What followed was told me by Lord Howe, 
 who carried me senseless into the street and 
 then returned to help quell the tumult. The 
 police at last fell upon the crowd and silenced
 
 Aurora Leigh. 149 
 
 them. They slowly eddied out of the aisles, 
 and Eomney's wedding-day was over. 
 
 The truth was that Eomney had received a 
 letter delivered by a ragged child at the church 
 door, as he waited anxiously for his bride. 
 
 " Noble friend," it ran, " be patient with me. 
 Do not think me vile, who might to-morrow 
 morning have been your wife if I had not loved 
 you more than the name. Farewell, Eomney, — ^ 
 let me write it this once, — my Eomney." 
 
 There was much more of the letter, which 
 told in a rambling way some things which 
 Eomney had never known. Marian had once, 
 she said, tried to tell him how a certain woman 
 had come to see her, but he only stared at the 
 floor and paid no attention, and she was put off 
 for that day. Then, afterwards, some one spoke 
 so wisely of her and so tenderly of him, and 
 urged her so earnestly to keep silence for his 
 sake, that she finally decided to conceal it. 
 Lady Waldemar, she said, was very kind, came 
 nine or ten times to see her ; and his cousin, 
 too, was kindest of all. She had pondered over 
 a certain thing his cousin had asked : " He loves 
 you, Marian ?" She had said it with a sort of 
 mild and derisive sadness, much as a mother 
 might say to her baby, " You'll touch that star, 
 you think, little one?" And, she pathetically 
 wrote, " I never touched it!" " God," the letter 
 
 13*
 
 150 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 continued, " if I could die and let these words 
 break off innocent just here ! But no ; for your 
 sake, here's the last : I could never be happy as 
 your wife. Do not seek rae nor vex yourself 
 with lamentable thoughts over me ; be sure I'm 
 well, merry, and at ease, but a long way off. 
 You'll find me in my grave sooner than else- 
 where, and that's my choice. O my star, my 
 saint, I am not so lost that I cannot thank you 
 for all the good you tried to do me. My hand 
 shakes, I am blind ; I am poor at writing even 
 at the best, and yet I've tried to make my 
 g's as you showed me. Farewell ! Say ' poor 
 Marian now.' " 
 
 Eomney searched for her many days and 
 weeks, sifting over all the refuse of the town, 
 but he found no trace of her. He would not 
 hear me when I hinted that I knew a friend of 
 his had reasons of her own for breaking the 
 match. The lady had been ill ever since, the 
 shock had been so severe to her. Something in 
 his tone repressed me. He went on to say that, 
 putting questions to Marian's fellow-lodgers, he 
 found she had received another visitor beside 
 Lady Waldemar and myself, a dubious over- 
 dressed woman who had dazed the children and 
 thrown them some pence. This woman had 
 been with her at first from week to week, but 
 towards the end she came daily.
 
 Aurora Leigh. 151 
 
 " I see all clearly enough," he said. " Such 
 devils would pull the angels out of heaven if 
 they could reach them. The slave who falls 
 with disease on the Cairo streets warns the 
 passengers to stand otf, but these blotched souls 
 are eager to spread infection." 
 
 " Some natures do not take plagues, though," 
 I broke in to soothe him. " I believe, as I 
 am a woman and understand womanhood, that 
 Marian Earle, however lured away and de- 
 ceived, still keeps pure in aim and heart." 
 
 "Pure in aim?" he said. "Oh, I grant that, 
 like myself, who thought to shoulder the world 
 and carry it over social ills, and yet have ended 
 by letting a single soul slip by very impotence 
 straight down to perdition ; truly, she and I 
 have reason to be proud of our aims ! Poor 
 child," he murmured, softly and reflectively, " it 
 was a luckless day for her when she first chanced 
 on my philanthropy." 
 
 " The best men, doing their best," I said, " know 
 really the least of what they do. The most 
 useful of men in the world are simply used. It 
 is he alone who wields the hammer who sees thp 
 work advancing from the first blow. Take heart, 
 cousin." 
 
 '• Ah, if I could have taken yours, Aurora," 
 he said. " But that's past now. Sing your songs, 
 dear, if it's your way, but rest sometimes. Re-
 
 152 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 fleet that if art be the higher life, you still need 
 the lower life to stand on in order to reach up 
 to that higher. Eemember, for art's sake, hold 
 your life dear." 
 
 Then we parted. I respected him and under- 
 stood the nobility of his sacrifices ; but he sup- 
 posed me too small a thing to comprehend him. 
 " Sing," he seemed to say, — " sing, poor insect, if 
 that's your way, and still tease me with your 
 humming." 
 
 Y. 
 
 It had been nearly two years since I saw 
 Homney Leigh. I heard he was busy with 
 many good works, had parted his estate into 
 almshouses and gave lavishly of his bounty, 
 and yet for two years I had not spoken with 
 him. 
 
 It always makes me sad to go out into the 
 world, and I felt even more sad than usual the 
 night I went to Lord Howe's. He had a group 
 of celebrities there amid the flaring lights ; and 
 his wife and they were very gracious to me. 
 Lady Waldemar was there, and looked lovely 
 with her twisted bronze tresses and her white 
 shoulders. If the heart within were only half 
 as white it would be well for her; but if it 
 were, perhaps the breast would have been 
 covered closer.
 
 157 
 
 Aurora Leigh. ^5^ 
 
 I overheard two men making comment on 
 her beauty. One looked like a German student, 
 and the other was called Sir Blaise Delorme. 
 
 " Look that way, Sir Blaise," said the younger 
 man ; " to the left, in red. She's Lady Waldemar 
 whom Eomney Leigh is soon to marry. You 
 know him ? One of our ablest men." 
 
 " Is Leigh our ablest man, then ?" asked Sir 
 Blaise, in mock surprise. "He's the one who 
 was jilted by a pretty maid he adopted from 
 the people. He seems now to have plucked a 
 flower from the other side of the social hedge." 
 
 "A flower! a flower!" exclaimed the German 
 student, with his eyes bent full upon her. He 
 was twenty, certainly. 
 
 Sir Blaise resumed, with insinuating arro- 
 gance, " My young friend, I doubt your ablest 
 man's power to get the least help for his schemes 
 from a flowery creature like that." 
 
 " Beautiful !" the rapt student murmured. " See 
 how she stirs, as if she were indeed a flower 
 just touched by the breath of our talk." 
 
 Hereupon Grimwald, the bilious writer for 
 the " Eenovator," turned from a book of auto- 
 graphs with his low carnivorous laugh. 
 
 "A flower, of course," he said. " She neither 
 sews nor spins, and takes no thought of her 
 garments — falling off"." 
 
 The student and Sir Blaise flinched, and both
 
 ] ** Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 drew back their chairs and pursued their talk 
 without making a reply. 
 
 Lord Howe came up and overheard them. 
 
 " What ! talking poetry so near the unfavoring 
 Muse," he said, glancing gayly at me. " I've 
 watched you half an hour. Miss Leigh, just as 
 I've sometimes watched the Pallas in the Vati- 
 can. You remember the face. Sir Blaise ? In- 
 tensely calm and sad, as if wisdom cut it off 
 from fellowship." 
 
 Then as he came nearer to me, " I saw you 
 across the room, and stayed to keep off the lion- 
 hunters who were threatening you." He went 
 on playfully to describe their terrors, until I 
 smiled at his drollery. 
 
 "Ah, ah, you smile at last," said he. "But I 
 swore to bring my transatlantic girl to you for 
 a kiss, — not now, but some other day. We'll 
 call it perjury ; I'll give her up." 
 
 " No ; bring her," I said. 
 
 "You make it hard to touch such goodness 
 with a grimy palm. I meant to tease you, and 
 so steel myself for telling you something that 
 would tease you still more." 
 
 " Eomney ?" said I. 
 
 " No, no, nothing worse of Eomney than what 
 is already buzzed about. What I mean refers to 
 you." 
 
 "Eeferstome?"
 
 157 
 
 Aurora Leigh. 155 
 
 " Me !" he echoed. " You sound it like a stone 
 one drops down a dry well, forgetful of the toad 
 at the bottom. Briefly, though, you know Eg- 
 linton, John Eglinton of Eglinton in Kent ?" 
 
 " Is he the toad ? He's, rather, like a snail, 
 known by the house on his back. Divide them 
 and you kill the man." 
 
 He answered, gravely, "A reputable man, 
 an excellent landlord of the old stamp, kind 
 to the aged poor who pick sticks at his hedge- 
 side." 
 
 " Oh, tender-hearted landlord ! may I take my 
 long lease with him when the time arrives for 
 gathering winter fagots !" 
 
 " He likes art, buys books and pictures — of a 
 certain kind ; he's a good son " 
 
 " To an obedient mother," I laughed. 
 
 " Be less bitter, Miss Leigh," he said, " for, in- 
 deed, I have a letter which he so urged me to 
 bring you I could not help yielding. He insists 
 in it that a new love may gain much by passing 
 through the hands of an old friendship." 
 
 " Love ? My lord, I am past loving. I know 
 only the rhyme for love, — and that's not love. 
 Take your letter back." 
 
 " But you'll read it first ?" he urged. 
 
 " I do not care to read it ; it is stereotyped. 
 The same thing he wrote to — anybody — Anne 
 Blythe, the actress."
 
 156 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 "My dear friend," he began, but I broke in 
 hastily, — 
 
 " You mean me or your friend of Eglinton ?" 
 " I mean you,— you," he answered, with some 
 spirit. " A hajjpy life involves prudent compro- 
 mise. In this bad, twisted, topsy-turvy world of 
 ours in England, where ledger-strokes and sword- 
 strokes count for more than soul-strokes, it is 
 hard to stand up for art. To be plain, my dear 
 friend, j'ou're poor except in what you so richly 
 give us ; and for art's sake, if for nothing else, 
 I pray you to reflect." 
 
 I answered slowly, like a wayfaring man who 
 finds himself too far from home at night and 
 bears a steadfast face to the wind. 
 
 " Is art a less thing than virtue, that artists 
 must cater to theu' ease and never think of the 
 larger issues beyond ? I will not bate one artist- 
 dream on straw or down, my lord, nor cease to 
 love high no matter how low I live." 
 
 So speaking, and with less anger than sorrow 
 in my voice, I rose to go, while he, thrown back 
 upon the noble shame of such natures, mur- 
 mured the right words after having said the 
 wrong ones. 
 
 As we passed on. Lord Howe insisting that 
 his friendly arm should oar me across the stream 
 eddying through the rooms, we came upon Lady 
 "VValdemar.
 
 Aurora Leigh. 157 
 
 " Miss Leigh," she said, with a cold, bright 
 smile, " I've tried to reach you all the evening. 
 I've a world to tell you about your cousin's 
 place in Shropshire, where I've been to see his 
 work — our work, — you heard that I went ? He 
 looks well now ; he has quite got over his un- 
 fortunate Ah, I know it moved you, tender- 
 heart ! As for Eomney, it is sure he never loved 
 her, — never. By the way, you have not heard 
 of her P Quite out of sight and lost in every 
 sense ?" 
 
 She might have gone on talking half an hour. 
 I put in " Yes" or " No" every now and then, 
 till Lord Howe broke in : 
 
 " What penance for the wretch who inter- 
 rupts the talk of charming women ? I must 
 brave it, anyhow. Pardon, Lady Waldemar, 
 Miss Leigh is tired and unwell, and I've promised 
 she should say no harder word this evening than 
 ' Grood-night.' Her face speaks the rest for 
 her." 
 
 Then we went, and I breathed free and un- 
 restrained once more at home ; but the news I 
 had heard had confirmed my lingering resolu- 
 tion to go to Italy. Having decided to sell 
 some of the precious books inherited from my 
 fjxther, and leaving the disposal of them to my 
 good Carrington in London, I set out without 
 delay for Paris, where I intended to wait till he 
 
 14
 
 158 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 should send me the proceeds of them as "vvell as 
 of my new book, which he had undertaken to 
 dispose of to a publisher. 
 
 VI. 
 
 In Paris, one night, finding I could not sleep, 
 I got up and went out in the early morning to 
 wander through the Flower Market, As I 
 l^aced absently back and forth, observing every- 
 thing with an artist's eye, which always keeps 
 on the shady side of the things it loves, I saw 
 the crowd of young, vivacious, and black-braided 
 heads dipping among the bouquets, and cheapen- 
 ing this and that in a cheerful twitter of speech. 
 But as I walked on, my heart suddenly leaped 
 in me, startled by a voice I had heard long 
 before. Slowly and faintly, with long intervals 
 between the words, it inquired in a stranger's 
 French, — 
 
 " Would this be much, this branch of flower- 
 ing mountain-gorse ?" 
 
 " So much ?" she said, when the price was 
 given. " Too much for me, then." 
 
 She turned round so near me that I felt 
 the sigh. I looked, and we were face to face. 
 
 " Marian ! Marian !" I cried, " have I found 
 you ? Shall I let you go ?" I held her slight 
 wrists in mine. "Ah, Marian, can I let you 
 go?"
 
 Aurora Leigh. 159 
 
 She fluttered back from me like a flower in a 
 sudden wind. 
 
 "Let me pass!" she said. 
 
 " I will not !" I replied. " I lost my sister 
 Marian long ago, and sought her in my walks 
 and in my prayers, and now I find her. Can I 
 hurt you, dear ? Then why distrust me ? Don't 
 tremble so. Come to my home with me, where 
 we can talk and live with no one to vex us." 
 
 She shook her head : " You are as good as 
 heaven itself, — as good as one I knew before, — 
 but, farewell." 
 
 I loosed her hands : " In Ms name, no fare- 
 well!" She stood as if I still held her. "For 
 his sake, — Eomney's ! By the good he meant, 
 always, by the love he pressed for once, and by 
 the grief and reproach that came instead " 
 
 "He! Who grieved him?" she said, with an 
 eager, questioning look. " Who had the heart 
 to do it? What reproach could touch him? 
 Be merciful ! Speak quickly !" 
 
 " Come, then." I spoke with authority. 
 
 She said not a word, but in a gentle and 
 humbled way turned and went with me. 
 
 We walked a mile or more, and then she 
 stopped and asked if it was much farther. 
 
 " You are ill or tired ?" I asked. 
 
 " No," she said ; " there's one at home who has 
 need of me by this time ; I must not let him wait."
 
 160 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " In that case I will go with you," said I. 
 
 She led the way, and at last we stopped by a 
 tall house in the ragged suburbs. I followed 
 her up-stairs, and, on the landing, heard a 
 woman come out and scold her for her delay. 
 She just murmured a word of excuse, and shut 
 out the rest with the chamber door. 
 
 It was a small square room, containing only 
 two stools and a bed, and we were there alone. 
 Marian threw oif her bonnet and went to the 
 bed, drawing a shawl softly away, and there on 
 his back lay a young baby, warm with life to 
 the very bottom of his dimples, to the ends of 
 his lovely tumbled curls. 
 
 She leaned above him entirely forgetful of 
 herself, and in her transport concentrating her 
 whole passionate face, mouth, forehead, eyes, 
 into one gaze. Then slowly, as he smiled, she 
 smiled also, unaware that she did it, and drew 
 a faint red to her countenance, as if it were a 
 reflection of his. 
 
 " How beautiful !" she said. 
 
 "Yes, the child is well enough," I answered; 
 " and if the mother's palms are clean, they 
 should be proud to clasp such a child ; but if 
 not, I had rather lay my hands, were I she, on 
 God's brazen altar-bars, red-hot with the fires 
 of sacrifice, than touch those curls." 
 
 She plunged her fingers into his clustering
 
 Aurora Leigh. 161 
 
 locks as if she would not be afraid of fire, and 
 then with steady utterance said, — 
 
 " My lamb ! my lamb ! although through such 
 as you the unclean once got approach to God, 
 now you cannot, even with men, find enough 
 grace for gentle words." 
 
 " But if a woman," I said, " is not bettered by 
 being a mother, is not quickened towards truth 
 and good, then she is no mother, although she 
 dampens her baby's cheeks with kisses. We 
 can kill roses so." 
 
 "Kill!" she said, turning a wild face from 
 side to side. "What have you in your souls 
 against me, all of you? Do you think I am 
 wicked? God knows me, and trusts me with 
 the child !" 
 
 " Not wicked," I said, " but forgetful of a 
 wrong 5^ou have done, because you have been 
 rewarded thus ; which is a wrong beyond tlie 
 first one, Marian. When you left the pure 
 place and noble heart to take the hand of a 
 seducer " 
 
 "Whose hand? I took the hand of " 
 
 She sprang up erect and lifted the child at arm's- 
 length above her. " By him, by his head and 
 curls and blue eyes, which no woman born would 
 dare to perjure herself on, I swear a mother's 
 oath, that if I left that heart to lighten it, no 
 cleaner maid than I ever took step to a" sadder
 
 162 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 end ! Do wolves seduce a wandering fawn here 
 in France ? So with me ; I was not seduced, 
 but simply murdered." 
 
 She sank down and sat upon the bedside, and 
 I, utterly broken and convicted, clung about her 
 waist with a woman's passion, and kissed her 
 hair and eyes. 
 
 "I have been wrong, sweet Marian, sweet, 
 holy Marian," I said. " And now I'll use your 
 oath : B}^ the child, I swear his mother shall be 
 innocent before my conscience. Innocent, my 
 sister! Pardon me, pardon me, and smile a 
 little, Marian !" 
 
 The poor lips just motioned for a smile and let 
 it go. She spoke a few sad words about her- 
 self, and then asked me, half pleadingly, as if 
 she had no right to know, to tell her about 
 Eomney. I took her head on my arm and 
 stroked her cheeks, and told her all I could 
 about him ; how he had sought her and failed 
 everywhere, and, broken-hearted, had with- 
 drawn from the world. There I stopped. 
 
 "And now, how is it with him now?" she 
 said, beseechingly. 
 
 I felt some shame that his grief had been 
 so readily healed, and spoke with guarded 
 words. 
 
 " Yes, I know," she said. " I had supposed 
 that excluding me would bring in some one wor-
 
 Aurora Leigh. 163 
 
 thier ; and long before this, Lady Waldemar, he 
 loved 80 " 
 
 "Loved!" I started. "Loved her so! ISTow 
 tell me." 
 
 " I will tell you ; but since we are taking oaths, 
 you will promise first that he in England shall 
 never know?" 
 
 I assented, and she went on. 
 
 " I had loved on my knees," she said, " as 
 others are accustomed to pray. I felt I was 
 his for any of his uses, not my own at all. At 
 first I did not question whether he was happy 
 or if he loved me; I loved him so dearly I 
 took it all for granted. But it broke on my 
 slow senses that I might be out of place in 
 the Eden I pictured to myself, and I began to 
 see that I might bring ruin on the man I loved 
 by loving him. "Whose fault was it I should 
 have such thoughts? Why, no one's. The 
 light comes, and we are permitted to see. If 
 I saw at last, the sense was in me, or else Lady 
 Waldemar had spoken in vain." 
 
 " Oh, my prophet heart !" I cried aloud. " Then 
 Lady Waldemar did speak ?" 
 
 " Did she speak," Marian mused, softly, " or 
 did she only suggest it ? At least one thing's 
 certain : from the day the gracious lady paid 
 me the first visit I began to see things dif- 
 ferently. She came much oftener than he knew,
 
 164 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 and she bade me not to tell him she had been 
 there, because she liked to love me even better 
 than he could know. She was so kind. Once 
 I broke out in tears, and asked her to give me 
 counsel ; had I erred in being too happy, and 
 would she set me straight? She told me the 
 truths I asked for. Eomney could never love 
 me even if he would, — that is, in the way men 
 ought to love. He was set on wedding my 
 class and acting out an opinion, and once mar- 
 ried, so just a man could not help but make life 
 for me as smooth as a marriage-ring ; but how 
 about him ? She hesitated. It was hard for her 
 to say the truth. It was plain, though, a man 
 like Eomney required a wife more on his own 
 level. You take a pink and water it carefully 
 and dig about its roots, but you can never change 
 it to a heliotrope ; the kind remains. Then, 
 too, the harder truth : the tender heart which 
 made him kind to the lower classes would be 
 sensitive to the criticism of the higher. She 
 made it very clear." Marian slowly rocked the 
 baby, who was nearly asleep. " And I saw the 
 whole thing plainly. Indeed, she told me, too, 
 that she knew that Eomney had once loved her, 
 and she loved him, she might say, now the 
 thing was forever over, but that, of course, he 
 had never guessed it ; and yet, though I stood 
 between them, she said she loved me truly."
 
 Aurora Leigh. 165 
 
 Did I laugh or curse ? I sat there in silence 
 hearing all double, Marian's tale and Romney's 
 marriage-vow : " I'll keep to thee," which of 
 course meant that woman-serpent. 
 
 " Lady Waldemar spoke more," said Marian, 
 " but I heeded less because I suffered so. The 
 generous lady tried to keep me from my resolu- 
 tion to leave Eomney, and struggled hard to 
 make my way clear to stay." 
 
 " Perhaps he is sliding the ring on that woman's 
 finger now," I thought to myself as she spoke. 
 
 " But she failed to convince me," Marian con- 
 tinued ; " and finding her willing to help me, I 
 thought I could breathe freer away from Eng- 
 land. She promised to place me under the pro- 
 tection of a woman who had once been her 
 waiting-maid and who was about to sail for 
 Australia, and so from day to day the woman 
 came to visit me." 
 
 Suddenly Marian stopped speaking ancl sat 
 erect, staring at me as if I had been a ghost. 
 
 " Does God make all sorts of creatures, do 
 you really think ?" she said. " It made me 
 tremble if that woman touched my hand, I 
 never liked her voice, and when she said a fon- 
 dling word I shrank back from her. At last I 
 spoke to Lady Waldemar and asked her if such 
 a woman could be good to trust. She stroked 
 my cheek and laughed. 'Foolish girl,' she said,
 
 166 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 ' your wits are wool-gathering ; leave it all to 
 me.' "Well, the rest is short. I was obedient 
 and wrote the letter to him, and then the woman 
 took me off so dull and blind, not seeing by 
 what road I went, and led me aboard a ship 
 which might be bound for Sydney or France, 
 I did not care which. The sea-sickness, the 
 foreign shore; the shameful house, the night — 
 there was no need to bring the drugged cup, 
 and yet they brought it. Then at last I woke 
 up as if I were in the grave. I was mad, and 
 they feared my eyes and let me wander where I 
 pleased out into the open country. The charita- 
 ble peasants gave me food and twice tied a holy 
 image about my neck. How heavy it seemed ! 
 I threw it in a ditch because it hindered my 
 breathing; and the weeks passed on while I 
 lived my old tramp-life over again. And then 
 I sat one evening b}^ the roadside, I, Marian 
 Earle, myself, alone, undone, facing a sunset 
 across the flats as if it were the end of time." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Marian told me her whole sad story down to 
 the day on which she and I sat in her httle attic 
 room, and when she had finished, my heart and 
 soul were with her against the world and all its 
 conventions. 
 
 " Come with me, sweetest sister," I said.
 
 Aurora Leigh. 167 
 
 " Henceforward you and I will stay together, 
 and the boy will not miss a father, since he will 
 have two mothers. I mean to go to the south, 
 to my home in Tuscany, and there you shall go 
 also." 
 
 She looked me in the face, but made no answer, 
 nor did she thank me at all ; only took up the 
 sleeping child and held it out for me to kiss, as 
 if to pay me richly and show that she trusted 
 me. 
 
 Then we came to my lodging, and I placed 
 the child and mother in the little room, wheres 
 I could hear them breathing in their sleep. The 
 next day we were off for Italy. 
 
 I thought much about writing to Eomney of 
 the revelations made to me by Marian, but I 
 feared to disturb his peace if he really loved 
 Lady Waldemar. Suppose, moreover, my letter 
 should arrive too late ? Would it be generous 
 to pain the husband by exposing the vileness. 
 of the wife ? No, I decided to keep her secret. 
 Why agonize the man I loved — the friend I 
 loved — by such news? It is strange how I 
 listened as Marian told her story; not to her, 
 but to a voice I had heard years ago among the 
 garden trees. " Be my wife, Aurora," it had 
 said to me, and I thought. Ah, if I had been 
 the kind of a woman who could save a man 
 through love, I might have saved Eomney and
 
 168 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 perhaps made a nobler poem than all those I've 
 failed in since. 
 
 Well, how one weeps when one's over-weary ! 
 If a witness had been by he'd have said I loved 
 my cousin, and yet, — who knows ? But I put 
 away the weakness before long and wrote some 
 plain words to Lord Howe in England. I told 
 him that Marian was found, and revealed to 
 him Lady Waldemar's part in her flight, 
 which he was to conceal from Eomney unless 
 the wedding had not yet taken place. 
 
 Then I wrote to Lady Waldemar, and poured 
 out all the bitterness of my loathing ; told her 
 all, in bold and unhesitating words ; but pledged 
 myself to keep her secret to save him, solely to 
 save Am, from distress. 
 
 The next day we took train for Italy and fled 
 southward amid the roar of steam, through 
 which, to me at least, came constantly an echo 
 of Eomney's far-away wedding-bells. 
 
 In Florence, I found a house on the hill of 
 Bellosguardo, which overlooked the city lying 
 below in the valley. Many weeks passed quietly 
 there, but no word came from England, until at 
 last, one day, I received a letter from Yincent 
 Carrington. He upbraided me for not acknowl- 
 edging the receipt of his remittance, and told 
 me among other news that he meant to marry 
 my old friend Kate Ward. He then spoke of
 
 Aurora Leigh. 169 
 
 my cousin Eomney. He had been taken with 
 a fever lately, and Lady "VYaldemar had tended 
 him with the care and faithfulness of a house- 
 hold nurse. He said I was right about Lord 
 Howe ; he was a trump, and yet with cards like 
 him in his hand Leigh could lose as he did ! 
 
 The noonday seemed unusually stifling as I 
 read. It was scorching in my room even with 
 the sun shut out. The closed persiani threw 
 long shadows on the floor and across the couch 
 where I sat. The lines of the letter seemed 
 blurred as I read. 
 
 "Well, he's married, that's clear," I mused, 
 and threw open the blinds to let in some air ; 
 but the insufferable humming of the cicale 
 grated on my senses and the sun seemed to 
 blister my face. I brooded long over all that 
 had happened in so brief a time, and through all 
 dominating and coloring it, was the thought of 
 Eomney's marriage. The lady had nursed him 
 when he was ill, mixed his drinks and tenderly 
 watched him, and why should he not marry 
 her? And yet the recent revelations I had 
 heard, my knowledge of the woman, and my 
 cousinly love for Eomney, — all these feelings 
 made it a pain to me, a haunting bitterness. 
 
 But the days went by, and gradually I took 
 up the old Tuscan life, shorn though it was of 
 the early halo of beauty. It seemed to me that 
 H 15
 
 170 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 my new existence in the familiar land was like 
 a book long ago dropped in the grass after 
 reading it with some loving friend, and found in 
 the autumn when the grass was dead and the 
 friend gone. I lived tenderly and mournfully 
 among the shadows of memory, seeing again 
 the familiar creatures and flowers, but seeing 
 them farther off and no longer mine. There 
 was a gulf between us which I could not explain 
 and could not cross. The birds were there, but 
 I could no longer pair with them, and the sun 
 seemed to forbid the dew from falling as I once 
 knew it. 
 
 I rode out to our little house on the mountain- 
 side, half expecting, somehow, to find my father 
 still there ; but all was changed, and I abruptly 
 turned back. That was disappointment enough. 
 I did not dare to visit my father's and mother's 
 graves. I wished rather to think them visiting 
 my grave — my life grave — there on the Floren- 
 tine hills. Old Assunta was dead, too, and the 
 land seemed to belong to the past. I, perhaps, 
 was of the past also, only not in heaven like the 
 rest. 
 
 One evening as I sat alone on the terrace 
 around my tower, holding a book open on my 
 knees, but only pretending to read. I was startled 
 by Marian's laugh in the garden below. It 
 sounded strangely, like the laugh of a sad and
 
 Aurora Leigh. 171 
 
 innocent soul that was frightened by its own 
 gayety. She looked up in sudden shame to have 
 me hear her, and I dropped my eyes quickly on 
 my book. It was Boccaccio's tale of the wooer 
 who gave the sole thing that loved him as a 
 sacrifice for love. Some of us do the same 
 thing still, and never laugh again ; but Marian 
 had the right to laugh, because God himself and 
 a little child were her partisans. 
 
 The night was approaching, and gradually the 
 purple shadows had filled up the whole valley 
 and covered the darkened city. The duomo 
 bell struck ten, and a score of churches made 
 answer. Some gas-lights trembled along the 
 streets and in the squares. The outline of the 
 Pitti palace was drawn in fire, and down past 
 the quays, in the Maria Novella Place, where 
 the mystic obelisks rise, was? Buonarroti's Bride, 
 that looks out from her dial eyes vainly seeking 
 for his rich soul. I felt as if I had plunged into 
 the midst of it all from my hill-side perch, it lay 
 so clearly below me. Then, like one enthroned 
 below the water, there stood my sea-king ! 
 
 I felt rather than saw him. I rose up and 
 sat down again, struggling for self-possession, 
 I would have died for him, yet would not bate 
 an inch of my full prerogative. 
 
 "You, Eomney!" I said. " Lady "Waldemar 
 is here ?"
 
 172 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " I have her letter ; you shall read it pres- 
 ently," he replied, in a voice unlike his own. " I 
 y must first be heard a little. I have travelled 
 far and waited so long for that." 
 
 I could not tell whether he touched my hand 
 or only my sleeve. I trembled so much that I 
 knew he must have touched me. 
 
 "Will you sit down?" I said, motioning to a 
 chair ; but he sank slowly down on the couch 
 beside me instead. 
 
 " This is a great surprise. Cousin Eomney," I 
 said; "but everything is a wonder on these 
 summer nights." And I motioned to the stars 
 overhead. 
 
 " Then you do not know ?" he said, softly. 
 
 " Yes, I know. Vincent Carrington sent me 
 the news; but I did not suppose you would 
 leave the work in England even for such a 
 reason ; though of course you'll make the holi- 
 day a work-day as well, — turn it to use for the 
 Tuscan poor ?" 
 
 " Carrington sent you the news?" he echoed. 
 " And did he give his personal news ?" 
 
 " Yes ; the whole world over there seems to 
 be crumbling into marriage. I think he has 
 chosen very wisely." 
 
 " Do you think so, and is it possible at last ?" 
 he said. Then, as if musing to himself, he 
 added : " Well, the knowledge could scarcely have
 
 Aurora Leigh. 173 
 
 changed the case for me, and what has happened 
 is surely best for her." 
 
 "What," I thought, "he loves Kate Ward 
 now, because he is married to Lady Waldemar!" 
 Then I said, quietly, — 
 
 "I did not think you knew Kate Ward, 
 Cousin Romney." 
 
 " I never did," he said. " It is enough that 
 Yincent did, and chose to marry her." Then 
 turning to me abruptly : " You did not get a 
 letter from Lord Howe, a month back, Aurora ?" 
 
 " IS'o !" I said, in some surprise. 
 
 *' I felt it was so," he replied, " and yet it is 
 certainly strange. Did Sir Blaise Delorme pass 
 through Florence ?" 
 
 " Yes. I saw him in Our Lady's Church ; 
 just a glimpse ; he did not see me. But why 
 did Lord Howe prefer him to the post ?" 
 
 " Well, there were facts to tell. Howe sup- 
 posed — but no matter. You hoard the news 
 from Carrington, yet you would have been less 
 startled to see me, Aurora, if you had read the 
 letter." 
 
 " Dear Eomney," I began, " it did not use to 
 be necessary for you to have precoursers to 
 spread carpets before you when you came. Yet 
 I'm sorry to lose so famous a letter. Doubtless 
 I've missed a deal of London gossip by the 
 misfortune, for Lord Howe writes charmingly." 
 
 15*
 
 174 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 He made no direct reply, only said, abruptly 
 " Marian's well ?" 
 
 I bowed my head. It was hard to speak of 
 her to Lady Waldemar's husband. How much 
 did he really know ? He seemed not to take 
 the hint, however, but repeated, — 
 
 " Marian, is she well ?" 
 
 " She's well," I said, for she was there in sight 
 but an hour back, though the night had now 
 brought her in-doors, where I could hear her in 
 the upper room singing the child to sleep. 
 
 " Here ?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes, here," said I. 
 
 He stopped and sighed : " Well, we must drop 
 that for the time. I have another thing to 
 speak about, and I must be alone with you to 
 say it." 
 
 " Say it now," I said ; " she will not vex you." 
 He suddenly turned his face full on me and 
 smiled, as if to crush me. 
 
 " I have read your book, Aurora." 
 
 " Well, then, you have read it and I have writ 
 it," replied I, " and let us have done with it. 
 And now for the rest " 
 
 " The rest is just like the first," he said, " for 
 the book has stolen into my heart, lives in me, 
 dreams in me." 
 
 I replied, with a touch of bitterness, " It lived 
 in me before it lived in you, and I know better
 
 Aurora Leigh. 175 
 
 how foolish and feeble it is, how unworthy of 
 such words." 
 
 " The poet always looks beyond his book," he 
 said, earnestly, " but this special book seems to 
 stand above me and draw me up to it. It may 
 be that it is not so high, but I so low." 
 
 I answered vaguely, and he taxed me with 
 inattention. 
 
 " I'm thinking," I said, " of a certain June day 
 when you and I talked of life and art, while 
 both of us were untried in either. It was my 
 birthday, and was morning then, while now it 
 is night." 
 
 " And now night," he repeated, absently. 
 
 " I'm thinking," I resumed, " that if I had 
 known on that dewy morning my cousin Eom- 
 ney could ever say such words of a book of 
 mine, it would have pleased me better to hope 
 for them than it can be even now to hear 
 them." 
 
 " True," he said again ; " it is night." 
 
 "And there are the stars," I added, lightly. 
 "Let's talk of stars, not books." 
 
 But he murmured again " night," and seemed 
 not to hear me. At last he broke out in a low 
 voice, — 
 
 " I have come to you, Aurora, just to breathe 
 out my soul before I humbly go away forever, 
 like a punished child into a corner."
 
 176 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " "Wisely, cousin," I said, " and worthily of both 
 of us." 
 
 " Yes, worthily," he continued ; " for this time 
 I mean to confess that I, who felt the world 
 tugging at me for help as if there was no other 
 to do the work, that I, to-night, know myself 
 for just what I was on that June day. You 
 were young, Aurora, but you spoke the truth ; 
 while I — well, I built up follies that shut the 
 sunshine away from my face." 
 
 " Speak wisely. Cousin Leigh," I said. 
 
 " Yes, but too late, dear Aurora," he replied. 
 " I was heavy and stupid then, and heard the 
 cries of misery so close that I never distinguished 
 the sound of angel- wings in the air. The world 
 seemed one great famishing mouth, and I was 
 put there to supply it with bread, nothing more." 
 
 " Ah, you are sad to-night, cousin," I said. 
 " Did all your labors at Leigh Hall really come 
 to naught ?" 
 
 " All to naught," he said, half smiling at his 
 discomfiture. " They broke my windows ; and 
 I was shot at once or twice, but escaped injury. 
 Finally they set fire to the Hall and burned it 
 to the ground. You have never heard, then ? 
 Vincent could not have sent all the news." 
 
 " They did ?" I cried ; " they actually burnt 
 Leigh Hall?" 
 
 " You're sorry, Aurora ! Yes, they did it com-
 
 Aurora Leigh. 177 
 
 pletely, a thorough piece of work ; no failure 
 there !" 
 
 " Then I shall never again see the old chim- 
 neys from my little window ?" 
 
 "No more," he said. "If you should climb 
 the hills now you would come to a great charred 
 circle, with a single stone stairway in its midst 
 winding up to nowhere, just like my life." 
 
 I did not make any answer. Had I a right 
 to sympathize with this man, between whose 
 soul and mine stood another woman? The 
 silence lengthened till it grew oppressive. Then 
 I spoke to keep from stifling. 
 
 " I think 5'ou were ill afterwards?" 
 
 *' Yes," he said ; " but unluckily I failed to die, 
 just as I have always failed to live, and thus, 
 having tried all other ways, I resolved to trust 
 in Grod's way. We make up our virtues so often 
 out of threadbare sins. Is it right, for instance, 
 to wed here while you love there ? But if a 
 man sins once, the sin so sticks to him that if 
 he does not sin to damn himself, he sins to 
 damn others with himself, thus to wed here 
 while loving there becomes a duty. But she 
 is certainly my true wife, poor lamb, poor child ; 
 and yet, Aurora, it is cruel to vex you any 
 more now ; having said what I came to say, I 
 will try to please you. She shall have all that 
 is needful for her and hers: protection, teu- 
 II. — in
 
 178 Tales from, Ten Poets. 
 
 der liking, freedom, ease. They'll make small 
 amends for the hideous evil she would have 
 escaped but for me, and for this loss of a gra- 
 cious friend, which she must also forfeit for my 
 sake " 
 
 Here he stopped and reached out his hand, 
 I looked up, and he said, — 
 
 " Drop your hand for a moment in mine, sweet ; 
 we're parting now." 
 
 I timidly touched his fingers. 
 
 " "What a touch !" he said. " You grudge me a 
 parting hand-shake ? Are you angry because I 
 could not bear even you living side by side with 
 one I called my wife ? Do not be so cruel, 
 Aurora ; you must understand me. Your light- 
 est footflill would shake my whole house. It is 
 night henceforth with me, and I put up the 
 shutters against Auroras." 
 
 He smiled feebly, with his hand stretched 
 sideways towards me, and, rising, I wondered 
 if he had gone mad under stress of his suffering. 
 I spoke quietly with a tremulous pride : 
 
 " Go, cousin ; a farewell was sooner spoken in 
 those old days than seems now to suit you. I 
 wish you well. I'm sorry for the trials you've 
 had, not only for your sake, but mankind's. We 
 can never shift our places as dear friends — no, 
 do not interrupt me ; but, as you said, we are 
 parting. More than once to-night you've un-
 
 Aurora Leigh. 179 
 
 deservedly mocked me, and I am much surprised. 
 So far as I am concerned, Eomney, you will 
 owe your wife no amends. She has not held so 
 fast to my gown that you will have to entreat 
 her to let go. The lady never was a friend of 
 mine, so, rest content, I'll never intrude upon 
 your happiness ; you need not put up the shut- 
 ters to keep out Auroras. My larks fly higher 
 than some people's windows. It would indeed 
 shake your house if I came with an outstretched 
 hand warm from the clasp of one — of one we 
 know — to acknowledge as mistress there a Lady 
 Waldemar." 
 
 " Now God be with us !" he interrupted, with 
 a sudden clash of voice. " What name's that, 
 Aurora?" 
 
 " Pardon me," I said , " I hope I may name 
 your wife without wounding you." 
 
 " Are you mad ?" he cried. " Wife ! Mine ! 
 Lady Waldemar !" He threw his noble head 
 back and laughed with a sort of helpless scorn, 
 while I stood and trembled. 
 
 "May God judge me!" he said at last. "I 
 stand convicted and sorely humbled. I came 
 because you had shown me from your own soul 
 a glimpse of true light ; because, too, I had 
 formerly wronged you, and have ever since by 
 my arrogance, though I loved you best, as is 
 written plainly in the book of my misdeeds. I
 
 180 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 came here, I say, to abase myself, and fasten 
 the garland on brows whence I had once wrong- 
 fully plucked it. But here again I am baffled. 
 There's no room left for me at the feet of any 
 woman who misconceives my nature, purpose, 
 possible actions. Ah, Aurora, you've left your 
 height and we take hands on my level. I reach 
 down to forgive you, sweet, and that's a fall. 
 Men have burnt my house, maligned my mo- 
 tives, but not one, I swear, has wronged my 
 soul as you have, who can call Lady Walde- 
 mar my wife !" 
 
 "Not married to her!" I cried. "Yet you 
 said " 
 
 " Again ? But read ; she sent you this through 
 me!" 
 
 He held out a letter, and I mechanically took 
 it from him. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 LadtWaldemar's letter was one of ill-hidden 
 hatred. She told me in sentences made to sting, 
 but subtly woven with courtesy, how she envied 
 and loathed me. She told me, too, what it was 
 more interesting and novel for me to learn, that, 
 having nursed Eomney through his illness, and 
 exercised her most winning allurements on him, 
 yet she had found him unyielding, and at last 
 abandoned the pursuit. Ho had asked her,
 
 Aurora Leigh. 181 
 
 as he grew better, to read from my book to Kim, 
 •which she had done with the best grace possi- 
 ble; but it was an unpalatable task after her 
 months of self-sacrifice, and she resolved that 
 next time he should find another reader. She 
 triumphed over us both, she said, and abruptly- 
 left him. When she next saw him, she had 
 read my letter and her own heart as well. He 
 went with Lord Howe to thank her, but she 
 received them with coolness, and asked his par- 
 don for having been so unwise as to love him. 
 She was quite cured of the malady by that time. 
 Then she told him her version of Marian's story, 
 which she repeated in this letter to me, and 
 which touched with less sombre tints the details 
 of the cruel plot, throwing new suspicion on 
 Marian to excuse her own part in it. She heaped 
 some vindictive words on me at the close of her 
 letter, and ended by avowing a bitter hatred, even 
 cursing me for having defrauded her of love. 
 
 When I had done reading, I stood there in 
 the moonlight by Eomney's side confused and 
 deeply wounded. I had caught the sense of 
 the letter in a momentary glance through it. 
 
 " Ah, not married ?" I said. 
 
 " You mistake," he answered, softly. " I am 
 mari-ied. Is not Marian Earle my wife? As 
 God sees things, I have a wife and child ; and 
 as I honor God, I am here to claim them!" 
 
 1^
 
 182 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 It was difficult to get my breath and harder 
 still to speak. 
 
 But some one else had come there to speak 
 for me. 
 
 "Eomney! my good angel, Eomney!" she 
 said, in an ardent whisper. 
 
 Then for the first time I knew that Marian 
 Earle was beautiful. She stood like a pale saint 
 in an ecstasy, — as if the moonlight streamed be- 
 tween her feet and the earth and raised her up 
 upon its steady rays. 
 
 " I left my child asleep," she said, " and was 
 drawn here by your voices. I heard your last 
 words,— friend! Confirm me now. You take 
 this Marian just as she is for your honorable 
 wife ?" 
 
 He stretched out his arms towards her thrill- 
 ing voice, as if to draw it into an embrace. 
 
 "I take her as God made her and as men 
 have failed to unmake her, for my honored 
 wife." 
 
 She neither raised her eyes nor moved. 
 
 " You take this Marian's child, which is also 
 her shame, in sight of men and women, for 
 your own child, of whom you will never feel 
 ashamed ?" 
 
 lie stepped towards the proud and pathetic 
 voice, still with outstretched arms, as if he de- 
 sired to quench it upon his breast.
 
 Aurora Leigh. 183 
 
 " May God so father me and so forsake me as I 
 do Marian's child whom here I take in all things 
 as my own." 
 
 Then she turned slowly towards me : " And 
 you, — will you blame me very much? What 
 if I take this hand stretched out to us as a 
 grace and protection for him? I will be bound 
 by what you say." 
 
 She spoke in a low, passionless voice as one in 
 authority, not lowly Marian Earle. 
 
 " Accept the gift, say I, sister Marian, and be 
 satisfied there's a soul behind the hand that will 
 never quail for having given, no matter what 
 the world babbles. Here's my hand, too, to 
 clasp yours ; and, as I'm a woman and a Leigh, 
 I vow that Eoinney is honored in his choice." 
 
 Her broad, wild, woodland eyes shot out a 
 rapturous light. 
 
 "Thank you, my great Aurora!" And she 
 sprang forward, dropping her impassioned head 
 with all its brown curls like a spaniel on Eom- 
 ney's feet. We heard the kisses drawn through 
 her sobs. 
 
 " Oh, Romney, oh, my angel, unchanged, 
 though I have passed through the grave since 
 we parted ! Death itself could only change you, 
 not make you better!" 
 
 When he tried vainly to raise her to his arms, 
 she leaped like a fawn and alighted beyond his
 
 184 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 reach. She stood there with her great eyes 
 and drijDping cheeks, and shook her head as if 
 to keep down some rising thoughts. Then, 
 after a pause, she said, — 
 
 " But, Eomney, if one who loved you as I 
 once loved is dead and gone away where there 
 is no wedlock, will she ever be able to revive 
 and wed you now? You'll see it plainer after- 
 wards. It is fated that you and I must never, 
 never join hands. Do not think I speak from 
 a false humility. I have come to learn through 
 the long nights that a woman, poor or rich, 
 honored or despised, is a human soul. I know 
 you'll not be angry, Eomney, when I tell you 
 the truth. Yet truly, I do not love you. Did I 
 once, or did I only worship ? I never questioned. 
 I never thought to be anything but your slave. 
 I was wholly yours ; but that was before I heard 
 my child cry in the desert night. For me, the 
 ghost of Marian loves no more, — nothing, ex- 
 cept the child. I could not bear to see him on 
 a good man's knee. I swear, that if I loved 
 you like some I know, — for eyes that weep see 
 clearly — ^yet I've no room for more children in 
 my arms; my kisses are all melted on one 
 mouth. As for you, wed a noble wife, and 
 open your great souls upon each other. If I 
 dared reach towards her in her upper sphere 
 and bid her come down to you, I should be full
 
 Aurora Leigh. 185 
 
 of joy. But I dare not, — though I guess her 
 name. I remember how vexed you were in the 
 old days when some one came or did not come. 
 I could touch her now, but I fly because I dare 
 not do it." 
 
 She was gone. He smiled so sternly that I 
 hastened to speak. 
 
 " Forgive her," I said ; " she sees clearly what 
 is best for herself. Her instinct is holy." 
 
 " I forgive," he said. " I only marvel that 
 
 she sees so surely, while others " Here he 
 
 paused, then hoarsely and abruptly went on : 
 " Aurora, can you forgive her and me ? You 
 know she loves you well, while for me — if I 
 have once or twice let my heart escape to-night, 
 remember we're parting !" Then again he broke 
 through his assumed repose and cried, passion- 
 ately, " O love, I have loved you ! O my soul, 
 I have lost you ! But I swear, I am not so base 
 as to regret that June morning or this night 
 which is still fair to you. Not so blind, Aurora ; 
 I protest, that, by those stars which I cannot 
 see " 
 
 " You cannot, Eomney ?" 
 
 " — that, if Heaven itself should remix the lots 
 and give me another chance I'd say, ' No other !' 
 Aurora never must be my wife." 
 
 " Not see the stars ?" I repeated. 
 
 " It is worse still, dear, not to see your hand, 
 
 16*
 
 186 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 although we are parting. Let me hold it a mo- 
 ment before I go, and understand my last words. 
 I would not have you think when I'm gone that 
 I dared to hanker for your love and wished to 
 use it as a dog, to help a stumbling blind man. 
 God forbid! Believe me, dear, if I had known 
 what loss was to come upon me, I would have 
 done as well as He has who kept your eyes wide 
 for my faults. Farewell, then, you who are still 
 my light. It is very late, I know that, now. 
 You've been too patient, sweet. I will blow my 
 whistle out towards the lane, and the one who 
 brought me will come. Go in. Good-night." 
 
 " Wait a moment," I cried. " It cannot, can- 
 not be true! I hold your hands, look into 
 your face, — you see me Eomney, surely ?" 
 
 "No more than the blessed stars," he said. 
 "You tremble, dear Aurora. The same dear, 
 soft heart as always. It was this that grieved 
 me, — Howe's letter never reached you, then? 
 You had heard of my illness, but not all, 
 not of the sudden revulsion in the burning 
 house, the strain of body and soul which almost 
 turned my blood to fire, and then the falling 
 beam that struck me on the forehead as I passed 
 the gallery-door with my burden? I hope it 
 may have follen accidentally, but I dread to think 
 it was tilted my way by Marian's father, whom 
 I had found and tried to tame. But not a word
 
 Aurora Leigh. 187 
 
 to her ! He laughed, and neither of us supposed 
 the wound so deep ; but " 
 
 "Blind, Eomney?" 
 
 " You'll learn to say it cheerfully, Aurora. I 
 desponded a little at first, — it seemed hard " 
 
 "No hope?" I asked. 
 
 " Do not cry, Aurora. I feel your tears on 
 my hand. Yes, there's hope, — not of sight, the 
 visual nerve is withered. But the man who 
 was once so restless and ambitious to renovate 
 the world is now contented. My personal loss 
 has made me hopeful for others who lose. I've 
 come to a happier faith. I find we gain through 
 compensation. I am as tender for the suffering 
 world as of old, but quieter; more willing to 
 learn. Surely there's still hope, Aurora." 
 
 "Is there hope for me, too, — for me? If I 
 came and said what a woman should not say, — 
 pride lingers, you know, till we break our hearts 
 against it, — if I said, — I love — I love you, Eom- 
 ney !" 
 
 " Silence !" he exclaimed. " A woman's pity 
 may make her mad ; but a man must not cheat 
 his soul to betray it. It is hard, though!" 
 Then sadly turning, " Farewell, Aurora." 
 
 " But I love you, Romney ; and when a woman 
 says she loves, the man to whom she says it 
 must hear her, even if he does not love her, 
 for which — hush, you shall answer in your
 
 188 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 turn — she will not blame him. As for me, 
 you call it pity and generosity , and it would be 
 easier for a proud spirit like mine to let it pass 
 for that. But, no matter, the truth must come 
 out. I must be humble. No, my love is no 
 mere pity. I am not generous, — never was, or 
 else I should never have grudged so much your 
 power to give. I would take no gifts from any 
 one but God, and meant to use them as I chose. 
 You admit you were wrong, Eomney; but I 
 was wrong too in most things: I exalted the 
 artist in me at the expense of the woman. Now 
 I know that art is much, but love is much more. 
 Oh, Eomney, I am changed since then, saving 
 in one thing, that is, I love you, loved you first 
 and last and will forever. They knew it. Lady 
 Waldemar and Marian, and I might have known 
 it too if I had been more honest. You, dear, 
 mistook the world, but I mistook my own heart, 
 and that was fatal. Will you leave me here, 
 then, Eomney, so wrong, and proud, a mere in- 
 consolable woman ? — and I love you so, I love 
 
 you, Eomney " 
 
 I could scarce see his face for weeping, and I 
 know not whether I dropped against his breast 
 or felt his arms first about me. Was it my 
 cheeks that were hot and overflowed with tears, 
 or his? There were words between us that 
 seemed to melt apart in the utterance, and a
 
 Aurora Leigh. 189 
 
 long embrace ; then a kiss, silent as the wait- 
 ing night, and deep shuddering breaths that 
 meant all that voice or kiss could not mean. 
 I have tried to write down what he said ; but 
 if an angel should speak in thunder, should we 
 know anything saving that it thundered? I 
 only know that he loved me to the depth and 
 height of his large nature, and that I returned 
 his love. 
 
 I lifted my hand in his, and he turned in- 
 stinctively towards the eastern hills, where the 
 first foundations of that new day which should 
 be built out of heaven to God were being laid 
 in jasper-stone clear as glass. He stood with 
 erect brows a moment in silence as one who 
 gazed into the distance, and fed his majestic 
 blind eyes upon the thought of the perfect 
 noon to come. When I saw his soul saw, — 
 
 " Jasper first, Eomney," I said ; " sapphire, 
 second; chalcedony, third; and the rest in or- 
 der ; last, an amethyst."
 
 .CVA<>WA K ^ :>\vV Y'Y kVv
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD.
 
 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 
 
 JtfA TTHE W ARNOLD.
 
 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 
 
 The earliest gray of morning was stealing up 
 from the east, and with it rose the fog out of the 
 broad river Oxus. The Tartar camp, which lay 
 along the banks of the stream, was still hushed 
 in sleep, but Sohrab alone of all the host was 
 stirring. He had tossed wakefully upon his 
 bed of mats through the long night, and when 
 the first light of morning stole into his tent, he 
 rose and clad himself and put on his sword, 
 then took his horseman's cloak and went out 
 into the fog, and through the dim camp to 
 Peran-Wisa's tent. 
 
 The black Tartar tents stood like a cluster of 
 bee-hives 'on the flat shore of the Oxus, and 
 Sohrab passed through them to a hillock a little 
 back from the water. Once the place had been 
 crowned with a clay fort, but it had fallen into 
 ruin now, and there the Tartars had built a 
 shelter for Peran-Wisa. It was a dome of laths 
 with felts spread over it, and inside were thick- 
 piled carpets. 
 
 II.— I n 17 193
 
 194 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 "When Sohrab entered, he found the old man 
 asleep on his bed of rugs with his weapons laid 
 near at hand. Peran-Wisa heard him, though 
 his step was dulled by the carpets. He rose 
 quickly on one arm. 
 
 " Who are you ?" said he. " It is not yet clear 
 dawn, and I cannot see. Is there news, or a 
 night-alarm ?" 
 
 Sohrab went up to his bedside. 
 
 " You know me, Peran-Wisa. It is I. The 
 sun is not yet up. and the foe are still asleep. 
 I lay wakeful all night long, so I have come to 
 you. In Samarcand, before we marched, King 
 Afrasiab bade me ask your counsel, and heed 
 you as if I were your son. Now I need your 
 aid. Have I not served Afrasiab truly since I 
 first came among the Tartars from Ader-baijan ? 
 Have I not shown the courage of a man in my 
 bojnsh years? You know, too, while I bear on 
 the conquering Tartar ensigns and beat back the 
 Persians, that I am always seeking my father, 
 Eustum, who, I hope, may one day greet me on 
 a well-fought field. Yet I can never find him. 
 Now hear what I ask, and grant it to me, for I 
 have it much at "heart. To-day let the two 
 armies rest; but I will challenge the bravest 
 Persian lords to meet me, man to man. If I 
 prevail, Eustum will hear of it ; if I fall, the 
 dead claim no kin, and all's well."
 
 SoJirah and Rustum. 195 
 
 Peran-Wisa took the young warrior's hand in 
 his and sighed. 
 
 "What an unquiet heart is yours, Sohrab! 
 Why cannot you rest among the Tartar chiefs 
 and share the common chance with us who love 
 you ? If the one desire rules all, seek Eustum 
 in peace, not in war. Carry an unwounded son 
 to his arms. But you must look far from here. 
 He is not here. When I was young it was 
 different. Then Eustum was in the front of 
 every fight. But now, either because he is 
 growing old or has quarrelled with the Persian 
 king, he sits at home in Seistan with his father 
 Zal. There, go now! What, you will not? Ah, 
 my heart forebodes danger to you on the field ; 
 but who can keep the lion's cub from ravening ? 
 I grant what you ask, Sohrab, but I had rather 
 send you away in peace to seek your father." 
 
 He dropped the youth's hand and rose from 
 his bed, drawing his woollen coat on his chilly 
 limbs. Then he tied on his sandals, threw a 
 white cloak about him, took up his ruler's staff 
 and sheepskin cap, and, raising the tent-curtain, 
 called his herald to his side and went abroad. 
 
 By this time the sun had risen and cleared 
 the fog from the river, and the Tartar horse- 
 men were filing from their black tents into the 
 open plain. First went the King's guard, with 
 black sheepskin caps and long spears. They
 
 196 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 "were large men, mounted on large steeds. 'Next 
 the southern Toorkmuns, the Tukas, the lances 
 of Salore, and those from Attruck, — light men, 
 on light horses. After these came a swarm 
 of wandering riders from far off, and owning 
 doubtful service : Tartars of Ferghana with 
 scanty beards and close-set skull-caps ; wild 
 hordes from the 'northern wastes ; Kalmucks 
 and wandering Kirghizzes upon shaggy horses 
 from Pamere. 
 
 The Persians were forming on the other side. 
 First, a light cloud of horse ; then, behind these, 
 the royal Persian troops, both horse and foot, in 
 burnished armor, 
 
 Down through the Tartar squadrons old 
 Peran-Wisa, with his herald, came slowly to 
 the front, keeping back the foremost ranks with 
 his staff; and when Ferood, the leader of the 
 Persians, saw this, he took his spear and also 
 came to the front, checking his ranks where 
 they stood. Then Peran-Wisa came out upon 
 the sand between the silent armies. 
 
 " Ferood, and you, Persians and Tartars, 
 hear!" said he, in a clear, commanding voice. 
 " To-day let there be a truce between us, and 
 choose you a champion among the Persian 
 lords to fight Sohrab, our champion, man to 
 man." 
 
 A thrill of hope and pride ran through the
 
 Sohrab and Bustum. 197 
 
 Tartar squadrons, for they loved Sohrab and 
 gloried in his prowess. 
 
 But the Persians were stricken with fear, and 
 Ferood's brother-chiefs, Gudurz, Zoarrah, and 
 Feraburz, came up to counsel with him. 
 
 " Ferood," said Gudurz, " we must take up 
 this challenge, but what champion have we to 
 match Sohrab? He has the foot of the wild 
 stag and a lion's heart. Yet Rustum came 
 hither last night, and has sullenly pitched his 
 tents behind the camp. Let me go to him and 
 carry this Tartar challenge and the young war- 
 rior's name. He may forget his anger and 
 stand forth in our defence." 
 
 " Old man," cried Ferood across to Peran- 
 Wisa, " be it as you say. Let Sohrab arm, and 
 we will find a man to meet him." 
 
 Then Peran-Wisa strode back through the 
 opening squadrons, and Gudurz ran through 
 the ranks of anxious Persians, and crossed the 
 camp to Rustum's tents out on the sand. They 
 were of scarlet cloth. The high pavilion in the 
 centre was Eustum's, and there Gudurz found 
 him, still at the table, though he had finished his 
 morning meal. Before him was a side of roasted 
 sheep, and cakes of bread, and dark-green 
 melons ; but he sat listlessly playing with a 
 falcon perched on his wrist. Gudurz went up 
 and stood before him, and presently EusLum 
 
 17*
 
 198 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 saw him, and sprang forward with a cry, drop- 
 ping the bird, and greeting him with both 
 hands. 
 
 " Welcome ! These eyes could not see a better 
 sight. What news? But sit down first, and 
 eat and drink." 
 
 Gudurz stood impatiently in the tent door. 
 " Not now," he said ; " a time will come for 
 that, but not to-day. Other needs press. The 
 armies are drawn out. A challenge has come 
 from the Tartars to choose a champion from 
 among us to fight their champion. You know 
 his name, — he is called Sohrab, but his birth is 
 hidden. His might is like yours, Eustum. He 
 has the wild stag's foot and the lion's heart. He 
 is young, and Iran's chiefs are either too old or 
 too weak to meet him. Come down and help 
 us, or we shall be shamed." 
 
 Eustum smiled disdainfully. 
 
 " If Iran's chiefs are old," he said, " I am older. 
 If the young are weak, the King has erred, for 
 he himself is young and honors younger men, 
 letting us who are old moulder to our graves. 
 He loves me no more, but loves the young, and 
 they may answer Sohrab, not I. What do I 
 care that his fame is great? Would I had such 
 a son myself, and not a helpless girl such as I 
 have, — a brave and famous son to send to war, 
 while I might tarry with aged Zal, my father,
 
 Sohrab and Rustum. 199 
 
 who is vexed yearlong by the Afghan robbers, 
 and has no one to guard his weak old age." 
 
 " But what will be said, Eustum," replied 
 Gudurz, " when Sohrab dares our bravest to 
 fight, and seeks you most of all, and yet you 
 hide your face? Take heed, or it may be 
 thought that you hoard your fame, and fear to 
 try your strength with a younger man." 
 
 " What is one more or less, famous or obscure, 
 valiant or craven, to me ? Who would do great 
 deeds for unworthy men ? But come, you shall 
 see how I hoard my fame ; yet I will fight un- 
 known, and in plain arms." 
 
 Gudurz turned and ran back through the 
 camp, and Eustuna strode to his tent door and 
 called in his followers, bidding them bring his 
 arms. He clad himself in plain arms ; his shield 
 had no device, and his helm, inlaid with gold, 
 held in its fluted spine a plume of scarlet horse- 
 hair. Thus armed, Eustum came from his tent, 
 and his horse, Euksh, followed like a hound be- 
 hind him. He was a bright bay, with a lofty 
 crest and a saddle-cloth of embroidered green 
 crusted with gold. Eustum crossed the camp 
 and came in sight of the Persian hosts, who 
 hailed him with shouts of welcome ; but the 
 Tartars did not know him in his undecorated 
 mail. 
 
 Eustum advanced to the Persian front ; and
 
 200 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Sohrab, who had armed himself in Haraan's 
 tent, came forward through his followers, who 
 opened for him as the grain opens before the 
 wide swaths of a reaper. On either hand were 
 squares of men with bristling spears, and in 
 their midst ran down an open way to the front. 
 As Rustum came forth upon the sand he cast 
 his eye towards the Tartar tents and saw Sohrab 
 also advance. 
 
 The old warrior curiously eyed the presump- 
 tuous "youth who had defied the Persian chiefs. 
 He gazed long at him, admiring his sj^irited air 
 and wondering who he was. He seemed very 
 youthful, and tenderly reared ; tall, dark, and 
 straight like a young cypress. A deep pity 
 entered Eustum's soul as he beheld him coming, 
 and, raising his hand, he beckoned to him. 
 
 " Take heed, young man," he called ; " the air 
 of heaven is soft and very pleasant, but the 
 grave is cold. Mark me ! I am mighty and 
 clad in iron. I have stood on many a field of 
 blood and fought many a foe : never was that 
 field lost or that foe saved. Why, Sohrab, will 
 you invite death ? Be governed by me ; quit 
 the Tartar host and come to Iran. Be my son, 
 and fight under my banner till I die. There 
 are no youths in Iran as brave as you." 
 
 Sohrab heard the deep voice and saw the 
 giant figure, which stood like a tower on the
 
 Sohrab and Rustum. 201 
 
 sand. He saw, too, the head streaked with 
 gray hairs, and a new hope came to his soul. 
 He ran forward and embraced the champion's 
 knees and took his hand. 
 
 " Oh, by my father's head, by your own soul, 
 are you not Eustum ? Speak ! are you not he ?" 
 
 Eustum eyed him askance and turned away, 
 wondering within himself what the young fox 
 might mean. These Tartar boys, he thought, 
 are wily and false. If I confess what he asks 
 and say I am Eustum, he will not yield, nor quit 
 our foes, but he will find some pretext for not 
 fighting, perhaps praise my fame and offer me 
 gifts. Then when he is feasting some day in 
 King Afrasiab's hall he will say, I once chal- 
 lenged all the Persian lords to meet me in single 
 fight ; but only Eustum, among them, dared to 
 come forth. Then he and I exchanged gifts 
 on equal terms and parted. This is what he 
 will say, and his countrymen will applaud him, 
 while the Persian chiefs will be shamed through 
 my weakness. 
 
 Thus reflecting, the old warrior looked down 
 and said, — 
 
 " Else ! Why do you vainly ask for Eustum ? 
 I am here whom you have called. Make your 
 boast good, or yield. Is it solely with Eustum 
 you would fight? Men look on his face and 
 flee."
 
 202 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Sohrab rose to his feet : " You cannot frighten 
 me. I am no girl, to be made pale by words. 
 JS^o, Eustum is far away, and we stand here. 
 You are vaster, and are pi'oven, and I am 
 young ; but success sways with the breath of 
 heaven !" 
 
 Eustum made no answer, but hurled his spear 
 mightily down from his shoulder. Sohrab 
 watched it coming, and, quick as a flash, sprang 
 aside. The spear hissed by him and went 
 quivering into the sand, which it sent flying 
 far and wide. 
 
 Sohi-ab threw in turn, and struck Eustum's 
 shield. The iron plates rang sharp, but turned 
 the point. Eustum seized his club, a huge un- 
 lopped trunk that he alone could wield, and, 
 lifting it, struck fiercely at Sohrab, but the 
 youth sprang aside, lithe as a glancing snake, 
 and the club came thundering on the earth, 
 where it leaped from Eustum's hand, who fol- 
 lowed it and fell to his knees, 
 
 Sohrab might now have unsheathed his sword 
 and pierced his foe where he lay buried in the 
 sand, but he looked on, smiling, and courteously 
 drew back. 
 
 " You strike too hard," he said. " Eise, and 
 be not angry. When I look upon you, wrath 
 quite forsakes my soul. You are not Eustum, 
 you say ? Who are you, then, that can so touch
 
 Sohrab and Rustum. 203 
 
 me? Boy as I am, I, too, have seen battles, 
 and waded foremost in their bloody waves. 
 But never before has my heart been so deeply 
 touched. Old warrior, let us yield to heaven. 
 Come, let us plant our spears here in the sand 
 and make a truce." 
 
 While he spoke, Eustum had slowly risen, and 
 now stood erect, trembling with rage. He left 
 his club where it had fallen, but regained his 
 spear. The dust had soiled his stately crest and 
 dimmed his arms ; his breast heaved, and a light 
 foam came upon his lips. Twice he tried to 
 speak, and twice was choked with rage. 
 
 "You girl, nimble of foot, not of hand!" he 
 stammered. " You curled dancer, now fight ! 
 No more words ! You are not in Afrasiab's 
 gardens with the Tartar girls, but on the Oxus 
 sands, and in the dance of battle, with one who 
 makes no play of war, but fights it out hand to 
 hand." 
 
 Then Sohrab drew his sword, and they rushed 
 together. Their shields clanged, and a great 
 din of rattling strokes arose. The heavens 
 seemed to take part in the conflict, for a cloud 
 grew suddenly in the sky and darkened the sun 
 over their heads, and a wind rose and swept the 
 sand into a mist that wrapped them about, and 
 concealed them from the hosts on either hand, 
 over whom the sky was still unclouded. They
 
 204 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 fought on in the gloom with bloodshot eyes and 
 laboring breath. First Eustum struck Sohrab's 
 stiffly-held shield. The steel spear rent the 
 tough plates, but failed to penetrate to the skin. 
 Eustum plucked it back with a groan of disap- 
 pointment. Then Sohrab smote Eustum's helm 
 with his sword, but did not pierce it through, 
 though he shore away the proud horse-hair 
 plume, w^hich never until now had been defiled. 
 Eustum bowed his head at the blow ; and then 
 the gloom grew blacker, thunder rumbled in 
 the air and lightning began to gleam, and 
 Euksh, the horse, who stood near, uttered an 
 unearthly cry. The two hosts heard the cry, 
 and quaked with terror. Sohrab heard it, too, 
 but he did not quail. He rushed on, and struck 
 again, and again the old warrior bowed his 
 head ; but this time Sohrab's blade sprang into 
 a thousand splinters and the hilt alone remained 
 in his hand. 
 
 Eustum raised his head. His dreadful eyes 
 glared, and he shook on high the menacing spear. 
 Then he shouted " Eustum !" 
 
 Sohrab heard the shout and shrank back. He 
 scanned the advancing form with blinking eyes. 
 Then he stood bewildered, and dropped his shield, 
 and the spear pierced his side. 
 
 He reeled, and, staggering back, sank to the 
 ground. The cloud dispersed and the wind
 
 Sohrab and Rustum. 205 
 
 fell, and the sun came out again. The two 
 armies could see the pair, — Eustum standing 
 safe upon his feet and Sohrab lying on the 
 bloody sand. 
 
 Eustum smiled bitterly, " Sohrab," he said, 
 " you thought to kill a Persian lord to-day ; to 
 strip his corpse and carry the trophies to King 
 Afrasiab's tent ; or else that the great Eustum 
 himself would come forth, and that your wiles 
 would induce him to take your gifts and let you 
 go, so that all the Tartar host would praise your 
 craft and courage, and your fame would delight 
 your father in his old age. Fool, you yourself 
 are slain, and by an unknown man !" 
 
 " Unknown you are," said Sohrab, with a fear- 
 less mien; "yet your fierce boast is in vain. 
 You do not slay me; Eustum and my filial 
 heart slay me. If I were what till to-day I have 
 been, and were matched with ten like you, they 
 should be lying here aiid I standing there. But 
 the well-loved name unnerved my arm. And 
 yet there is something in yourself, I confess, 
 which troubles my heart, and made my shield 
 fall. Your spear pierced an armless foe. But, 
 hear me, and tremble to hear : Eustum shall 
 yet avenge my death ! — Eustum, my father, 
 whom I have sought through the whole world !" 
 
 "Eustum! Father! What talk is this? Eus- 
 tum never had a son." 
 
 18
 
 206 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Sohrab's voice had weakened with each utter- 
 ance, and now as he tried to speak it nearly 
 failed him. 
 
 " Ah, yes, he had, for I am that son. One day 
 the news will reach him where he sits and tar- 
 ries long, very far away from here. It will 
 pierce him like a stab to know my fate. He 
 will leap to arms and cry for vengeance on you, 
 — vengeance for an only son. Eemember what 
 that will be ! But I pity my mother most. She 
 lives in Ader-baijan with her father, the old 
 King, who grows gray with age and rules over 
 the valiant Koords. Ah, I pity her, who will 
 never again see Sohrab come home with spoils 
 and honor from the Tartar camp !" 
 
 Rustum was plunged deep in thought. He 
 did not believe Sohrab was his son, though he 
 called up names he well knew. He had had 
 sure tidings, he thought, that the child born to 
 him was a puny girl. He did not know that 
 the sad mother had sent him false news for 
 fear he would seek the boy and train him up in 
 arms. He thought as he stood there by the 
 youth's side, watching the agony of his death, 
 that Sohrab made a false boast of being his son, 
 or that the name had been given him to swell 
 his fame. 
 
 As the shepherd at dawn sees some far-away 
 bright city through the rolling clouds, so Eus-
 
 Sohrah and Bustum. 207 
 
 turn saw his own youth, and Sohrab's mother, 
 and the old King, her father, who loved his 
 wandering guest so well that he joyously gave 
 him his fair child for a wife. Happy glimpses 
 of the life the three together had once lived 
 in that long-distant summer-time came to him : 
 the castle, the dewy woods, the hunt and hound, 
 and the sunrise on the lovely hills of Ader-bai- 
 jan. Then iie gazed anew on the slaughtered 
 boy, of likely age and face to be his own son. 
 
 " Oh, Sohrab," he cried, piteously, " you are 
 indeed such a son as Rustum, were you his, 
 would have loved ! But you err, for Eustum 
 had no son. He had one child, but a girl, who 
 is with her mother now, and never dreams of 
 war." 
 
 Then Sohrab spoke angrily, for life ebbed fast 
 and he was eager to prove his birth. 
 
 " Who are you, to deny my words ? Truth 
 sits on the lips of dying men. Listen : I boar 
 here on my arm the seal which Rustum gave to 
 my mother to prick upon her babe." 
 
 The blood rushed to Rustum's cheeks, and his 
 mail-clad knees shook. He smote his ringing 
 breast with one hand and pressed the other 
 against his heart. 
 
 " Show me," he said ; " for that is a proof 
 which cannot lie." 
 
 With weak and hasty fingers Sohrab undid
 
 208 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 his belt and bared his arm near the shoulder. 
 There, pricked in faint vermiKon, was the tell- 
 tale sign. It was a picture of the griffin which 
 of old reared Zal, Eustum's father, who was left 
 to die on the mountains. 
 
 " How do you say ?" asked Sohrab. " Is that 
 Eustum's sign, or another's ?" 
 
 Eustum gazed at it long and intently without 
 a word. At last he uttered a sharp cry of self- 
 reproach : " Oh, boy ! your father !" 
 
 He choked, and a dark cloud came upon his 
 eyes, and he sank down on the sand. 
 
 Sohrab crawled up to him and threw his arms 
 about his neck, kissing his lips passionately and 
 stroking his cheeks with weakening fingers, in 
 his eagerness to bring him back to life. 
 
 Presently Eustum opened his eyes wide with 
 horror. He seized the dust with both hands 
 and threw it on his head, and smirched his 
 glittering armor. Then he clutched his sword 
 and would have taken his own life ; but Sohrab 
 divined his thought, and held his hands with all 
 his feeble strength. 
 
 " Forbear, father !" he cried. " The doom I 
 meet to-day was written down long ago, and 
 you are only the unconscious hand of heaven. 
 My heart cried out that it was you when I first 
 saw you, and your heart spoke also ; I knew it. 
 Fate trod the promptings down with its iron
 
 Sohrab and Bustum. 209 
 
 heel. But I have found my father, and what 
 does it matter ? Come, sit here beside me on 
 the sand and take my head between your hands, 
 kiss my cheeks and wash them with your tears ; 
 and, father, say ' My son' to me. Quick, for my 
 sands of Ufe are ebbing away." 
 
 Sohrab's pleading voice touched the old war- 
 rior's heart, and insensibly the tears came into 
 his eyes. He threw his arms around his son's 
 neck and wept aloud. 
 
 An awe fell on both the armies when they 
 saw Eustum's grief, and the horse, Euksh, with 
 his head bowed to the ground and his mane 
 sweeping the dust, come near. He moved first 
 to the one, then the other, as if trying to 
 undei*8tand their grief. The big warm tears 
 rolled down from his eyes and caked the sand. 
 Eustum cried out at him, blaming him for bear- 
 ing his master to that fatal field. 
 
 But Sohrab looked up at the faithful steed, 
 and called him by kindly names. 
 
 "How often has my mother told me of my 
 father's terrible horse ! She said I should one 
 day find both the master and the steed. Come, 
 let me lay my hand on your mane." And he 
 reached painfully towards it. " Oh, Euksh, you 
 are more fortunate than I. You have gone where 
 I shall never go, — snufifed the breezes of my 
 father's home and trod the sands of Seistan. 
 U.—o 18*
 
 210 Tales from Ten Foets. 
 
 Zal himself has stroked your mane and fed you 
 with wine-soaked corn from a golden platter. 
 But I have never known his face nor seen his 
 lofty house. I have lodged only among my 
 father's foes here by the yellow Oxus where I 
 am to die." 
 
 " Would I were beneath its waves !" groaned 
 Eustum. 
 
 Sohrab answered in a grave, mild voice : " No, 
 father, you must hve ! Some of us are born to 
 do great deeds, and some to die. You must do 
 the deeds that I die too young to do. You are 
 my father, and the gain is my own. But come ! 
 Here are my followers, my loyal host." And 
 he waved his hand towards the Tartar camp. 
 *' You must not slay them. They followed me. 
 They were my hope and fame. Let them return 
 in peace. But bear me away with you. I must 
 not go back with them. Carry me to Seistan, 
 and place me on a bed, and mourn for me, — ^you 
 and white-haired Zal and all your friends. Then 
 lay me in earth, and make a stately mound over 
 me, and plant a tall pillar in its midst, so that 
 the passing horseman may see it far oft' on the 
 waste and say, ' Sohrab, the son of mighty Eus- 
 tum, lies there, slain by his great father in igno- 
 rance of his kinship !' " 
 
 " It shall be so, all as you wish," said Eustum ; 
 " for I will burn my tents, and quit the host, and
 
 Sohrab and Bustum. 211 
 
 carry you to Seistan. What should I do with 
 slaying now? Would that all I have ever 
 slain might live again, — even my bitterest foes, 
 through whose death I have won fame, — that 
 you might live also, my son, my son ! Bat my 
 youth was all of blood and battles, and so is 
 my age, and I shall never end my life of 
 blood !" 
 
 " One day you shall have peace," said Sohrab, 
 " only not now, — not yet. It will come on the 
 day when you sail back, you and the other peers 
 of Kai Khosroo, over the blue sea from laying 
 your dear master in the grave." 
 
 " Soon may that day come !" said Eustum, 
 with musing eyes. " Till then, if fate wills it, I 
 must endure." 
 
 Then Sohrab smiled contentedly, and drew 
 the spear from his side, easing his wound. The 
 blood came welling from the gash, and life flowed 
 out with it. The crimson torrent ran down his 
 cold white side. His head drooped, and his 
 limbs grew slack. He lay motionless and wan, 
 with closed eyes ; and only when the deep 
 gasps quivered through him, convulsing him 
 back to life, did he open them and fix them 
 feebly on his father's face. Then, at last, the 
 struggling spirit passed out, and Sohrab lay 
 dead. 
 
 Eustum drew his horseman's cloak over his
 
 212 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 dead son's face, and sat by him like a fallen 
 pillar in the waste. 
 
 Night came down upon the solemn landscape, 
 concealing the two hosts, and a cold fog crept 
 up from the Oxus. Then a hum of voices arose, 
 and fires began to twinkle through the mist. 
 Both armies had moved back to their camps for 
 the evening meal. 
 
 But Eustum and the son he had slain were 
 left alone on the open sands.
 
 .VvKVvV.WO'-ift '^
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAA.
 
 THE TWO BABES. 
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN.
 
 THE TWO BABES. 
 
 " Here's health, and better fortune to you !" 
 said Hugh Baird, as he raised his glass in Sandie's 
 tap-room. He drained oif the draught, smacked 
 his lips, and set down the empty tumbler. 
 " Houch, but it's strong !" He twisted his mouth 
 into a pleased semblance of distaste, then winked. 
 " But, sure, Sandie's whiskey's a tipple for 
 kings !" 
 
 The Sabbath bells were sounding outside in 
 the tranquil sunlight, but Hugh Baird liked 
 better to spend his holiday among boon com- 
 panions at the inn. He was a well-to-do farmer, 
 dressed in tartan breeks, and he lounged at the 
 bar with one hand deep in his pocket, as if 
 seeking imaginary guineas, while the other 
 caressed his glass. He was fond of talk, and 
 fond, above all, of directing his talk against 
 the godly-worldly folk of the village. He liked 
 his dinner hot of a Sunday : they liked theirs 
 cold. They went to church : he went to Sandie's 
 parlor. Hence there was a year-long feud 
 
 215
 
 216 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 between the pious church-goers and the histy 
 sinner. 
 
 " Do you see that little minnow of a man over 
 there?" asked Hugh Baird, elbowing a stranger. 
 A stranger was his peculiar prey, for he could 
 pour out all the threadbare tales of the town to 
 him and still find a ready listener. " Well, that's 
 Matthew Bell. He holds his head as high at 
 the kirk or a fair as Sir Walter of Wimplepen, 
 The Lord preserve us ! did you mark the look 
 the saint gave to the sinners as he passed us 
 by? Why, man, from here to John O'GrGut's 
 you'd not find a manikin who knows more about 
 the Book of books, or half so much about that 
 mighty book, the Ledger ! Eich ? Ay, — as his 
 fields of gold-tasselled wheat ! Out of his hun- 
 dred acres he reaps year after year a bonnet- 
 ful of gold. He lives up there on yonder hill 
 where the harvest lies so yellow in the sun- 
 light." 
 
 The stranger was curious about the godly 
 farmer, and drew out without much difficulty his 
 whole story, which was something like this : 
 
 Years ago there was a child born to Matthew 
 Bell, as sweet as any little one ever held at a 
 'nurse's breast, and when the lass was tall enough 
 to touch Matthew's watch-chain with her golden 
 curls her mother died. The country tattle said 
 that her husband's dismal pictures of the Pit
 
 The Two Babes. 217 
 
 had frightened her up to heaven before her 
 time. 
 
 But Maggie, as they had named her, lived and 
 grew up ; and, Sabbath-mad as Matthew was, he 
 could never draw a cloud over her happy smiles. 
 Later, when she laughed and played on her 
 mother's grave, or, seated on his knee, seemed 
 to throw sunshine on his gloomy eyes, Matthew 
 lacked the heart to chide her even if he could. 
 
 But it was hard to tell whether Matthew 
 thought most of Maggie's golden hair or of his 
 golden wheat. No one knew his thoughts. If 
 ever he dreamed of one whose gleaming locks 
 lay beneath the grass and flowers, or fashioned, 
 as fathers will, pictures of Maggie in her bridal 
 dress, with a grand dowry and a holy ring, he 
 kept his visions to himself Yet, whether he 
 did or did not, Maggie grew like a lily in the 
 gloom : fair and slim as a lily indeed she was 
 when sixteen summers had turned her eyes 
 from blue to deeper blue and touched her hair 
 with a new lustre. Matthew Bell's household 
 kept the Sabbath through the whole gloomy 
 week, and from morning to night poor Maggie's 
 head was dinned with Scripture phrases and 
 puzzling texts. To sing or dance, like other 
 girls; to read a paper or fairytale; to eye 
 herself in the looking-glass, — all this was stark 
 damnation, prompted by the devil himself 
 K 19
 
 218 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Maggie's lot was indeed a weary one. Her 
 yellow hair was fastened up in a frowzy net 
 and hid beneath an outlandish bonnet, and her 
 dress was mean from head to foot, with not a 
 single fine-colored bow. Such a pitch did this 
 come to at last that when she saved a pound 
 and secretly bought herself a bonnet fit to wear, 
 her father threw it into the fire. " Yanity !" he 
 growled, and Maggie fell to weeping. 
 
 Thus it came that her friends christened her 
 Quaker Maggie, and she mourned over her 
 shame all alone until, in her heart, she came to 
 hate the Sabbath-day, and preaching, and the 
 very Book itself, because they brought her a 
 life of scorn. What wonder that she looked 
 with envy at lovely ribbons in the caps of other 
 girls? — that she thought far less of what the 
 preacher said than of the giggling smiles the 
 lassies cast from the pews all around at her old 
 clothes ? What wonder, indeed, that when her 
 father questioned her about the text, she knew 
 just as much about it as a child who pastes his 
 nose against a candy-shop window knows of 
 the moon ? This kind of thing in time made 
 Maggie a little sour in temper. In truth, she 
 grew as dull and peevish as a school-boy in the 
 sulks. Then, one fine day, her father went off 
 and brought home another wife. 
 
 Mistress Bell the second was as holy as the
 
 The Two Babes. 219 
 
 Pope's big toe. She was half a yard taller than 
 Matthew, and, besides, she was a widow. She 
 came of an ancient house, and, the gossips said, 
 stooped from her station in allying herself with 
 a ploughman's blood. She was as tall and lean 
 as the Highland firs, and sharp-featured as an 
 ancient Virtue vexed with influenza. Her nose 
 was like a glowing cinder, and her sharp-cut 
 mouth was always drawing in and out, while 
 her small hen's eyes seemed to say, " Confess, 
 now, am I not a credit to creation ?" Day and 
 night her sole cry was "Vanity, vanity !" and 
 she was forever hurling the vengeance of 
 heaven at all the comely hussies she met. You 
 may well guess that when she came to Matthew 
 Bell's house and saw how pretty Maggie was 
 she loved her no better than a bat loves the 
 sunshine. There was scolding and tears, scolding 
 and tears, from morning till night. This thing 
 was wrong and that thing was wrong. Maggie 
 could never bring herself to call such a gray 
 mare mother ; and as for her grim father, very 
 often a fellow-feeling made his cankerous heart 
 pity his child a bit, but it was as much as his 
 ears were worth to cross the Clishmaclaver. 
 Maggie soon began to use her own tongue to 
 answer back. She spoke words that bit like an 
 adder's mouth, but she was sorely vexed to it. 
 The sun shines on, no matter how much
 
 220 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 mortals wrangle. The earth grows fruitful and 
 the seasons come and go Avhether men live or 
 die. The land was spreading acre on acre 
 around the farm, and the money rang plen- 
 teously into Matthew's pouch ; for, in spite of 
 all those pious ways of his and of his domestic 
 troubles, the canny farmer never forsook his 
 task of making and increasing. Year by year 
 his bank-books and ledgers grew fatter, and 
 year by year the farm, with its slated room and 
 white doors and walls, stood on its hill amid the 
 harvest home like a pearl in a lady's yellow 
 hair. 
 
 Before Maggie had reached her teens a cer- 
 tain lad with long limbs and pockets as empty 
 as last year's nest came lounging up to the 
 farm, seeking work. His name was Eobin 
 Anderson, and Matthew sent him out into the 
 wheat with a reaping-hook, and bade him work 
 away and show his mettle. Before the sunset 
 had made a picture of the harvest above the 
 hills the lad had earned a strong man's wajjes. 
 Matthew was pleased. He said little, but ho 
 gave the boy a bed out in the byre, and there he 
 slept alone among the cattle. 
 
 He was indeed a clever lad. He worked 
 lustily at shearing grain, and won praise, and 
 money as well. He was as strong as a stallion, 
 but as modest in his ways as a mouse. When
 
 The Two Babes. 221 
 
 the Sabbath came round and Matthew cast his 
 eyes about the kirk, whom should he spy there, a 
 sheep among the flock, but Eobin ! The laddie's 
 eyes were east modestly on his book ; his jet-black 
 hair was combed neatly behind his rabbit-ears ; 
 his poor clothes were patched and brushed clean, 
 and butter seemed melting in his mouth. When 
 he met his master's gaze he blushed like a 
 maiden and seemed ashamed to be seen. 
 
 Ah, indeed was he a clever lad, with fox's 
 eyes and in lambskin gear. Kirk over, Matthew 
 took him by the arm, and, with a grim, inquisi- 
 torial look, questioned him on the text. Eobin 
 had by heart nearly every word the preacher 
 had said. Matthew was hugely pleased to find 
 him so good, — so grand a worker in the field 
 and yet such a pattern at his prayers. " Keep 
 on as you've begun, my lad," said he, "and 
 you'll be a wealthy man before you die and go 
 to glory." 
 
 After that Eobin never missed kirk, night or 
 morning. Then, later, he came stumping into 
 the kitchen one Sabbath night with an old torn 
 Bible in his hand, and with hums and haws and 
 much fear of giving offence, begged the farmer 
 to expound a text that puzzled him. IS^ow, 
 nothing pleased old Matthew better than a 
 chance to show off the Grace of God and his 
 own Scripture learning at once. He smiled and 
 
 19*
 
 222 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 took the book, put on bis specs and read, and, 
 as he did so, expounded the text with worldly- 
 wise comment of his own. Eobin stood by him 
 in awe and saw it all plain. He thanked the 
 teacher with a kind of famished look, and, with 
 a sigh that seemed to rend his very heart, wished 
 he were half as holy and good and learned as 
 Matthew. After that he came often into the 
 house on other errands, and would listen to the 
 old farmer like a hungry sheep. He grew so 
 pious and holy, that when the wheat was har- 
 vested, and strained and put with a golden glit- 
 ter into the bank in town, Matthew paid off the 
 crowd of other reapers, but kept Eobin Ander- 
 son as a laborer about the farm. 
 
 Eobin was deep in knowledge both of figures 
 and of the Book. He taught himself to read 
 and write and do sums while sinners were at 
 play. He never spoke bad words nor tasted 
 drink. Day by day he throve in his master's 
 esteem and rose in position, until, when the 
 house was stormed by Mistress Bell the second, 
 he played his cards so adroitly, and seemed so 
 mild and meek, that she was won to like him and 
 tuck him under her maternal wing. To make 
 the story short, by dint of bowing, praying, and 
 laboring the clever chiel throve so well in the 
 holy household that at last Matthew made him 
 overseer, and found out, in time, that the head
 
 The Two Babes. 223 
 
 and hand of Eobin Anderson were as needful 
 to his life as meat and drink themselves. 
 
 Meanwhile, what of poor Maggie ? Year by- 
 year she had waited and worked and wept, 
 seeing her mother's pitying eyes look down 
 on her from among the stars. "Oh, mother, 
 are you there ? And may I come to meet you ?" 
 she would murmur in her bitterness of heart ; 
 but in spite of tears and anger and weary pain, 
 Maggie was bonnie, — grew bonnier year by year. 
 Against her will, and in very perverseness, health 
 loved her so that it clung about her like an ivy- 
 vine, would not forsake her, giving and taking 
 beauty. She was pale, to be sure, but it was the 
 pallor of the full-blown lily, not of disease. The 
 passionate appeals made day and night to her 
 mother put new gleams of heaven's violet in 
 her eyes. The sunshine w^hich sparkled in her 
 hair tangled itself like ears of golden wheat. 
 The tears she so often shed weighed at her 
 lashes like dew-drops, and gave her head a 
 drooping grace sweeter than more ruddy bold- 
 ness. Sombre gear, old-fashioned raiment, and 
 the like, served only to make her beauty plainer. 
 All the scorn and arts which were meant to 
 hide her beauty and humble her were lost on 
 Maggie Bell. They fell as darkly and coldly as 
 murmuring rain in a bed of flowers. Through 
 it all the flowers lift their heads and try vainly
 
 224 Tales from Te?i Poets. 
 
 to shake off the drops, looking the lovelier for 
 their load. 
 
 Time wore slowly on till Maggie was sweet 
 and twenty. Half the country-side went wild 
 over her face, and the other half about her 
 dowry. But what of that? Old Matthew's 
 keen eyes were looking high for a man of god- 
 liness and wealth to marry her and add to his 
 fame. Nor would Mistress Bell have any idle 
 loons hanging around the farm ; it was neither 
 right, safe, nor delicate, and it seemed that 
 Maggie herself cared very little for the sport. 
 
 Strange, though, that she should take to Robin 
 Anderson. But she did; and Matthew never 
 guessed it, nor did the Clishmaclaver have a 
 suspicion. Many a kindly turn the sly lad did 
 for Maggie, — many a time screened her from 
 storm. Then, just when Maggie's beauty was 
 full-blown, a change came over him. lie went 
 to kirk none the less, but it was plain that he 
 was ill at ease and vexed with troublesome 
 thoughts. Often when he was spoken to he 
 would start and blush and seem ashamed, like 
 one detected in a theft. In kirk he fore-ot to 
 look at his book and glanced nervously about 
 him. But, in truth, Robin was kinder-hearted 
 than he wished to seem, and, what was more, 
 passionate, in certain fleshly vanities, like other 
 men, from Adam downward.
 
 The Two Babes. 225 
 
 At last the lilies on Maggie's cheek grew 
 sickly, and an icy glitter struck the sweetness 
 from her eyes. She made angry answers to 
 those who chid her, and the echoes of her foot- 
 steps, that had once fallen as soft as snow-flakes, 
 went hollowly up and down the house. Her 
 father watched her with his wary yellow eye, 
 and the Clishmaclaver shrugged her old back 
 and sneered and muttered something she dared 
 not speak out, for she saw that Maggie's fiend 
 was up. Eobin Anderson, with oily grace, tried 
 hard to make them all agree, but in vain. By 
 and by it was clear that Maggie was wandering 
 in a kind of mist. When she was spoken to 
 she listened dreamily like one who hears a dis- 
 tant bell ; and she, who had been a pattern of 
 cleanliness, became as heedless of the world's 
 judgment as the nettles in a country lane. 
 
 This could not last long. Harvest-time came 
 once more, and the reapers flocked up to Mat- 
 thew's farm. All around his wide acres the 
 fields were thick and yellow with ripe grain. 
 A buzzing murmur of labor rose from the land, 
 and the shadows of the clouds passed across it 
 in dark patches, with spots of sunshine in their 
 wake. Never had the moon's horn been filled 
 so high with ripeness and fragrance. The very 
 heart of Matthew crowed as loud as a cock. 
 But on the Sabbath-day, the first of harvest, 
 II.— jtj
 
 226 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 the farmer and his wife sat in the house with 
 Eobin and talked of holy matters, spiced now 
 and then with thoughts of gain, till it was time 
 for prayers. When the hour came and all were 
 summoned, Matthew looked around and asked, — 
 
 " Where's Maggie ?" But no Maggie answered. 
 
 Mistress Bell went flying from room to room, 
 while the cry for Maggie passed out of the house 
 into the fields and byres ; but still she was not 
 to be found. 
 
 At last a cotter's lass ran up, barefooted and 
 pale, 
 
 " Oh, mem !" she stammered, " Mistress Bell ! 
 Mister Bell ! You're looking oot for Maggie, are 
 you no' ? But Maggie's gane !" 
 
 " Gone ! Gone where ?" asked a dozen voices. 
 
 " Oh, mem, to Edinglass. I met her, all her 
 lane, down the lawlan', and she was greeting 
 sair. When I looked she stayed and tell't me 
 a', and bade me gie this message to her faither : 
 < Tell him, Meg,' says she, ' I'm gawn awa',' says 
 she, 'for gude; never to come back; but that 
 I pray the Lord may never be hard wi' him as 
 him wi' me, nor bring him to as sair a shamefu' 
 end.' Then she slipped awa' afore I kenn'd 
 what she meant." 
 
 There was a wild to-do. Old Matthew glared 
 like a man gone mad. The Clishmaclaver fainted. 
 The- reapers searched far and near along the
 
 The Two Babes. 227 
 
 roads and down in the village, but they looked 
 in vain. 
 
 Yet Maggie did not reach Edinglass that 
 night, nor the next, nor many a night after. 
 As she ran on in the moonlight she was stricken 
 by a swoon, and her limbs held out just until she 
 gained a cotter's door. Clinching her teeth and 
 hands, she fell on the threshold. The cotter's 
 wife, who knew her, carried her in, and there she 
 lay helpless. Before the pale dawn stared at her 
 with its dead-man's eyes there came a fitful little 
 cry, which Maggie shrieked to hear. 
 
 Such news spreads quickly. Before the day 
 was over poor Maggie's shame was common 
 talk over the whole country-side. The black 
 news came to Matthew where he himself worked 
 in the field with the hook, so eager was he for 
 the harvest gain. He called down a curse on 
 Maggie and her child, and clinched his fists to 
 scream out his godly thunder. 
 
 " Go to the lassie, — go to her at once !" he cried 
 to Eobin Anderson, who listened with drooping 
 eyes. " Go to her and tell her, if she ever crosses 
 my path again I'll draw my fist across her shame- 
 less face and tread her under my feet. Tell her so I 
 Tell her that, day or night, be it sowing or har- 
 vest, my prayers will call a curse on her head !" 
 
 Eobin strode away without saying a word. 
 He was as grim as a thunder-cloud. Before an
 
 228 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 hour had passed he came back to the field and 
 told his master that he had done his will. 
 
 " What said she ?" asked the farmer, frowning 
 and grinding his heel into the stubbly soil. 
 
 " Naught," said Eobin, shortly ; and he turned 
 away biting his lip and scowling on the ground. 
 He worked on in silence till the day was 
 over. 
 
 Very bitter was Matthew Bell's heart, and all 
 his pleasure in the harvest was soured. But 
 when the Clishmaclaver began that night to 
 rail at Maggie and her shame, the grim farmer 
 sharply bade her hold her peace, and not to 
 mention Maggie again. She knew he was de- 
 termined to have his way, and she stopped short, 
 lookinfj as sour as buttermilk. 
 
 The house grew dreary and silent, and 
 Matthew took the Book, put on his specs, and 
 tried to read ; but the specs became dim with 
 the moisture from his eyes, and, with a cry 
 almost like a curse, he closed the Book and 
 rushed out into the darkness. 
 
 Who could fathom his thoughts ? Were they 
 sad, and did pale conscience put on mourning ? 
 No one knew ; but for long, weary hours Mat- 
 thew wandered out among the wheat, saw the 
 stars loosened one by one from the night's gray 
 robe ; and then, at break of day, returned, with 
 his eyes grown crimson ; but not through weep
 
 The Two Babes. 229 
 
 ing. His cheeks were as pale as frost on a gray- 
 window-pane. But at the edges of his lips the 
 cat's-claws showed that a selfish fiend had posses- 
 sion of him. 
 
 The neighbors, rich and poor alike, were little 
 loath to see Matthew's pride and his wife's con- 
 ceit taken down. Scandal echoed like a chime 
 of bells out of tune from cottage to cottage, till 
 the whole place was jingling with its discords. 
 "With this cruel clangor in her ears, poor Maggie 
 clasped her child and fled away to Edinglass. 
 Into the city's cloud of life she faded like a 
 brownie into the mist. 
 
 Though the Clishmaclaver made a good deal 
 of a fuss, she was strong in constitution and 
 had a heart not easily broken. Poor lamb ! she 
 bore her trouble as if she were a saint in stone. 
 But Matthew went about M'ith a mildewed heart, 
 lie never wept, and worked like a horse. He 
 was absent-minded, and his wandering eyes 
 would drop from your honest look to the ground. 
 His shoulders took to stooping, too ; and when 
 a lass or a lad went wrong, his voice among the 
 elders was not so loud in rebuke as of old. 
 
 The pious Eobin Anderson seemed also to be 
 burdened with a bitter load. Shame weighed 
 heavily on him. Once or twice, when he was 
 vexed at trifles, he was heard to swear ; and 
 when the harvest was all in, he came as from a 
 
 20
 
 230 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 funeral. The nights grew long and cold, and the 
 winter passed. In mid-winter came a rumor 
 that Maffffie lived the life of the thousands who 
 were dead to dying in Edinglass. A flush like 
 crimson fire swept across Matthew's face. In 
 the gusty gloaming, by the ingleside, he fairly 
 fell on Kobin's breast, screaming her mother's 
 name to the whistHng of the wind. 
 
 But before May arrived old Matthew had 
 forgotten his shame and sorrow in a new joy, 
 that came just on the edge of finish, like a kiss 
 that hangs on a dewy lip in incompletion. The 
 stars had smiled on the lap of Mistress Bell, 
 who promised at last to obey the text : Be fruit- 
 ful, multiply, replenish the earth— but in a 
 decent manner. When May came blushing up 
 among her roses, a plump babe hung around 
 the neck of Matthew's wife, which she in turn 
 clutched with a conscious pride. 
 
 Matthew's heart was high. His old lungs 
 were as loud as chanticleer. In his joy he could 
 have hugged the very midwife, if she had been 
 less notable for snuff and snappishness. It was 
 untold bliss to have a son and heir who would 
 keep his memory green after he was gone, and 
 multiply his siller. 
 
 But there was one, only one, on the farm who 
 Beemed not to welcome the baby. That was 
 Robin Anderson. At eight-and-twenty the sly
 
 The Two Babes. 231 
 
 Robin was a man of power. He was full six 
 feet high, with whiskers like a fox and eyes 
 that were deep-set under calculating brows. 
 He always avowed himself above all corporal 
 lusts and vanities, and when he was asked if he 
 meant to marry he would flout the notion. " He 
 marry! Buy a kiss in kirk, then strangle his 
 freedom with an apron-string ! Waste his sub- 
 stance on a pack of noisy youngsters ranged 
 like polished pots in a tavern ? Not he !" 
 
 When the joy over the new-born heir was 
 at its full, Robin went very little into the farm- 
 house. Once when they brought the infant to 
 him as he sat by the kitchen fire he snickered 
 out a feeble smile, and touched it with his great 
 forefinger as one inspects some curious fish. He 
 seemed half afraid it would bite. When he 
 was sorely pushed, he confessed it was a bonny 
 bairn, but with a long-drawn sigh, as if the 
 bonniness were a sad thing to see. After that, 
 do all he could, and clever as he was at acting a 
 part, he never showed any liking for the child. 
 God knew what was in his heart, but it seemed 
 to Robin that he could have dealt better with a 
 full-grown man than with such a restless and 
 fretful little thing, which he quite lacked the 
 art to handle. At last he fairly threw all 
 shame aside and kept away from the child, as 
 if it had been a biting cur.
 
 232 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Matthew was little pleased at all this, and the 
 mother much less. She grew high and Matthew 
 grew stiff, and, as the year wore on, both were 
 colder. Robin was bothered sorely. He did 
 not say much, and toiled oh as usual, late and 
 early. He went to his work blackened in sanc- 
 tity to the very finger-tips ; and he often rode 
 to Edinglass to spend a whole day with his 
 cousins, as he said. But sometimes in the har- 
 vest-field when no one was by, Robin would 
 hear a weakly voice moaning among the wheat. 
 A tearful sobbing filled his ears when the 
 autumn rains fell ; and in his soul he saw the 
 image of a child battling with fiends. He grew 
 to hate himself, and to loathe the cold snake 
 that shed its slime on his heart. 
 
 Then once again came the harvest. The 
 reapers went afield, and the acres were rich and 
 yellow with the ripe grain. The golden showers 
 fell like a garment rustling to the knees of 
 beauty, and from fence to fence ran the shout 
 of the merry toilers. In and out through the 
 sheaves the gleaners ducked and rose with 
 brimming hands. Robin worked alone in a 
 half-reaped field paved with sparkling stubble. 
 He had tied his colored handkerchief about his 
 loins and Avore a broad-brimmed straw hat. 
 . At noon, Mistress Bell came out from the 
 house bearing the babe in her arms. She
 
 The Two Babes. 233 
 
 walked down among the harvest-home, raising 
 the little one up to see the fields and the reapers 
 and the bright sun above them. The little man 
 crowed with delight and waved his hands, blink- 
 ing with blue eyes at the sun. He smiled and 
 leaped for all the world like a stray sunbeam 
 flickering about his mother's breast. As fate de- 
 creed, the good- wife walked down to the very spot 
 where Eobin was bending at his work in the 
 grain. Love and joy, and pride in the happy 
 harvest, had almost made her bonny that day. 
 Just as she reached the place where Eobin stood, 
 a clamor of men in loud and fierce contention 
 rose in the neighboring field. Half surprised 
 and half curious, she carefully placed the child 
 on a heap of fallen wheat, and hastened as fast 
 as her old legs could run to look over the low 
 hedge that divided the fields. 
 
 As fortune planned it, she had laid the bairn 
 very close to Eobin, and peeping under the 
 sheaves of wheat, too wee to harbor malice, 
 it saw the stalwart reaper ; laughed and blinked 
 its blue eyes, stretched out its plump pink hands, 
 and cried aloud. It would have tumbled out of 
 its yellow bed had Eobin not thrown his tools 
 aside and ran over to help it. 
 
 " I'll watch it till Mistress Bell comes back, 
 and that may help to heal up the old offence," 
 thought Eobin. 
 
 20*
 
 234 Tales from Ten Poets, 
 
 The baby lay still, blinking sagely, as if it 
 knew the doubt in the mind of this gloomy 
 man whose hollow eyes looked half afraid of it. 
 Then the sunshine, the merry sights and sounds 
 of the harvest, the happy light and peace, and 
 the plenteous gifts of autumn mixed with the 
 smiles of the little one and swam in a serene 
 vision to Eobin's heart. A gush hke mother's 
 milk filled that heart, warming it until it leaped 
 for fun. Eobin laughed aloud and colored crim- 
 son. But Mistress Bell still stayed gossiping 
 across the hedge with some one she knew, and 
 half forgot her charge, feeling a dim conscious- 
 ness that it was safe. 
 
 Was Eobin daft or drunk, or was he both at 
 once ? He leaned down and tickled at the in- 
 fant's throat and poked the dimples in its chin, 
 until it crowed and kicked and flung its arms 
 about and jumped for joy. Fairly maddened 
 with a reckless pleasure, this holy and clever 
 chiel, this big-boned reaper, Eobin Anderson, 
 caught up the wean and tossed it in the air, 
 rocked it in his arms and tousled it all over. A 
 mother in her teens could not have been more 
 tender or more thoroughly happy. 
 
 In the midst of his glee Mistress Bell came 
 back. Eobin did not see her, but laughed on, 
 madly tossing the screaming bairn. Suddenly 
 he turned and caught her eye.
 
 Tlie Two Babes. 235 
 
 " What, Eobin !" 
 
 The reaper held up the babe, blushing with 
 heat and shame. He eyed it sheepishly, as if 
 doubtful whether to keep it or let it tumble. 
 He scraped with his feet in a helpless way and 
 cast down his eyes. 
 
 Gasping like a startled hen, Mistress Bell took 
 the child from him. She gave Eobin one long 
 look, and walked away stupefied. The very Deil 
 himself, had he stolen up and worked a miracle 
 under her nose, could not have caused her more 
 astonishment. 
 
 Eobin was as shamed as he could well be. 
 He bound sheaves all day with his gloomy eyes 
 on the ground. But night came at last. The 
 harvest fell asleep under the stars, and the 
 reapers went home. Eobin stayed a long time 
 outside in the dark, grumbling, delaying, and 
 afraid to meet the eyes of the farm-women. 
 Then, partly moved by hunger and partly by 
 pride, he strode into the kitchen with a big 
 defiant lounge. The laborers were there, men 
 and women both, dipping into the porridge- 
 bowl with wooden spoons. Between the knees 
 of a strapping girl was Master Matthew Bell, 
 the son and heir of the house. Mistress Bell 
 was not present. 
 
 When the child saw Eobin Anderson, he crowed 
 aloud, kicked and laughed and tumbled across
 
 236 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 the maiden's knee. Before Eobin knew it he 
 was at the bairn's side tickling and tousling him. 
 He seemed urged on to the sport in defiance of 
 the inward prompting against it. He cast his 
 eyes around now and then with a quick resent- 
 ment ; but there was, nevertheless, an untold 
 sweetness at his heart. 
 
 Every one in the room stared at him, but no 
 one said a word. Laughing eyes sparkled across 
 at each other, and wondering looks passed about. 
 Robin's frenzy grew till the little treble and the 
 big haw haw — like a giant and a gnome at 
 play — rang merrily out above all other sounds. 
 
 After that night no better friends could be 
 found than Robin and the wean. But stranger 
 still was it that Robin seemed to have learned 
 in that one night the art of pleasing the child, 
 of holding it in his arms and hushing it asleep. 
 The bridge once passed, he cared little what he 
 did or said to it. Even under the eyes of Mis- 
 tress Bell and Matthew he would feel no more 
 shame in sporting with it than with a new-yeaned 
 lamb. The farmer and his wife were pleased, 
 and the ice thawed ; and so time wore on till 
 harvest came again and was gone. 
 
 But big Robin's heart was ill at ease. The 
 snake still nestled there, and seemed to soil his 
 ver}' tongue with its venom. He went offcener 
 to Edinglass now, and at home he brightened
 
 The Two Babes. 237 
 
 only when his friend was by. On Sabbath he 
 was the first at kirk, but with a gloomy face 
 and gear of soot-black. 
 
 But when the harvest was over the child 
 of Matthew's old age fell sick, and the farm took 
 on its wonted silence. The doctors came, and 
 a weak crying was heard in the night. Matthew 
 was mad and Mistress Bell in tears ; but nobody 
 paid any heed to Eobin, who would sit by the 
 fire, glowering at the coals and listening with a 
 hungry ear to those who stole through the house 
 on tiptoe. Once he crept without shoes into 
 the sleeping room where the bairn lay, and saw 
 the pale little head on its mother's lap. He 
 looked, but could not speak. A scalding heat 
 came up in his throat. He stammered and 
 blushed ; but when he turned away his face was 
 ghastly white. What did he feel and think? 
 
 Perhaps his thought was something like this : 
 " If I were wedded and had such a child, and it 
 should die for lack of such love as I could give 
 it, would all the gold and silver in the world 
 ever wipe its piteous face from my soul ? Would 
 all the prayers of a lifetime drown its dying cry 
 in the hearing of the Lord ?" 
 
 At last the little one fell asleep, and was 
 dressed for the grave in its white Sabbath 
 clothes. Old Matthew stumped about the house 
 groaning deeply, grim elder though he was.
 
 238 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Mistress Bell wept silently and bitterly, with a 
 grief that gave her quaint and homely face 
 a double solemness. Again and again she 
 kissed the frosty little lips, and smoothed the 
 clothes on the white limbs to make them look 
 sweeter. 
 
 In the silent hush of the noonday, Eobin 
 crept on tiptoe to the chamber where the child 
 lay. He touched the tiny hands and looked into 
 the baby-face. Death had filled it with shadows 
 as ancient as the leaves over Adam's garden. 
 He gazed as one landing after years at sea 
 might gaze on a flower reminding him of the 
 meadows where he played when he was a boy. 
 He did not weep. Two dewy rings swam around 
 his eyes, and, in a dream, he seemed to hear an 
 infant crying far off, and to see two little hands 
 lifted up from beneath his knees to pull him 
 down for a kiss. So he crept away unseen and 
 unheard, for he hated the silence of the house 
 and longed to break it with a shriek. 
 
 For seven days the child had slept under the 
 grass, and now the snow was falling. Eobin 
 rode away to Edinglass on business of his own. 
 He stayed four days ; but Matthew, so deep was 
 his sorrow, scarcely heeded his absence. 
 
 One morning as the old farmer stood at the 
 threshold of the farm-house, he saw a gig come 
 trotting up the road drawn by his own piebald
 
 The Two Babes.   239 
 
 pony. In the gig sat a man and a woman. The 
 team came on and halted at the door. 
 
 With a cry of wonder, even of fear, Matthew 
 saw that the man who drove was Robin Ander- 
 son, and that the woman who sat beside him, 
 with a child tucked softly beneath her Paisley 
 shawl, was his own sinful daughter Maggie. 
 Both were pale and dropped their eyes ; but 
 Eobin's teeth were firmly set together. Matthew 
 could not speak a single word. 
 
 Robin helped the lass to the ground and led 
 her up to the door. Matthew gave way before 
 them and walked backward into the house. 
 
 " What's this ?" he gasped. " Is it daft ye are ? 
 And have you forgotten ?" His eyes glittered 
 on Maggie with a kind of ghastly pain. 
 
 Robin took him by the shoulder and pushed 
 him into the kitchen. "Wheesht awhile," said 
 he, " wheesht awhile, and hear me out." Then he 
 went on with his story : " May Clootie grip me, 
 Matthew, but I have been a villain and a hypo- 
 crite, both in kirk and here, as friend and servant. 
 It was me brought Meg to sorrow ; but I stand here 
 to take shame to myself — and, Meg's my wife !" 
 
 The farmer stared and gasped and clutched 
 at the air with his hands, but did not speak. 
 
 "Father!" groaned Maggie. 
 
 He eyed her hungrily as if he would wither 
 her, but made no answer.
 
 240 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 "I take shame to myself, and Meg's my 
 honest wife," said Eobin ; " and if your heart is 
 shut against us, why, the world's wide and we 
 can go away and work. But if you care for 
 the lamb you have just laid beneath the kirk- 
 yard sod, forgive poor Maggie for his sake. 
 Come, I'm here to take the shame, and Meg's 
 my wife !" 
 
 Again Maggie cried, "Father!" 
 
 She drew back her shawl as she spoke, show-" 
 ing a child asleep on her breast. It was a pic- 
 ture of the other child. It wakened at her 
 voice, and cried and kicked to run on its rosy 
 feet. 
 
 Either Matthew bethought him of a slip he 
 had himself once made when he was warm and 
 young, or more likely he realized that it would 
 cost him overdear to part with Eobin. for when 
 Maggie set down the wean and it toddled over 
 and peeped into his face, laughing and pulling 
 at his watch-chain, the grim elder melted and 
 gave in. 
 
 When Mistress Bell came creeping down to 
 the kitchen after a while, she saw Maggie and 
 instantly screamed, then lifted up her hands and 
 groaned dismally. Old Matthew turned on her 
 with sudden wrath and cut her short. He 
 never looked at Maggie's face, but bade Eobin 
 take a seat and talk it over.
 
 The Two Babes. 241 
 
 "When Hugh Baird's story had reached this 
 point he lifted his glass for another bumper. 
 
 " That's all, sir," said he to the attentive 
 stranger. " A child could guess the rest. Mat- 
 thew, of course, came round, and his wife was 
 forced to give a dutiful nod of assent. Robin 
 had saved and scraped through all the years of 
 his service at the farm, and he bought a piece 
 of Matthew's land, where Maggie and her boy 
 settled down with him for good. It was all 
 false about Maggie's evil life in Edinglass. But 
 it's the truth, sir, that Robin has forsworn 
 hypocrisy, and that his comely wife and Mis- 
 tress Bell meet amicably every Sabbath and 
 every Sabbath quarrel and part forever. But, 
 oh, to see the dreadful change the years have 
 brought Eobin ! He is well-to-do ; has other 
 weans beside the little elbow-slip, — that's 
 not singular either; — but, sir, he's fat. He's 
 been known to go to sleep in kirk ; and some- 
 times in this very parlor, Sandie's parlor! it 
 would thrill your heart to hear him sing ' Corn 
 Rigs' or ' Tullochgorum.' " The speaker drained 
 his glass and smacked his lips. "Well, I've 
 done," said he; " no more to-day, — unless you'd 
 like to see me fu'. I've a good way to walk, — 
 and you know it's the Sabbath." 
 
 END OF THE SECOND BOOK. 
 II.— L q 21
 
 THE THIRD BOOK.
 
 TR! 
 
 .A^A'A\\tt:A¥*<v, cA-NVkVW-) AO^ATiAO.W
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
 
 TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE. 
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
 
 TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE. 
 
 About the mid-days of spring there came 
 from the castle-built shores of Ireland a fair 
 ship, which sailed southeastwardly for Wales. 
 It passed Lyonesse and Carlion, now hidden in 
 the deep tides, and tacked onward to the windy 
 heights of Tintagol. Above its stem shone a 
 gilded swallow, with straight wings, and eyes 
 made of glittering gems, which seemed flying 
 oversea to bear the green summer with it through 
 the air. 
 
 On the deck, at dawn, between the rowers, 
 sat Iseult, gazing with full face at the gradually 
 strengthening light. She was fairer than foam 
 or dawn. Her look was very glad, and her face 
 was lovelier than any love could desire. Her 
 movements were past thought and speech, and 
 her hair was more golden than the sunrise. 
 Her bright flesh was made as of moonbeams, 
 and her eyelids shone like snow beneath the 
 sun, while through their clouds of deep lashes 
 
 9
 
 10 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 welled up the springs of unimaginable eyes. 
 Her lips were meek and passionate, for love sat 
 upon them like a shadow. The glad, clear cheeks 
 and throat, and the tender temples, had a maiden 
 blush upon them such as a lily might show if a 
 rose's blood beat in its heart. From slight foot 
 to slender head, the whole fair form swayed like 
 a flower, and whatever her light hand leaned 
 on grew scented with blossoms. 
 
 Gazing at Iseult was a sunlike face, which 
 to her, through all the wreck and change of 
 time, was to be the star of her living soul. 
 Love had not yet written his language in its 
 lineaments. It was smooth and mighty, with- 
 out a scar, for the youth had nothing of grief 
 about him saving his name, which his mother, 
 dying as he was born, made out of her sorrow 
 and chose for him even as his young eyes smiled 
 upon her. His name was Tristram ; and now, 
 clothed with youth and might, he bore it as a 
 glad witness, the second symbol of the world's 
 fame. 
 
 Ti'istram was renowned and of good fortune, 
 and in his face shone a lordship of joy. He 
 moved through the morning like the morning 
 itself Song sprang from his lips and from 
 under his harp-playing hands. The maidens 
 who gazed on his fervent fingers as they swept 
 the strings, thought how often they had borne
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. 11 
 
 part in the dark onset of war ; how often those 
 lips, whereon the song now burned, had flung 
 battle-cries above the swing and shriek of the 
 swords. And the memory of the unhappy 
 queen to whom his life had been death, made 
 their love sadder and stronger towards him. 
 
 Now in the changing accidents of time and 
 fight, chance had cast this fair youth on the 
 green Irish land, which the sky and sea love 
 and wrap round as with hands and wings. 
 There in a lucky hour he came to the king's 
 court, and dwelt for half a season harping in 
 the hall, and teaching the new craft of music 
 to maiden hands that for his sake are famous 
 in all countries. Yet there was no love between 
 them, for their fate awaited its appointed hour, 
 and showed neither bloom nor sting. But once, 
 being vexed with some past wound, the king 
 bade Tristram take comfort of sweet baths, 
 and for his honor bade Iseult watch him as 
 his hand-maiden, and ease his hurt with holy 
 remedies which were made by her mother's 
 magic. 
 
 "When Iseult saw the shape of the wound in 
 his side, she knew that this was the knight who 
 had overthrown all their prowess and left her 
 kinsmen shamed on the field of battle. She 
 would have slain Tristram, unarmed as he was, 
 with his own sword, but he seemed so great and
 
 12 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 fair that her heaved-up hand fell, and she did 
 not smite him. 
 
 " What comfort shall this dead man be to 
 you, Damsel ?" said he, laughing. " Set not your 
 hand near the toothed steel, lest the fang strike 
 it." 
 
 "Yea, should the fang not strike dead the 
 serpent that stung my uncle?" she answered. 
 " You are his slayer, and half my mother's heart 
 is bloodless through you, who made the veins 
 of all her kin bleed through his wounds." 
 
 Then she bethought her how their violent 
 chief had flung forth the bold word which chal- 
 lenged Arthur's best knight to do battle ; and 
 how, dying of his own wild mood, he had set 
 upon his conqueror's flesh the seal of his unhal- 
 lowed brand, the venom and enchanted might 
 of which had left the sign on Tristram's side. 
 She stood reflecting on these things, and her 
 wrath grew cool with her thoughts. Hatred 
 could not long keep its fire kindled against him 
 who lay there at her mercy. She passed softly 
 from his sight. 
 
 After this, peace was made between them, and, 
 through them, between two kingdoms. He 
 went home with hands reconciled and a con- 
 tented heart to bring about a truce between her 
 father's realm and the land of Cornwall; and 
 when full peace was at last made, he fared forth
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. 13 
 
 again by the green straits to bring back Iseult 
 as the plighted bride of his uncle Mark, the 
 king. 
 
 So now with feast made and all the triumphs 
 of parting done, Tristram and Iseult sailed east- 
 ward. But the queen, her mother, in her wise 
 heart and subtle love, had foreseen the things 
 that were to be, darkly as in a glass, and to 
 prevent them, had striven to make some charm 
 of marriage unison which should bind the heart 
 of Iseult securely to her lord. She wrought 
 with marvellous herbs and spells, brewing and 
 blessing the mixture secretly with her hands. 
 Then she drew it from her bosom and gave 
 it to Iseult's chosen hand-maiden, Brangwain. 
 She bade her hide the marvel, covered up in a 
 golden cup, from the sight of all men, and 
 when the last shout had died away and the last 
 cup was drained about the bride and bride- 
 groom as they were bound for bed, then should 
 Brangwain say to the new-married bride that 
 her mother, the queen, commanded her to drink 
 the cup in union with King Mark. For her 
 sake, no lip must touch it but theirs. It was 
 hallowed for their mouths alone, and if a drop 
 was lost, Iseult should hold that drop as dear as 
 blood shed from her mother's heart. Having 
 drunk, the two should be one heart forever. 
 Brangwain swore to do this, and kept the hid- 
 
 2
 
 14 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 den thing by her always, whether she waked or 
 slept. 
 
 Now, all this having passed, Iseult and Tris- 
 tram sat on the deck to see the sun rise again, 
 whose light had looked on no such pair since 
 Galahault, at rose-time, had brought Launcelot 
 first to see Guenevere. 
 
 Tristram caught her eyes as she looked across 
 at the dawn. 
 
 " As the new day brings daylight up fi-om the 
 dead, might not this face also bring the dead 
 back to life ?" he murmured. 
 
 " I pray you do not praise me, but tell me 
 who there in Camelot has the name of being 
 fairest next to the queen?" She asked this 
 gazing where the sea was wan beyond the sun's 
 path. " I would I were a man and dwelt there, 
 that I might win better praise than yours, — 
 even such as you yourself have ; for your praise 
 lasts, but ours, — for shame, where is it ? Tell me, 
 then, since women may not win a better praise, 
 who has the most renown beside Guenevere?" 
 
 Tristram held in the laugh he would have 
 uttered. 
 
 " Surely this is but a little praise to desire," 
 he said,—" poor and little. But of the hapless 
 ones whom love serves with bowed knees, none 
 hath ftiirer face than Arthur's sister. The north 
 seas call her Mistress of Isles. She moves even
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. 15 
 
 yet majestically above the crowns on younger 
 heads, and her eyes outshine all later-born loves." 
 
 " Is she taller than I ?" asked Iseult. " Look, I 
 am tall !" She struck the mast with the utmost 
 reach of her hand. " And look, fair lord, now, 
 when I rise upon my feet, how high I can touch 
 standing straight up. Could this queen do so 
 much as that? She must be overtall, then. 
 Can it be that she is second in stateliness, where 
 there are so many younger who are fair, — she, 
 born before the lord your king, and having the 
 third knight after Launcelot and you to serve 
 her ? Nay, sir, God made her, then, for a god- 
 like sign." 
 
 " Ay, for a sign," answered Tristram. " Would 
 God it were not so ! for the planets never shine 
 with half the fateful forecasting of her unfor- 
 tunate face." 
 
 A smile rose to Iseult's mouth : " I am all the 
 happier to have a face that brings men no such 
 fate," quoth she. " Yet all of us who are born 
 after her may praise her for good hap. She 
 excels us no more in age than in men's love." 
 
 " God keep you better in his grace than to sit 
 down beside her !" said Tristram, with a gloom- 
 ing light in his eyes. " For if men are not 
 wholly blind whom God gives light to, and 
 those do not lie to whom he gives truth, great 
 grief shall come to her, and she shall give
 
 16 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 greater. Merlin witnessed of her years ago 
 that she should work and suffer woe beyond all 
 the race of women. And yet her face takes the 
 sense of men like a sunbeam. I think there is 
 no herb or blood-compelling drink that would 
 heal a heart ever made hot by it. Ay, and men 
 that do not love her make no great marvel 
 when they see the love between her and La- 
 moracke ; nor do they look askance when he 
 gazes after her. Clothed warmly with his love 
 as she is, girded round with his worship, yet 
 she seems at heart hungry and cold. She is 
 ever sad, and loves not the light, for as night, 
 whether clothed with stars or naked, is still 
 night, so is she still sad." 
 
 Iseult's sweet eyes were sunken, and the mirth 
 was dead in her look. 
 
 " Is it her shame for something done, or fear 
 of something yet to be done, that so puts out 
 the light from her soul?" she asked. 
 
 " Surely," answered Tristram, " I think it is 
 some blind and unknown sin done when the 
 summer flowed in her blood, — the season when 
 a sudden wrong wrought out of vision and of 
 desire leaps into life and never dies. Then 
 came swift eyesight that touched the dark thing 
 to death and made her mad with helpless knowl- 
 cdtre. She knew what a sore life dead love 
 must lead her through, and to what sure end ;
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. 17 
 
 and though her way has neither been sprinkled 
 with blood nor her tears, and though she looks 
 bravely, with her face fixed upon fate, yet she 
 knows well the serpent hour lies ready some- 
 where to sting and spare not ; ay, and he, Ar- 
 thur " 
 
 " The king," cried Iseult, — " does the king, too, 
 live in fear ? They say sin does not hurt a man 
 80 much as shame a woman ; yet he also should 
 take part of the penance, being more deeply set 
 in the sin than she." 
 
 "JSTay," said Tristram, "it fell by wicked 
 hap that he sinned no more than youth may 
 and be forgiven of God. In his first year of 
 rule, as he stood, with his foemen slain and flushed 
 with hope, there came greeting and homage from 
 King Lot out of his islands oversea. Arthur 
 greeted him as his good lord and bade him to 
 his high feast, and King Lot came thither, bring- 
 ing Queen Morgause of Orkney, his wife. She 
 was in the green May -time of her years, and 
 our king's years were scarce in April. He was 
 the goodliest of all men, and knew not yet of 
 what race he came. But King Lot was as cold 
 as autumn rains and grown gray out of season. 
 There sprang a swift love between Arthur and 
 the queen, though no one knew, until too late, 
 the bond of blood that connected them. They 
 were of two fathers but one mother, and Mer- 
 III.— 6 2*
 
 18 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 lin set forth the thing, and broke the seal of 
 Arthur's birth and showed his ruin. But come 
 shine or shade his name shall be one with all 
 knightliness, though his age shall bear the bur- 
 dens of his youth. For, indeed, blind to him, 
 his sister brought forth seed, and, of this child 
 shall be born, destruction." 
 
 Iseult was much moved and marvelled greatly. 
 
 " Great pity it is," she said, " God could not 
 do them as much right as we, who do not slay 
 men for committing witless evil." 
 
 She sighed, and looked up from the waves to 
 the clouds, seeing the day spring upright on the 
 water. The sea shone with radiance, and a low, 
 sweet gale shook the foam that fluttered around 
 the prow. The moon withered to westward, 
 and air and light and wave all seemed full of 
 a burning rest. 
 
 Iseult's heart sprang within her, and she drew 
 the sunrise and the keen, triumphant air through 
 her lips with all her spirit. She felt the sover- 
 eign morning sink into her soul and the dawn 
 cleave through the sweet veil of her body. All 
 her May-day blood flushed as from a swoon. 
 She turned and smiled with half summer in her 
 eyes, and April still on her lips, for spirit and 
 sense being at war within her shrank laugh- 
 ingly back, and would not let life put forth its 
 full flower before the prince.
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. 19 
 
 Then the soft speech grew between them again. 
 They questioned of the mightiest warriors and 
 of what names shone with most renown in love 
 and fight. Tristram spoke of many noble things 
 done at King Arthur's court, and told the tale 
 of all his great knights and fair women. 
 
 Then said Iseult, " Let each knight have his 
 meed of praise, and each good man witness of 
 his worth ; but when men laud the second name 
 on earth, whom should they praise as the equal 
 of him whose love glorifies queen Guenevere ?" 
 
 " Nay," said Tristram, " there is no such man." 
 
 " What !" said she, " there is none such among 
 all the earth's living ? Yet I' deemed men spoke 
 of one — but maybe they dreamed, fools and 
 babblers! — one that for all high things was 
 worthiest, saving the one highest, to be loved 
 and love." 
 
 " Little wit had they, then," said Tristram, " for 
 there is no such man in the world." 
 
 "Ay, on land," quoth Iseult, "there is none 
 such, nor where the fighting folk are ; but were 
 there really no such one between sea and sky, 
 the world were poorer than I thought." 
 
 Tristram took her white hand and kissed it, 
 laughing the while, and the blood lightened in 
 shame through his fair face. 
 
 " Do they truly hear no such name ?" she 
 asked, with gentle persistence.
 
 20 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " If it be 80, I wot the poor harper to the 
 queen has not heard it," he said. Then he took 
 up his harp and helped to speed the way with 
 song. 
 
 " Nay," said Iseult, when he had done, " your 
 song is hard to read." 
 
 "Ay, or too light to notice," said he, and 
 sang again a warm and passionate love-ditty. 
 
 Iseult mused upon the words and said noth- 
 ing. She was thinking of the sweet wonder of 
 two made one in love, and love laid its hand 
 on her so strong that she yearned for the day 
 when she should see his face. But Tristi'am, 
 with clear, strong eyes, and sweet-hearted as a 
 bird, aroused her with glad words and songs, 
 till she was as blithe and high of heart as he. 
 
 But as the Swallow swam onward through 
 the sea, there came a light wind out of the east 
 which strengthened as it blew. The sky black- 
 ened, and the waters began to thrill with storm. 
 The green waves hardened into iron-blue, and 
 their soft light went out. 
 
 Tristram took an oarsman's place and toiled 
 mightily, seated full in the east wind. All the 
 rowers pulled hard, but he more lustily than 
 any three of them. Iseult watched him with 
 eyes that knew no sin. She loved him only in 
 girlish wise, taking a noble joy in his fair man- 
 liness. Nevertheless, she thought if God had
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. 21 
 
 given her the grace to be a man, she would 
 have liked to be as this one ; for his stroke grew 
 mightier as the waters broke higher. 
 
 They fought the storm for an hour, till the 
 east wind fell, breath by breath, and the sun's 
 face sprang forth again across the slackening 
 rain. Then they all rested and took ease of 
 heart, and Iseult rose up from where she sat, 
 and cast from her the furs and subtle embroid- 
 eries that wrapped her from the storm. Her 
 hair and face were dashed with the salt spray, 
 and she seemed to stand the first of all the 
 world's flowers. 
 
 " I too took heart ; I was not afraid," she said, 
 laughing, to Tristram. 
 
 He made some courteous answer, and saw 
 her face grow light as it looked on his for the 
 last time with unenamoured eyes. He gave her 
 look for look and knew not what it meant, and 
 she also knew not. It was the last time, — the 
 last that should ever be told of anywhere by 
 those who should sing of them, — the last hour 
 of rest for their un wounded hearts, — the last of 
 peace, and they knew it not. 
 
 Tristram was tired with his toil and thirsted. 
 " Iseult," he said, " for dear love's sake give 
 me a drink, and for a pledge, the touch of four 
 lips on the beaker-brim." 
 
 Iseult looked up and down and would not
 
 22 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 wake Brangwain, who slept as if she were half 
 dead with fear. With hushed steps and great 
 pity the lady went round her. She was a sweet- 
 spirited maid, the daughter of a kindly king. 
 As Iseult gazed on her she spied the secret 
 charge kept close in the girl's bosom. She drew 
 the golden cup forth smiling and marvelling at 
 it. Then she bore it back to Tristram, and held 
 out the love-draught that should be a fire to 
 burn all shame and faith and fear out of them 
 and make them forever sad. 
 
 Tristram bowed towards her, and craved to 
 know whence this strange thing had come. It 
 seemed the spoil of some Asian ruler stolen by 
 starlight from a waste place in the sands, and 
 yet here a maid bore it harmlessly in her hands. 
 
 Iseult laughed at his wonder. 
 
 " Other lords feast," she said, " and their men 
 feast after them ; but with us, the men keep 
 back the best wine for their own feasting, and 
 we feed after them. So it is with my handmaid 
 and your squire. They have hid this thing from 
 us for their own delight." Then, with hands 
 that knew not they were digging a grave, she 
 undid the hasps of gold and drank from the cup ; 
 and after she had taken her fill she gave it to 
 Tristram, who also drank a deep, kingly draught. 
 
 And suddenly all their life was changed in 
 them, for they had drunk of death.
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. 23 
 
 His eyes filled with passion and dread. He 
 was stung at heart with a new desire. Turning, 
 he saw a strange terror in Iseult's eyes. She 
 yearned towards him like a shining star fixed 
 in the midnight. 
 
 Thus were they tempted. Their Galahault 
 was the cup and she who mixed it. No other 
 hand or sweet speech was needed to bring their 
 lips together. Each hung on the other with 
 unwonted looks, and their mouths trembled for 
 a word. Their heads drew near together and 
 their hands were joined. Though the sun shot 
 fire into the south through the fine rain, they 
 saw only darkness. Their lips met in a burning 
 kiss. 
 
 II. 
 
 The second day of the sailing rose out of the 
 night, and the ship's bow clove the shoreward 
 waters. Tristram and Iseult stood hand in hand 
 on the deck, with eyes dim from sweet remem- 
 brance of their new-made love, and scarce heed- 
 ing the fair palace whither they were bound. It 
 stood upon the summits of a rocky island, riven 
 from the shore and encircled by the waves, and 
 sprang high into the morning. Its eastern gate 
 was full of sunrise, and on the vast stair that 
 climbed sheer up from the sea to its portal, 
 stood ranged the knights of King Mark. 
 
 When the bride had landed, these warriors
 
 24 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 brought her up the steep way with loud cries 
 of joy. She entered the strange halls where the 
 tidal noises forever echoed. Tower shouldered 
 tower above her with changing floors and stories, 
 and flight upon flight climbing up to the apex, 
 whence all the wide east and west were stretched 
 in view. 
 
 Midway of the stairs, before the main tower's 
 portal, stood King Mark. He was crowned, 
 and his face looked as if he had long been hun- 
 gering for the sun, and now thought to feel its 
 blessing on his brow. He was a swart, lean 
 man, but king-like, with a black-streaked beard 
 and cold, unquiet eyes. Close-mouthed he was 
 also, and gaunt-cheeked, though time had hardly 
 strewn her first ashes on his worn hair. Little 
 fire burnt within him, and he seemed weary of 
 life's wayfaring. 
 
 He stood there between shade and sunlight, 
 and his face did not change, nor did he yearn 
 towards the bride. But when he saw her full 
 glory, fear and shame smote him to take her 
 hand and kiss her. His cold face flushed with 
 a thin flame, and he led her silently to the bridal 
 altar. 
 
 There they were wedded and hallowed by the 
 priest ; but through all the time of feasting 
 there was a sole burning thought within three 
 hearts where craft took counsel with desire.
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. 25 
 
 When the feast had come to a glorious end the 
 new queen was given over to her maids at the 
 dawn of bride-night, who should lead her to the 
 bridegroom. But Brangwain went to him and 
 craftily prayed that, for love's sake, this thing 
 might not be ; but that the bride might come 
 into the bride-bed without sound or light. He 
 laughed as one who knew little of love's ways, 
 and bade the handmaid do all as she wished. 
 But he got little return for his gentleness, for 
 Brangwain went, clothed like a bride, softly to 
 3{^ing Mark, and Tristram came to the queen. 
 
 The night fled on, and before the day rose 
 Brangwain slipped away from beside the sleep- 
 ing king and Iseult went in and lay beside him. 
 Waking up, he saw her fair red face and the 
 strange golden hair loosed across the pillows 
 which fired the hearts of men with love and 
 their eyes with wonder. 
 
 The king marvelled at her glory. 
 
 " What have I done that God should bless me 
 with all this great wealth ?" he said in his heart. 
 " Was it this I had beside me all night, this that 
 seems fairer than heaven does in some tired 
 saint's vision ? Have I not sinned to have 
 made her a mere man's wife ?" 
 
 He mused and murmm'ed thus, and Iseult 
 listened to the faint words and laughed silently 
 into her concealing hair.
 
 26 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Many a fair day and month slipped over them 
 like music, and love's offerings burned during 
 many a secret night. Many a dawn, too, blew 
 a prelude to fiery noons, when the tune of the 
 horn woke the woods with sounds of mirth. 
 For Tristram was the mightiest huntsman of 
 all the land, and he loved to ride by Iseult's 
 rein, whose eyes and cheeks grew enkindled 
 into richer beauty with the chase and the rapt- 
 ure of her steed. Yet often they took more 
 joy of the woodland ways than came of the 
 mad life of the hunt. 
 
 But once, when the knight had ridden away 
 to do warfare against the Christless lands on 
 the king's northern border, there came upon a 
 secret quest to Mark's palace of Tintagle an 
 unknown knight, named Palamede. He abode 
 as a guest with the king in the likeness of a 
 minstrel, and there was no man on earth, saving 
 only Tristram, who could touch the strings so 
 sweetly. 
 
 One loud and blustry evening, before set of 
 sun, being full of wine and mirth. King Mark 
 swore strongly to the strange minstrel that, for 
 guerdon of his voice and song, he might crave 
 of him what he desired. Then there came up 
 the swart cheek of the player a flash of deeper 
 color, and the sunken eyes laughed triumphantly. 
 
 "O King," he cried, "I crave no gift that
 
 Tristram, of Lyonesse. 27 
 
 you may give a slave, but only your crowned 
 queen and wife. Even unseen I loved her. I 
 set my life on this one poor chance, for she is 
 famed to be fairer than all saving Guenevere." 
 
 Then, like the noise of a seaward storm that 
 beats the rocks with roaring laughter, the wrath 
 and wonder of the knights rang through the 
 hollow roof But the king held his peace and 
 glared hard upon the stranger. 
 
 " Man," he said, grimly, " though your craft 
 be dark and your mind evil, yet the word of a 
 king once plighted stands fast. Albeit it were 
 less bitter for me to give up my life than my 
 wife, yet it were worse in the sight of God and 
 man to live shamed with broken troth." 
 
 The king bowed down and wef>t, and all his 
 knights wept with him save one ; but the queen 
 did not weep, but looked statelier than ever be- 
 fore. 
 
 She rose, and her heart was great in her eyes. 
 She was full of wrath and scorn to be sent 
 thence from comfort and her natural right. 
 
 But they went forth into the darkness, and 
 rode silently by wild ways a long journey. Iseult 
 felt less fear than Palamede, for he was con- 
 strained by awe of her. He yearned towards 
 her, and wondered if he might ever win her 
 with love or skill. He well knew that forbear- 
 ance would gain more grace from that sweet
 
 28 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 mouth than violent kisses, for these would make 
 his name abhorred to her. 
 
 The clouds were alternately thinned and 
 thickened by the short gusts, and the noise of 
 the sea moaned along the darkness. They halted 
 anon, and the knight treated her as reverently 
 as if she were his sleeping sister. He durst 
 neither kiss her nor touch her hands or hair 
 for very love and pity of her. Shame and grief 
 stung him to the heart. 
 
 But the day sprang up now, and they heard 
 the echo of hurrying hoofs far off along the 
 waste. Like a rushing flame a single rider ap- 
 proached. He plunged upon them headlong 
 out of the morning's darkness, and they saw 
 that it was Tristram. 
 
 Palamede leaped up upon his war-horse ready 
 to do battle, and they lashed together with a 
 mighty shock of horse and man. 
 
 The fight began lustily as the sun rose. The 
 strong steeds reeled to and fro with haggard 
 eyes. Their stout heads were bent down, and 
 their knees staggered under the strain of on- 
 set. The spears shocked again and again until 
 they splintered. Then each knight drew his 
 Bword, and fell to royally with flashing blades. 
 Once they drew off", and with tightened rein and 
 deep spur-stroke bore in again at each other. 
 But the jarring notes of the fight broke off
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. 29 
 
 anon, and Palamede, stunned, fell like a ruined 
 main-mast down from his saddle to the ground. 
 The lovers left him where he had fallen and rode 
 lightly away through the green lawns. Not far 
 off there was a fair bower wrought out of 
 boughs for love to rest in, and there Iseult and 
 Tristram took their way. When they had come 
 thither they refreshed their hearts with good 
 cheer in hunter's fashion ; and it seemed to them 
 sweeter to tarry there and give farewell to 
 all the world's weariness than to reign as king 
 and queen. 
 
 For three moons they dwelt there without 
 thought of sorrow, fostered by the sweet earth 
 as if they had been babes reared in the pathless 
 forests. The sun sprang above the ocean and 
 the stars rose and sank, and they lived the wise 
 and free life of outlaws. Eumor of death and 
 change seemed like a babbling tale. Tristram 
 sang songs of mockery at their bitter godhead, 
 and defied time to blot the glad life out of love. 
 
 Iseult drank deeply of the warm wine of his 
 words, for he knew well all the subtlest ways 
 of song. 
 
 Thus they fared, without a cloud to darken 
 their delight. Yet in very wonder that such a 
 life as theirs could be, they began to be haunted 
 with dreams of desire and death. Tears would 
 mingle with the passionate laughter in their 
 
 3*
 
 30 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 eyes, and they uttered wild speech in their 
 yearning to pass beyond the boundary of time 
 to love's final eminence. 
 
 III. 
 
 Three years had gone by since Tristram 
 looked upon Iseult. He was weary of the long 
 separation, and sad thoughts swept through his 
 spirit as leaves through the autumnal air. His 
 soul lay dead within him like a corpse in its 
 grave. Yet the mood was rare upon him, for 
 his heart was mighty and his fame ran through 
 all the world. 
 
 It was the low sundown of the year. The 
 toil and triumph of the past season were done. 
 He could not choose but yearn for the first-born 
 kiss of Iseult' s mouth. But his heart was greater 
 than his grief and kept his strength in its sum- 
 mer's prime. He looked out across the drifting 
 sea and the shore crumbling under the waves, 
 and communed with himself. 
 
 "What sum of pain would it take to break a 
 man's soul ?" he murmured. " "VYe are all parts 
 of one great end, and if we go through fire and 
 water to a common bourn where we two must 
 be made one, what does it matter ?" 
 
 He mused upon his fate with closed lips and 
 uplifted eyes, wandering about the bare wolds 
 in banishment. His heart was hungry with long
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. 31 
 
 absence from her he loved. Yet as he strode 
 onward fresh courage came to him, and a dawn 
 rose in his heart till it and the heart of the 
 ancient hills were one. The winds took counsel 
 with him and the sun spoke comfort. The 
 shout of birds sounded in his ears like clear 
 sweet speech. The noises of the streams were 
 a welcome laughter, and sj^ring's trumpet blew 
 as a cry of love over moor and lea. 
 
 He went now as if a light were about his 
 head, for neither grief nor fear can master a 
 young man's blood so long that it shall He dead 
 to the voice of spring-time. All the births of 
 the land and waifs of the water seemed to draw 
 near to soothe his sorrow and set his life free 
 from remembrance of pain. With an exalted 
 heart he resolved to take his share of sun or 
 storm and be glad for things lost, because they 
 had brought him a hidden good. 
 
 He had come back now, after many seasons 
 spent in barren ways, with strange fights and 
 vigils under the shield, to the strait of sea which 
 parts Cornwall from Brittany. Here dwelt the 
 daughter of the king of those realms, who was 
 named Iseult, because of her fair hands, and 
 she looked on him and loved him. Being young, 
 she was ashamed to speak her love, and kept it 
 silent on her lips. On her heart, too, she set 
 the seal of humility. But when the stranger
 
 32 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 came into her sight, a weary and banished man, 
 all unlike him who steered the Swallow, and 
 sang the imperial Iseult to her home, this 
 maiden of sixteen sinless years looked upon him 
 courteously, and he burned her eyes as though 
 she had turned them on the sun itself. She 
 felt a sweet thrill beat through her veins even 
 to her hands and feet. When he spoke, there 
 sounded a song in her ears as if it came out 
 of past days, heard once- and forgotten, and 
 now remembered again with rapture. But 
 her soul took the sense of change as the moun- 
 tain snow takes the first sense of April's ap- 
 proach. To her, maiden love was an unknown 
 thing. Her eyes hardly followed him ; her cheeks 
 scarcely took on another hue at his speech, and 
 her mouth no more trembled than a rose will at 
 a light breeze. If she sighed in her sleep, she 
 knew it not. 
 
 Yet in her heart there hovered thoughts of 
 past things, till her memory burned with grief 
 and hope to see him so great and so sad. She 
 knew not what fate had bowed his head. He 
 scarcely spoke to her at all of the things which 
 had sent him over sea from his own land into 
 banishment. And yet remembrance of his least 
 word of courtesy, his tender thanks for her pity, 
 his fair greetings, seemed to cling around her 
 always.
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. 33 
 
 But when her name would fall on him 
 between strange words, his heart suddenly- 
 bounded back to its lure like a falcon, and 
 trembled and bowed down before it. " Iseult" 
 he would hear, and the cloud-like world grew 
 aflame to him and his heart flashed lightning. 
 " Iseult" again, and the weary heavens shone like 
 the queen's own kindling eyes. Thus, seeing the 
 blood mount in his face at hearing her name, 
 the girl thought, " Haply, my name was worn 
 by one long ago dead, — some sister he loved." So 
 pitying him, her heart was brought ever into 
 deeper thraldom. 
 
 But once, when the winds made mirth outside 
 and March was holding revel, a new delight 
 mingled with doubt entered the maiden's soul, 
 and she yearned towards him as he touched the 
 harp on high before her. His words kindled 
 her heart, and through all the rhymes came the 
 soft burden of her name. Before the song had 
 ended joy strove with fear in her and cast fear 
 out, and, like Tristram's harp, she tingled with a 
 music born of hope. 
 
 He ceased to sing at last, yearning upon the 
 name ; and she quailed and trembled before she 
 dared raise her eyes to his for an answer to her 
 love. 
 
 Her face began to flush with changing roses, 
 and she would fain have said something, but did 
 III.— c
 
 34 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 not know what it should be. Then she rose up 
 and reached forth, her hand to him, and he 
 bowed his head and dropped his knee, and his 
 h'ps pressed like fire upon her fragrant hand. 
 Their hearts were like a trembling harp, where 
 music seemed to shudder at its own joy. 
 
 Thus their marriage night dawned in the moon- 
 rise of love. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The spring waned into May-time and the 
 days sped on towards the bridal morning. The 
 ring was set on Iseult's fair hand, while the 
 song that hailed her name as love's queen still 
 hovered in her ears. In her young loveliness she 
 was innocent of all desire and doubt, and her 
 heart quivered with a pulse of light. 
 
 Her father and her brother led her between 
 them from the hall to the shrine, and from the 
 shrine to the marriage-bed. Yet she did not 
 discover how at home-coming there happened to 
 fall from Tristram's hand a royal ring, which, 
 looking upon, he felt the old passion kindle 
 anew in his faithless heart. 
 
 The ring was given to him by the hand where 
 his heart's pledge lay forever, and the sin that 
 should be done if he should take this maid to 
 wife, abashed his spirit and made him grow cold 
 for very shame.
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. 35 
 
 As he thought of the thing, all the past l*ose 
 upon him. He saw once again, in vision, how 
 they had parted, and how they had been found 
 in the greenwood asleep, yet severed from each 
 other by the sword which lay between them. 
 How Mark, the king, when he saw this, 
 held it for a sign that they were no fleshly 
 lovers, for he deemed it sacred. How, when 
 they awakened, they saw the king with his folk 
 about him, and rose and went home with him 
 to the towers washed by the sea, and the halls 
 where the music of the waves forever resounded. 
 How rumor of their love began to swell, and 
 the most trusted of his peers, a bom kinsman, 
 who hated him, whispered at midnight to King 
 Mark where he might find them together. How, 
 before the morning, they brought him down, fast 
 bound, to the old chapel on the sea-rocks, with 
 forty knights about him, the chief of whom 
 was the traitor who had betrayed him. How, 
 seeing he must needs die, he asked if they had 
 forgotten what deeds he had done for Cornwall, 
 he who had rescued them, had fought against 
 the foul Irish invader who came to take three 
 hundred children as tribute. How none dared 
 look up at him, saving only the traitor knight, 
 who defied him and would have slain him. 
 How, when he saw the sword pulled forth, he 
 looked on his bound hands and wrenched away
 
 36 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 their bonds, haling the two who guarded him 
 suddenly to him, and, kindling with anger, leapt 
 on his kinsman and wrung the sword from his 
 hands and smote him down. How all the press 
 came raging on him and he slew ten knights 
 without a wound. How the throng waxed 
 greater, but he had won the chapel overlooking 
 the sea. How his heart sprang, seeing the leaps 
 he must take to swim out across the belt of bil- 
 lows to the mainland. How, as a sea-gull, hover- 
 ing aloft, suddenly drops, he hung for a brief 
 breathing space, then plunged with an exulting 
 heart. How at last he triumphed, and how 
 Gouvernayle, his squire, watching hard by, 
 sought where a man swimming might win the 
 shore, and went there and stayed till he swam 
 in all bruised by the buffets of the waves, but 
 laughing and flushed as if with wine. 
 
 Tristram felt all this come upon him in a 
 breath, and he marvelled that it should be no 
 more bitter to die than it seemed there in the 
 sea. He pondered how all his years had 
 brought but him to this sweet yet dark 
 time, where his foot faltered on the threshold 
 of the bridal bower, for it seemed harder to 
 pass through than through all the perils of the 
 past. Faith alone gave him courage in this ex- 
 tremity, for his heart quailed when the stars 
 rose and the torches were put out. The bride-
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. 37 
 
 house seemed hung with mourning to him. 
 But he passed into the sweet hght of the 
 maiden bower where Iseult lay like a fair blos- 
 som that he might not gather. Fierce regret 
 and loyalty strove in him with pity towards 
 his tender young wife, that must never wear 
 the crown of wedlock, never bear children 
 to worship her white hair, and never know 
 the laughter that flows from the lips of little 
 ones. 
 
 He stood pale and rent with passion in pres- 
 ence of the gay bride-folk before he went into 
 the chamber. There the white hands gleamed 
 and the fair hair glowed that reminded him 
 bitterly of one who was fairer. But the young 
 bride shone so fair in the flower of her youth, 
 that his heart could scarcely keep its pledge as 
 he gazed on her. He drew near to where she 
 lay in bed, in the midst of the dim twilight of 
 her alcove. He sighed as he approached her, 
 and then lay down at her side, but said no word. 
 But his heart spoke within him. He felt how 
 sore a thing it would be to break troth with 
 her, most faithful as she was of womankind. 
 His quick blood sprang and sank, and he spoke 
 aloud for memory's sake the one word : 
 
 " Iseult." 
 
 " I am here," said a virgin voice, full of timid 
 love. A pang rent him ; but still faith held her 
 
 4
 
 38 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 mastery. His spirit and flesh were vassals to 
 his will. 
 
 Softly, with the motion of a bough where a 
 bird alights, he turned and kissed her once on 
 the forehead. 
 
 But he kept his faith unbroken, for in be- 
 tween them floated a face more fair than hers. 
 
 Y. 
 
 But that same night across the sea in Corn- 
 wall, Tristram's hound Hodain couched against 
 Queen Iseult's knee with keen eyes that read 
 her heart's pain. He was the mightiest of his 
 race on earth, and had plied his craft for many 
 a day through the forest before Tristram and 
 Iseult. The queen cherished him more because 
 of Tristram's absence than for the old times 
 when Tristram's horn-blast would quicken him 
 into delight of the dawn. Now he chafed 
 through all the long, barren days, soothed only 
 by the queen's hand. 
 
 In the halls below, far under these, sat King 
 Mark, feasting. He was full of cheer, as on the 
 night when the harper had claimed his gift and 
 had ridden away with his wife. Music revelled on 
 the breeze, and songs floated up the stair mingled 
 with the roar of wassail. The king took good 
 heart from his wine-cups and the harp-playing, 
 and his cold veins rejoiced as with the life-blood
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. 39 
 
 of a kinglier man. The queen, in her far-away 
 bower, shut her weary ears and sad eyes. She 
 wrung her hair with fierce hands, and prayed 
 to God for Tristram's love to comfort her in her 
 down-fallen life. The night spoke, and the sea 
 thundered on for wreckage, and the northern 
 bastions rang out deep responses as the east 
 wind girded up his strength and hurled the 
 fleeces of the storm in against them. But she 
 heard neither wind nor sea, and knew not 
 whether the night was calm or maddened with 
 wind. In words that were half a prayer and 
 half a cry she murmured on across the waters 
 to her love : 
 
 " Dear, do you see my worn face ? do you 
 heed my wild speech where you sleep to-night ? 
 Ah, love, are your days my days, and are all 
 your nights like my nights? Does the sun 
 grieve you ? Are you soul-sick till the day dies 
 and weary till it rises ? Is your heart full of 
 dead things, as mine is ? No, no ; you are a man, 
 with a man's strength, — no bond-woman, no 
 queen, no loveless wife." 
 
 The iron wind sounded like a sword, and the 
 sea seemed an outbreaking battle. She prayed 
 that Tristram's love should be turned from her, 
 lest he also should lose God, as she had done. 
 Then, in the extremity of her grief, she wailed : 
 " O God, give him back ! give him back !
 
 40 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 for how shall we live asunder who are as one 
 heart !" 
 
 All the night long she strove in prayer, and 
 when at last there came a ripple of dawn in the 
 East, she could see the hound crouched at her 
 feet and her bitterness flowed out in tears. He 
 laid his kind head along her knee, and she put 
 her arms about his neck. The darkness passed 
 away from her like a breaking chain ; but her 
 heart still wailed within her, and she was loath 
 to see the sun with her weary eyes. 
 
 At that same moment of dawn, in a land far 
 away, the glad eyes of Iseult of Brittany awoke 
 beside her new lord, Tristram, in her marriage- 
 bower. 
 
 YI. 
 
 Before April had come and gone, a feud arose 
 in Brittany between Ganhardine, Iseult' s brother, 
 and Tristram, her husband. One day, as they 
 rode forth hawking, Ganhardine came to Tris- 
 tram in great wrath. 
 
 " We have loved you, and you have shown us 
 only scorn in return," he said, hotly. " Why is 
 your bride not yours indeed? why is she a 
 stranger beside you ? What evil has she done 
 to be mocked with mouth-marriage and set at 
 naught ?" 
 
 Anger and wonder came upon Tristram's 
 face.
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. 41 
 
 " Has she bidden you plead with me for her 
 sake?" he asked, scornfully. "I believed more 
 nobly of her than that such a part should find 
 so fair a player." 
 
 " Nay," said Ganhardine ; " only just now, 
 riding beneath these white thorns, a flower fell 
 into her girdle-stead, which, with a laugh, she 
 shook out. ' What liberty the wind gives this 
 stray !' she said. ' See, it lies nearer my heart 
 than an^'thing since my mother lulled me, — 
 even my lord himself Thus I know that you 
 scorn us all, — a race held as not worth com- 
 munion with yours, — unless there is some fault 
 in her to blemish our alliance." 
 
 " Neither blame nor scorn may touch my 
 bride," said Tristram, " albeit she lives unknown 
 of love. Faith only withheld me, and forbade 
 the grace of wedlock ; not that I loved her any 
 the less, but that my love of faith was more. 
 And you, Ganhardine, though your heart is keen 
 against me now, could you but see my very lady 
 herself, then you, no more than all other men, 
 would hold my faith to her as a fault." 
 
 Before the day's hawking came to an end, 
 Tristram had sworn to his brother Ganhardine 
 that he should see that other strange Iseult. 
 
 They soon set out for Cornwall, and, after 
 much travel by sea and land, reached the royal 
 domain where the hunt rang as of old when 
 
 4*
 
 42 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Tristram's horn led, with the queen's horse at 
 his side. 
 
 That day the first of all the queen's dames 
 who rode before the company with a ringing 
 rein and gay laughter was Brangwain, ever her 
 lady's true handmaid. 
 
 When Ganhardine beheld her, he marvelled 
 at her beauty. 
 
 " Be called for all time a truth-teller !" he ex- 
 claimed to Tristram. " Never yet have I seen 
 a sight like this !" 
 
 " Ay," said Tristram ; " and she whom you 
 look upon is so great in grace that you have 
 less cause than ever for wrath against me, 
 seeing she is but my lady's handmaid. And 
 do you see no other light, Ganhardine ? a golden 
 light there, which shines wherever one moves 
 in midst of them all, above all, past all praise ? 
 That is she." 
 
 Ganhardine stood as one dizzy with wine. 
 He gazed out hard at the troop, and his heart 
 was cloven as with a sword. He scarcely spoke, 
 for he was consumed with love for the queen's 
 fair handmaid. 
 
 Then, because he was unknown to the king's 
 followers, Tristram bade him carry his ring to 
 Brangwain, that she might give it secretly to 
 the queen and send him word where they might 
 meet.
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. 43 
 
 That same night they came together under 
 the stars as of old. Iseult feigned sickness to 
 the king and kept him from her, while she met 
 Tristram in the midst of her pavilion ; but Gan- 
 hardine wooed Brangwain. 
 
 Iseult and Tristram plotted there in the night 
 how they should flee, and where they should 
 go. 
 
 " For the way was shown me by Queen Guene- 
 vere of late," said Iseult, " to give me comfort 
 of my wrong from the traitor Tristram when it 
 was thought he had forsaken me. Her sweet 
 soul should not yet be changed towards me if I 
 crave a boon. What, then, if we take horse, 
 and make haste to Camelot?" 
 
 The next night they set out, and in a brief 
 space came to Camelot, where their long-en- 
 during love got them much grace of Laun- 
 celot and Guenevere, whom men praised as the 
 lordliest lovers in the world. 
 
 The weeks and months sped by since they 
 had first seen the strength of Joyous Gard. 
 Love gave them a quiet life in that deep and 
 glorious tower which stands between the wild 
 seas and lands. They took many a day's delight 
 with hawk and hound in those wide lands, and 
 the long waves often buoyed their boat between 
 the rocks. Sated then with such joys, they 
 would sit and commune of past things, — what
 
 44 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 state King Arthur once held in the halls they 
 dwelt in ; of Tristram himself and his three 
 days' triumph in the tourney when Iseult sat 
 enthroned by Guenevere, — till at last Iseult fell 
 to bemoaning her lack of beaiity because she 
 was outshone by the other queen, and Tristram 
 laughed gently at her, saying she forged sweet 
 wiles like children to deceive herself. 
 
 " Shall I trust you more than a fairy crea- 
 ture, who so belie yourself?" he asked, with a 
 caress. 
 
 She rebuked him for breaking troth with her 
 in marrying the other Iseult ; but he spoke of 
 the draught they had drained of old, mixed by 
 the hands of love and fate, since which no 
 power could ever part them, for the will of 
 either love or fate, however it might seem at 
 strife, was one towards them who had drunk, 
 as death and life are a sole doom towards all; 
 for no man may behold the sun and not behold 
 the darkness also. 
 
 " O my heart," he broke forth, " heavenliest 
 head that ever won the worship of men ! do 
 not think it much to die. You are not made 
 in the mould of those who pass away forever!" 
 
 " But what shall praise profit me Avhen I am 
 dead?" she asked. " What am I, that my name 
 should live so long ? What gift can I give you ? 
 Only peril and sleepless watches, exile, rebuke,
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. 45 
 
 remorse, and — oh, not shame, that only I did 
 not give you." 
 
 Before he stooped to kiss her, Tristram smiled. 
 
 " Why desire more words ?" he said. " You 
 have given me life, not death. All I had before 
 I won you was but as the shadow of death. 
 How should I, who have belonged to sorrow 
 from my cradle, kiss the red lips of mirth? 
 There is no third on the earth to stand with 
 Guenevere beside my queen, — not Nimue, nor 
 Bttarde, nor she whose blind love brought forth 
 a flame to burn its sire. King Arthur ; but lately 
 we saw her pass, whose own sons have doomed 
 her to death for her shame." 
 
 " Death — yes," quoth Iseult ; " there is not said 
 a surer word on earth. Death and again death, 
 and for every utterance ten tongues chime an 
 answer. God send us a good end, — so men 
 pray. But I pray God send me this end, — not 
 to die divided from you, or with a heart rent 
 by the sword, but only when you die, and only 
 where you are !" 
 
 Thus they communed till the evening was 
 worn away. They did not hold life or love any 
 the less dear because of death. They stood on 
 the soft, funereal shore watching till the day 
 should wholly ebb. They saw the far-away sea 
 sweep out to the remote gray sky, and the long 
 sands slope down to the sea. J^ight made one
 
 46 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 sweet mist of the moors where only the distant 
 foam sent forth a gleam, and life sank in them 
 as silently as the darkness sank upon the land 
 and sea. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But all that year in Brittany dwelt the white- 
 handed Iseult brooding over her sorrows. The 
 sweet spirit of old was parched with blasts of 
 angry thought. Her fair innocence was con- 
 sumed with the strong flame of jealousy. 
 
 The same hour of twilight which brought the 
 lovers together far away in Joyous Gard saw 
 her seated at watch by the opening sea. The 
 day seemed to cling with a trembling hand, 
 reluctant to recede, and in her soul likewise 
 lingered envy and hatred. She saw far off in 
 spirit the likeness of her lord wrought in light 
 upon the darkness ; but there was an imperial 
 figure beside him whose shadow cast down his 
 bride. Iseult's eyes and heart looked upon the 
 sunset as upon the fires of hell ; but the wrath 
 within her seemed a passionate holiness. 
 
 " How long, how long," she moaned, " till thou 
 do justice, O long-suffering judge ! Shalt thou 
 not one day put him in mine hand whom I loved 
 so, to slay and spare not ? Shalt thou not cast 
 her down that I may step upon her humbled 
 head ? Do I not well to be angry ? Yea, thou 
 knowest I do well. Is not thy seal of blood-red
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. 47 
 
 radiance set there for witness on the brows of 
 day and night ? Make me thy sword, O Lord, 
 against all of these that wrong me !" 
 
 She mused and prayed in fierce outbursts till 
 the fire in the sea and sky sank away and the 
 northwest wind began to blow harshly above 
 her. Her heart waxed dark and bitter as she 
 listened to the sea, and the wind's voice seemed 
 spoken by her own soul. The breath about her 
 was not of darkness, but of very death. 
 
 Yet, in spite of the young bride's grief, the 
 days at Joyous Gard sped on in happiness, like 
 a cloud gleaming in the western sun. The lovers 
 knew not any more than the waters what wind 
 might blow next, but spent their time in glad- 
 ness of heart. But before the summer had 
 passed all their joy was shaken to dust. For 
 the last time they strayed upon the strand to- 
 gether, and then they took leave, and saw the 
 skies grow dark because they were divided. 
 
 A summons came to Tristram in the king's 
 name. He was commanded to go to the succor 
 of the king's vassal, Triamour, who ruled in 
 Wales, but was now spoiled of his power, as was 
 Tristram's father of old, by one of the strongest 
 sons of earth, named TJrgan, a giant of iron bulk. 
 
 Iseult's lord. King Mark, had demanded her 
 to be restored by Arthur ; and she too parted 
 from Joyous Gard, and sat once again, crowned
 
 48 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 with state and sorrow, in Tintagel. She 
 yielded, but against her will, saying within her 
 own soul that some season must give her life 
 again, or death. Her days were void of light 
 or darknesss now that King Mark kept his 
 haggard watch upon her, for his looks were 
 more cloudy than the winter skies. Her heart 
 waxed bitter towards him ; but he was rent in 
 twain by harsh love and hate of her, yearning 
 to be quit of shame. His life grew a smoulder- 
 ing fire, and hers was charged full with storm, 
 touched now and again with trembling gleams 
 as hope strove with the darkness. 
 
 But Tristram rode, the while, through the 
 wastes of glorious Wales, high-hearted with the 
 desire for fight. He was stronger in soul, and 
 had a merrier sense of strength, than since the 
 first years of his knighthood. All his will was 
 towards war. Love had too long repressed him 
 and kept him from glory. His hope waxed 
 blithe towards battle, and high desire to pluck 
 fame once more out of the circling fire. 
 
 All the lovely land where he rode had been 
 blasted by war, and the homesteads and fields 
 were black with fire. The dead lay festering in 
 the soft air, and the streams were loud with the 
 wail of women. Pity for these things brought 
 a deeper wrath, and quickened Tristram's will 
 every league he rode through the aching land.
 
 THE HEIR AT LAW. 49 
 
 had visited a person who owed a debt of gratitude 
 to her father, but found him unwilling to come to 
 her relief. Her best friend, Lord Duberly, was 
 dead, and the poor young lady was in a sad strait. 
 
 She engaged Cicely Homespun, however, moved 
 to sympathy by their both having been recently 
 made orphans, and attracted by the evident hon- 
 esty of the country girl. 
 
 Zekiel had accompanied his sister to Miss 
 Dormer's, and left her there in service, returning 
 with a glad heart to the Blue Boar, to tell Dick 
 of his good fortune. We have alread}^ described 
 his reception by the new scion of the aristocracy. 
 
 As for the worthy Dr. Pangloss, fortune seemed 
 to be showering its favors on his learned head. 
 He had but fairly landed Dick at the Hanover 
 Square mansion, when Lady Duberly sent for him. 
 Her purpose was to inquire how my lord came 
 on with his learning, and what he designed to 
 teach Dick. 
 
 The doctor named a ponderous list of studies, 
 far more than the good lady deemed necessary. 
 She interrupted the pedant to inform him that he 
 had left out the main article ; she wanted Dick 
 to be taught dancing. 
 
 " Dancing ! Dr. Pangloss, the philosopher, 
 teach to dance ! With submission to your lady- 
 ship, my business is with the head, and not with 
 the heels, of my pupil." 
 
 " Look ye, doctor, he must learn to dance and 
 to jabber French ; and I wouldn't give a brass 
 Vol. III.— c d 5
 
 5Q TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 farden for anything else. I know M'hat's elegance ; 
 and you'll find the gray mare the better horse in 
 this house, I promise you. What's your pay here, 
 Mr. Tutorer?" 
 
 " Three hundred pounds per annum ; that is — 
 six — no, three — no — ay — no matter." 
 
 " Do as I direct you in private, and, to prevent 
 words, I'll double it." 
 
 ''Double it! What, again! I'll take it. 'Your 
 hand ; a covenant ?' Shakespeare. Hem ! Zounds, 
 I've got beyond the reading at last ! 
 
 ' I've often wished that I had clear 
 For life, nine hundred pounds a year.' 
 
 Swift. Hem ! I hear, my lord " 
 
 These last words were in response to Lord 
 Duberly, who, with Dick, entered as he spoke. 
 Dick was dressed in a fashionable suit which his 
 father had provided for him in advance of his 
 arrival, and which he wore with an air of ludi- 
 crous importance and self-satisfaction. 
 
 " The very air and grace of our young nobil- 
 ity!" exclaimed his mother, proudly. 
 
 " Is it ?" asked his lordship. " Then grace must 
 have got plaguey limber, for there's the picture 
 of the last Lord Duberly's father, in our dining- 
 room with a wig as wide as a wash-tub, and stuck 
 up as stiff as a poker. A man should know how 
 to bemean himself when he is as rich as Pluto." 
 
 " Plutus, my lord," corrected the doctor. " Pluto 
 has his disciples, no doubt ; but Plutus is the
 
 THE HEIR AT LAW. 61 
 
 tuler of riches," and the worthy pedant ended 
 with a ponderous Greek quotation. 
 
 " There, Dick, d'ye hear how the tutorer talks ?" 
 exclaimed Lord Duberly. " Odd rabbit, he can 
 ladle you out Latin by the quart, and grunts Greek 
 like a pig. I've giv' him three hundred a year, and 
 settled all he's to learn you. Ha'n't I, doctor?" 
 
 " Certainly, my lord. ' Thrice to thine ' " 
 
 "Yes, we know all about that. Don't we, 
 doctor?" queried Dick. 
 
 "Decidedly, — 'and thrice to thine' " 
 
 "Aye, aye; clearly understood. Isn't it, doc- 
 tor ?" asked Lady Duberly. 
 
 " Undoubtedly, — ' and thrice again to make up 
 nme.' Shakespeare. Hern !" 
 
 They were interrupted at this point by the 
 entrance of a servant to announce a visitor to his 
 lordship. Lord and Lady Duberly left the room, 
 after bidding Dick to go with the doctor to the 
 library, there to take his first lesson. 
 
 " Plenty of learning there, I promise you, doc- 
 tor," said his lordship. " There's all Horace's 
 operas ; and such a sight of French books ; but I 
 see by the backs they were all written by Tom," 
 and with this amusing misconception of the 
 French " tome," he withdrew. 
 
 " On what subject, Mr. Dowlas, shall we com- 
 mence our researches this evening?" asked the 
 doctor. 
 
 "We'll go to the billiard-room, and knock the 
 balls about a little."
 
 52 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " If 1 could but persuade you to peep into a 
 classic " 
 
 " Peep ! why, you prig of a fellow, don't I pay 
 you because I won't peep ? Talk of this again, 
 and I'm off our contract." 
 
 "Are you? I'm dumb," exclaimed the doctor, 
 in alarm. " ' Mammon leads me on !' Milton. 
 Hem! I follow." 
 
 And off they went for Dick's first lesson in the 
 fine art of playing the fashionable young gentle- 
 man. 
 
 Dick was learningf his lesson somewhat too 
 rapidly. His light head had been so turned by 
 his sudden elevation that the substratum of solid 
 honesty at the bottom of his nature was for the 
 time being quite obscured. This loss of his moral 
 level he showed soon afterwards, in an interview 
 with Zekiel Homespun. 
 
 The new-made " honorable" began by pettishly 
 accusing Zekiel of intruding at an unseasonable 
 hour, and demanding who let him in. 
 
 " Why, a fat man in the hall, that popped out 
 of a leather chair, that comes all over his head 
 like a tub." 
 
 " The porter, I suppose," said Dick. 
 
 " Belike it was. He has tassels a top of his 
 shoulders ; and a sight o' binding, that looks like 
 parsley and butter, about his waistcoat. 1 tell ye, 
 I was uneasy about ye, Dick. You did promise 
 to meet us, this a'ternoon." 
 
 "I have been prevented," said Dick, loftily.
 
 THE HEIR AT LAW. 53 
 
 " We young fellows of fashion can't answer for 
 our hours." 
 
 Zekiel proceeded to tell that he had just seen 
 Cicely, and left her in tears at Dick's failure to 
 keep his promise, saying that he had never broken 
 his woi'd till he was made a gentleman. 
 
 The new-made sprig of the nobility at this 
 began to put on airs of protection. A girl on 
 whom Lord Duberly's son had fixed his affections 
 must not be left in service, he said ; he would 
 settle some plan for her ; to remain in place would 
 disgrace one of us, he declared. 
 
 " It can't disgrace one of us, Dick," answered 
 Zekiel. " A good girl, who do get her bread in 
 honest industry, be a pride, instead of a disgrace, 
 to any that loves her." 
 
 " I didn't mean that— I " 
 
 He had no little difficulty in saying what he 
 did mean, and in bringing the honest farmer to 
 understand the idea which he had conceived as the 
 duty of a man of fashion. But when, after much 
 circumlocution, he told Zekiel that it was impossi- 
 ble for the son of a peer to marry a farmer's daugh- 
 ter ; but that he would raise her above poverty, 
 and that they might be man and wife, — aside from 
 the usual forms of matrimony, — Zekiel brought 
 his halting utterance to a sudden termination. 
 
 " Oh, now I understand ye !" he exclaimed. 
 " You be a rascal. Odds flesh, I shall choke I 
 A damned rascal ! Keep out o' my way, or I 
 may do you a mischief" 
 
 5*
 
 54 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Nay, but- 
 
 " Dick, Dick, had a stranger done this, I'd ha' 
 knocked him down ; but for a dear friend to turn 
 
 traitor " The honest fellow burst into tears. 
 
 — " It's too much ! I can't stand it !" 
 
 '• "Well, but only hear me " 
 
 " I ha' heard too much a'ready. Eot it ! I be 
 ashamed to be such a blubberer ; but the greatest 
 shame do light upon you." 
 
 " I begin to feel that it does, Zekiel," answered 
 Dick, stirred to remorse by Zekiel's honest indig- 
 nation. 
 
 "And well you may. If it be the part of a 
 lord's son to stab his friend to the heart, by rob- 
 bing his sister of her honesty, much good may 
 it do you wi' your grandeur. Let me tell your 
 grandeur this, Mr. Dowlas ; if 3"ou dare to hurt 
 Cicely, the law shall lay you flat in the first place, 
 and my ploughman's fist in the second j and so, 
 my service to you !" 
 
 And the worthy fellow stamped from the room 
 in mingled rage and grief, leaving his late friend 
 with the feeling that he had not distinguished 
 himself in his first attempt to be fashionable. 
 
 Zekiel made his way from the Duberly mansion 
 to the more humble residence where his sister 
 was employed. His heart was so full of pain 
 and rage that he could not have a moment's rest 
 till he had warned his sister against the base 
 designs of her lovei*. 
 
 The revelation was too much for poor Cicely.
 
 THE HEIE AT LAW. 55 
 
 She burst into such a passion of tears that 
 Zekiel had much ado to comfort her. She vowed 
 that her heart would break, and declared that 
 Dick was a heartless traitor. 
 
 " A viper !" exclaimed Zekiel. " He ha' stung me 
 to the quick. To offer to harm you, — damn him !" 
 
 "Oh, don't say that of him, Zekiel," pleaded 
 Cicely. " I can't bear that, though he ha' been so 
 cruel to me." 
 
 " Then pluck up a bit of spirit now ; pray you, 
 do. You ha' gotten a good place, you do know. 
 How dost like madam, eh. Cicely ?" 
 
 " Purely," said the poor girl, with a sigh. " She 
 is so tender and kind to me." 
 
 " Come, dry your eyes now. I be main glad to 
 hear madam be so good to you. Things will go 
 well enough, I warrant us." 
 
 Things, in fact, promised to go badly enough. 
 Caroline Dormer, as we have said, had but two 
 hundred pounds left of her father's fortune. 
 This was in the form of a draft on a London 
 banking-house, which she had sent Kenrick, her 
 servant, to get cashed. 
 
 While waiting his return she entered the room 
 where the brother and sister were in conversa- 
 tion, and greeted Zekiel in a kindly tone. 
 
 He responded gratefully, thanked her for her 
 kindness to Cicely, and said that he had another 
 favor to ask of her. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked. 
 
 " Why, here be a scrap o' paper, here ; it were
 
 56 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 poor father's. If you would be pleased to tell 
 me if it be worth anything, now it be so old." 
 
 " It is worth inquiring after," said Caroline, 
 examining it. " It is an old lottery ticket." 
 
 " Pshaw ! then it be of little good. Father 
 was always a dabbling, but he had no luck that 
 way. I'll seek about it at shop, tho'. I wish you 
 a dutiful good-morning, madam." 
 
 After Zekiel's departure Caroline questioned 
 her maid closely about her sorrowful looks, and 
 learned her sad story, that she had not only lost 
 her lover, but that he had basely insulted her. 
 
 " He has so changed since he has been made a 
 lord's son," she said. 
 
 "A lord's son ! how, Cicely?" 
 
 " His father has had good fortune by a death ; 
 and Dick is now son to Lord Duberly !" 
 
 "Lord Duberly! good heavens!" exclaimed 
 Caroline. " The — the present Lord Duberly, you 
 mean, Cicely?" 
 
 " Yes. The last lord's son was drowned at sea, 
 they say. Perhaps you have heard on't, madam." 
 
 " I have ; I have, indeed !" exclaimed the young 
 lady, in great agitation. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! arn't you well, madam ?" 
 
 "Yes — I — I — 'tis nothing, Cicely. Weep no 
 more, my poor girl ; and thank heaven that you 
 have escaped from a profligate." 
 
 At this moment Kenrick burst hastily into the 
 room, in a state of great mental disorder. His 
 news fully justified his agitation. The draft was
 
 THE HEIR AT LAW. 57 
 
 worthless, lie declared, the bank was broken, and 
 so utterly that there was no money for any one. 
 
 "Then I am completely ruined!" exclaimed 
 Caroline, sinking nervelessly into a chair. 
 
 " Don't grieve," cried Kenrick. " Pray keep 
 up a good spirit ; for you have lost every farthing 
 you had in the world." 
 
 "Oh, the gracious, is that it?" exclaimed 
 Cicely. " Pra}-, madam, don't take on so, for I 
 have money?" 
 
 " What ! have you money ?" 
 
 " Aye ; ten good pounds that my mother left 
 me, and a silver watch. It shall never be said 
 that I kept it from one in distress that's been so 
 kind to me." 
 
 " My poor girl !" exclaimed the grateful young 
 
 lady. "I must retire and think of Do not follow 
 
 me. Cicely. Oh, for what misery am I ordained !" 
 
 She left the room in deep distress, which was 
 fully shared by those she left behind her, Ken- 
 rick vowing that he would pledge his watch, his 
 buckles, and himself, if the pawnbroker would 
 lend anything on him, for her relief. 
 
 The world, indeed, looked black, alike for lady 
 and maid ; for the former in her financial, for the 
 latter in her love affairs. Yet fortune, by one of 
 those strange turns in its wheel which no man 
 can foresee, was on the point of bringing them 
 both relief from their troubles, and preparing a 
 downfall for the new-made lord and his would-be 
 fashionable son.
 
 58 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Dick Dowlas, in truth, was far from being as 
 black as he had painted himself. Zekiel's re- 
 proaches had touched the substratum of honesty 
 that lay below his new varnish of fashion, and 
 the angry ploughman had not long gone before 
 his late friend's heart was stung with the bitter- 
 est pangs of remorse. 
 
 In this frame of mind he sought, in company 
 with his tutor, the vicinity of the house where 
 Cicely was employed. Here he bade the doctor 
 to knock gently on the door, " the knock of a 
 dun," and then to take himself away for a while. 
 
 " My constant custom, on such an occasion," 
 answered Pangloss, as he obeyed orders. " There's 
 the thorough knock of a creditor. ' I never 
 heard it but I run away upon instinct.' Shake- 
 speare. Hem !" 
 
 He vanished round the corner, as Cicely ap- 
 peared in response to the knock. 
 
 " Dear ! sure somebod}" knocked. I see nobody 
 but that gentleman." Dick stood with his back 
 to her. " Was it you that knocked, pray, sir ?" 
 Dick turned at this, and Cicely screamed. " Don't 
 come near me !" she exclaimed. 
 
 " My dear Cicely, I " he began. 
 
 " Oh, Dick, Dick !" She burst into tears and 
 fell into his arms. 
 
 " I cannot bear this. Your tears go to my very 
 soul. Cicely." 
 
 " 'Tis you who have been the cause of them. 
 You have almost cut ray poor heart in two."
 
 THE HEIR AT LAW. 59 
 
 "My own suffers for it, believe me." 
 
 In short, the repentant lover humbly confessed 
 his fault, which he ascribed to the fact that he 
 had been dazzled by his sudden elevation, and 
 told the happy girl that his fortune, his heart, 
 and his hand were hers in atonement. 
 
 '' Your hand !" she cried, with tears of joy. " I 
 — I shall be able to speak more soon. Oh, Dick!" 
 The bell rang within. " Hark, I am wanted." 
 
 " One moment. Tell me you forgive me." 
 
 " Forgive you ? Oh, Dick, you have made me 
 80 happy ! Good-by, and " 
 
 " One kiss, and — good-by." Cicely hastily re- 
 turned to the house. " That one kiss of virtuous 
 love is worth a million times the blandishments 
 that wealth and luxury can offer," cried the re- 
 pentant lover. " Where the devil now is the 
 doctor ? I am brimful of joy, and have nobody 
 
 to communicate my Oh, here you are ! 
 
 Embrace me, doctor." 
 
 " Bless me ! why, we are in the middle of the 
 street," exclaimed the doctor, as Dick gave him a 
 bear-like hug. " Decorum, Mr. Dowlas " 
 
 " Damn decorum ! I'm out of my senses. I'm 
 going to be mari'ied." 
 
 " Married ! mercy on me ! He is mad, indeed. 
 ' Trihus anticyris caput insanabile.' Horace. 
 Hem ! Only reflect on " 
 
 " Reflect ! Look ye, you grave mustard-pot of a 
 philosopher, you shall dance a jig down the street 
 with me, to show your sympathy in my happiness."
 
 60 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " A doctor of laws dance a jig, in the open street, 
 at noonday!" exclaimed Pangloss. 
 
 " Dance — dance !" cried Dick, " or hang me, if 
 I don't cut off your three hundred a year in a 
 twinkling !" 
 
 " Will you? oh, then — 'a flourish of trumpets.' 
 Shakespeare. Hem ! ' Over the hills and far 
 away!' " and down the street went the pair, danc- 
 ing like Bacchanals. 
 
 Great as was the happiness of Cicely in her 
 reconciliation with her lover, there was a still 
 greater happiness preparing for her mistress. In 
 truth, the tidings of Henry Morland's death 
 were false ones. He was not only alive, but was 
 at that moment in London, and the new Lord 
 Duberly's career as a peer of the realm was near 
 its end. 
 
 Morland had been saved from the shipwreck 
 by a fellow-passenger, Mr. Stedfast, who had 
 again saved him from death by freezing when 
 they were thrown together on the frozen shores 
 of Cape Breton Island. These two, now the 
 warmest friends, had just reached London, — 
 Morland in ignorance of the death of his father 
 and of the misfortunes of his betrothed. 
 
 He commissioned Mr. Stedfast to see his father, 
 whom he described as a staid old gentleman, stiff, 
 and dignified in manner, but sterling at heart. 
 As for himself, he would call on Mr. Dormer, and 
 have him break the fact of his arrival to Caroline. 
 
 They were both destined to surprises. Morland
 
 THE HEIR AT LAW. 61 
 
 ^ound, to his distress, that Mr. Dormer was dead, 
 his estate vanished, and his daughter disappeared. 
 As for Stedfast, he was utterly taken aback, when 
 introduced to Lord Duberly, in finding a vulgar 
 storekeeper in place of the grand old nobleman 
 he had been prepared to meet. They talked, 
 indeed, at such cross-purposes that Stedfast failed 
 to discover that he was in the presence of a new- 
 made lord, while Duberly could only explain his 
 visitor's seemingly wild remarks on the theory 
 that " that there chap's mad." 
 
 "Never let him clap his ugly mug into these 
 doors again," he said to the servant. " Odd rabbit 
 it, if peers are to be frightened by lunatics in this 
 here fashion, I'd rather serve soap and candles 
 again in comfort at Gosport." 
 
 The two friends were not long in gaining an 
 explanation of this mystery. Morland, utterly 
 mj'stified by what Stedfast had told him about his 
 interview, called himself on Lord Duberly, where 
 he quickly perceived that a new tenant had come 
 to the lordly halls of the Hanover Square mansion. 
 To his surprise and sorrow he learned of his 
 father's death, and, without revealing his identity 
 to the plebeian nobleman, he withdrew for further 
 consideration. 
 
 As the two friends were talking over the matter 
 in the street, old Kenrick made his appearance, 
 weary and woe-begone. He had been making 
 fruitless appeals in behalf of his young mistress 
 from the professed friends of his old master. 
 
 6
 
 62 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " How my poor ould bones ache !" he groaned ; 
 "and sure the biggest bone about me is in my 
 heart, for that aches more than all the other half 
 of my body. If we could have kept the brave 
 Mr. Henry Morland's chin above water, now ! but, 
 bless him, he's gone, and " 
 
 " How ?" cried Morland, who just then caught 
 sight of the old man. " Can I be mistaken in 
 that face ? Kenrick !" 
 
 " Eh ! why sure Och, faith, it's himself I 
 
 Safe and sound, and not a wet rag about him !" 
 and the old fellow danced with joy. 
 
 " It is he !" cried Morland, in glad relief. " Ken- 
 rick, tell me, where is — where is Caroline?" 
 
 It was not easy to get an answer from the old 
 Irishman, whose delight for the time quite 
 drowned out his reason. Finally, he regained his 
 senses sufficiently to speak of the distressed state 
 of his young mistress, and his futile efforts in her 
 behalf. Much of this was told while they were 
 on their way to Caroline's lodgings, whither her 
 lover had asked to be conducted without a mo- 
 ment's delay. 
 
 At that moment others of our characters were 
 on their way to the same locality, each with his 
 budget of good news. 
 
 A conference of much importance had just 
 taken place at the Duberly mansion. Dick had 
 dropped a thunderbolt in that aristocratic locality 
 by asking the consent of his lord and lady parents 
 to his marriage with Cicely Homespun. His
 
 THE HEIR AT LAW. 63 
 
 lordship was not unwilling, but her ladyship op- 
 posed it strongly, and was only won over at last 
 by Doctor Pangloss's assurance that such alli- 
 ances were not uncommon in the nobility. The 
 Marquis of Lombardy, for instance, had married 
 Grizzle, his tenant's daughter, he stated, though 
 he failed to say that that statement was given on 
 the authority of Chaucer. 
 
 "What do you think of that, my lady?" ex- 
 claimed Dubcrly, in triumph. " Hang it, if the 
 marquis married Grizzle, Dick may marry the 
 maid-servant." 
 
 " My pupil ? Zounds, my salary !" exclaimed 
 Pangloss, in an aside. " ' Tremor occupat artes !' 
 Virgil. Hem ! My income totters." 
 
 " And in that there case, doctor, your three hun- 
 dred a year must go to the mending of my cakelo- 
 log}'," said his lordship. 
 
 " One annuity goes with my pupil," groaned 
 the distressed doctor. " Then I've only clear for 
 life ' six hundred pounds a year .' Swift. Hem !" 
 
 " And you know, doctor, my three hundred 
 stops the moment my son marries," said Lady 
 Duberly to him in an aside remark. 
 
 " What, stop your three ! ' Thrice the branded 
 cat has mewed !' Shakespeare. Hem !" 
 
 "You are always my darling, you know, Dick, 
 and I can't find it in my heart to give you a 
 denial," continued Lady Duberly, turning to her 
 Bon. 
 
 " That's ray good mother !" exclaimed Dick.
 
 64 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "You've made me so happy. "Wish me joy, 
 doctor. The coach is at the door. Let me take 
 you all to visit Cicely." 
 
 While he was gaining their consent to this, the 
 doctor stood in groaning distress. 
 
 " I've lost as pretty a pair of snug annuities as 
 — let me see — take six from nine — ' and thx'ee 
 remains.' Cocker. Hem !" 
 
 " Come, doctor, we lose time. It is late." 
 
 " Only three," muttered Pangloss. 
 
 " Only three ! why it's twelve, man. Come, if 
 you don't attend to my father better, I can tell 
 you, he'll kick you and your three hundred a year 
 to the devil." 
 
 " Will he ?" exclaimed Pangloss in terror. " ' Oh, 
 for a horse with wings !' Shakespeare. Hem 1 
 I fly, Mr. Dowlas." 
 
 Meanwhile, at Caroline's lodgings distress was 
 in the ascendant. Depressed by her loss of for- 
 tune, she was on the point of telling Cicely that 
 she was unable to keep her longer, when the 
 happy maid interrupted with the stoiy of her 
 reconciliation with Dick, and their intended 
 marriage. 
 
 " And when my husband gives me any money, 
 if you would be so kind as to borrow it of me, I 
 should be very much obliged to you, indeed, 
 madam," said the kind-hearted girl. 
 
 " Oh, Cicely, you overpower me !" cried Caro- 
 line, tears springing to her eyes. 
 
 They were interrupted by the voice of Zekiel,
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. 65 
 
 fluctuant light gleamed on the hollow dai-kness. 
 It grew and strengthened, and at last the clear 
 white of a sail bowed and dipped and rose far out 
 at sea. Swift as the wing of a sea-mew it came 
 near before the wind, as if fain to bring comfort 
 and shorten its narrowing track. The watcher 
 saw, and looked towards her wounded lord. 
 
 "Ay," she said, "the ship surely comes, but 
 her sail is black." 
 
 He would have sprung upright and looked 
 for himself, but strong death struck him, and 
 darkness closed around him like iron, and Tris- 
 tram lay dead, smitten through the heart. 
 
 The news had scarcely gone abroad and the 
 wail of woe risen, before the snow-bright sail 
 came to shoreward, and Ganhardine leaped forth 
 to land leading Iseult from the ship swiftly and 
 reverently. 
 
 From the crowd around them broke forth the 
 great wail for Tristram, and before even her ear 
 had heard, her heart divined the truth. She 
 sought no witness of the tidings, but came and 
 stood above him. Her head bowed as if to 
 reach the spring that slakes all thirst, and their 
 four lips met in a long, silent kiss. 
 
 So their hour came, and the stroke of love's 
 hand gave them deliverance from love and strife 
 into perpetual rest. 
 
 III.— e 6*
 
 66 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 King Mark wept loud like a child upon them, 
 for he found a scripture, writ by Tristram's hand 
 around the sword-hilt which had fought of old 
 for Cornwall, that told him all their story. They 
 prayed his pardon, for they had no choice of 
 will, but were bound by the sorcerer's spell. 
 His heart was molten in him, and he kissed 
 each with a kiss of kinship. 
 
 "Had I known," he wailed, "ye had never 
 sinned nor died thus, nor would I have borne 
 so sad a part in this doom that bade you sin 
 and die." 
 
 He built a chapel for their tomb, bright like 
 the spring, with a wealth of branching tracery, 
 and there they slept, wedded, under the sun and 
 moon and the changes of the stars. Through the 
 casements came the midnight and the noon-day 
 to illumine or to veil their grave. But at last 
 there came darkness on these things also. The 
 strong sea swallowed the walls and tower, and 
 many a fathom of tide gleams and moans over 
 the place where they were laid in that ancient 
 time. No man shall look down where they 
 sleep forever, and none shall say here once slept 
 Tristram and Iseult. Theirs is a peace that 
 none who live may ever gain; for while life 
 and death last, the light and sound and dark- 
 ness of the sea are eternally over them.
 
 ,\VT\C\'A*\A\f. 'A A 
 
 :X'(A CVAOA
 
 [.ORD I. VrrOS {OWKN MEREOfTfn.
 
 LUCILE. 
 
 LORD LYTTON {OWEN MEREDITH).
 
 LUCILE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Lord Alfred Yargrave was startled. With 
 an unsteady hand he had just torn open a letter 
 from the Comtesse de ISTevers and had walked 
 nervously to the window. The month was Sep- 
 tember, and he was still hngering in the heart 
 of the Pyrenees at Bigorre. It was a chilly 
 morning he looked out upon. The woods were 
 brown and cold on the hill-side, and the only 
 thing abroad in the streets was the wind. In- 
 deed, the prospect was far from pleasing, and 
 Lord Alfred was in a disquieted mood. 
 
 " Confound it !" he muttered, as he looked over 
 the letter ; but he gave no hint of the thoughts 
 which led to this exclamation, and turned again 
 to gaze blankly out of the window. 
 
 Suddenly his musing was disturbed by some- 
 body who burst open the door crying, " A fool, 
 Alfred, a fool, a most motley fool !" 
 
 It was my lord's cousin John. 
 
 " Who?" asked Lord Vargrave. 
 
 69
 
 70 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " The man who can find anything better to do 
 and yet degrades himself as Man by travelling 
 with a woman in love — unless she's in love with 
 him." 
 
 " Indeed ! Why are you here, then, my dear 
 Jack ?" inquired Lord Alfred. 
 
 " Can't you guess ?" 
 
 « Not I." 
 
 " Why, because I have nothing better to do. 
 I'd rather be bored by you, my dear Alfred, I 
 confess it, than be bored by myself That per- 
 verse golden-haired elf that has led you and 
 me such a dance through these hills " 
 
 " Who, — Matilda ?" asked his lordship. 
 
 *' Yes, of course ; who but she could contrive 
 to keep one's eyes and feet from falling asleep 
 for even one half-hour of the twenty-four ?" 
 
 " But what's the matter ?" said Lord Alfred, 
 becoming serious. 
 
 " Why, she is — a matter which, the more I 
 consider it, the more it demands an attention it 
 does not deserve. It swells quite beyond the 
 dimensions which even crinoline is entitled to 
 in this very small and too-crowded star. You 
 read Malthus and Sadler ?" 
 
 " Of course," said Lord Alfred. 
 
 "But to what purpose, when you calmly 
 countenance such a monstrous abuse of a mere 
 human creature's legitimate space in the world ?
 
 Lucile. 71 
 
 It is altogether beyond my patience !" Cousin 
 John stamped his foot in half-serious indigna- 
 tion. 
 
 " My own patience is worse tried," said Lord 
 Alfred, reflectively. 
 
 " Yours, Alfred ?" 
 
 " Eead this, if you doubt it, and then decide." 
 His lordship handed him the letter he had 
 just received. 
 
 Cousin John read aloud : 
 
 " I hear from Bigorre that you are there, and 
 that you are going to marry Miss Darcy " 
 
 " What's this ?" he said, looking up with a 
 puzzled face. 
 
 " Eead on to the end, and you'll discover," said 
 Lord Alfred, quietly. 
 
 Cousin John began again : 
 
 " When we parted your last words recorded a 
 vow " 
 
 " Hang it !" he exclaimed, " this smells all over 
 of violets and adventures. Was it a lock of your 
 hair you promised her?" 
 
 " Eead on, and you'll find out," said his lord- 
 ship. 
 
 " I ask you, my lord, to return those letters." 
 
 " Humph ! letters ! the matter's worse than I 
 thought. I have my misgivings." 
 
 " Well, read the rest, and give me your advice," 
 said his cousin.
 
 72 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " Eh ?— Where was I ? Oh, yes : ' Miss Darcy 
 will perhaps forego one brief page from the 
 
 summer romance of her courtship ' Egad ! 
 
 for my part I'd forego every page of it and not 
 break my heart !" 
 
 " Continue," said Lord Alfred, without noticing 
 the comment. 
 
 Cousin John read on : 
 
 " and spare you at least a single day from 
 
 your place at her feet. I remain a month in 
 these mountains, and the distance to Luchon is 
 short. I trust you will feel that I desire noth- 
 ing much. Your friend — Lucile." 
 
 " Bless me !" cried Cousin John. " The Count- 
 ess of Nevers ?" 
 
 " Yes," said his lordship, calmly. 
 
 " What will you do ?" 
 
 " That's what I want jon to tell me." 
 
 " You can't go." 
 
 " I must." 
 
 "And Matilda?" 
 
 " Oh, you must arrange that." 
 
 "Must I?" said Cousin John, perversely. 
 " Well, I decline it flat. In an hour I expect 
 the horses at the door. Matilda has her habit 
 on even now. Before I have finished my break- 
 fast I, of course, receive a message for ' dear 
 Cousin John : I must leave the bracelet which 
 you broke last night at the jeweller's ; I must
 
 Lucile. 73 
 
 call for the music. Dear Alfred ia riffht, the 
 black shawl looks best. Will I change it ? Of 
 course I can just stop, in passing, to order the 
 horse. Will I see the dog-doctor ?' Hang Beau !" 
 broke out Cousin John, " I will not !" 
 
 "Tush, tush, this is serious!" exclaimed Lord 
 Alfred. 
 
 " It is !" said Cousin John. 
 
 " Very well, then, you must think " 
 
 " But what excuse will you make, Alfred ?" 
 
 " Oh, tell Miss Darcy that Lend me your 
 
 wits, Jack. The deuce ! can't you stretch your 
 genius to answer a friend's needs ?" 
 
 " My dear friend," said Jack, " you know Ma- 
 tilda is as jealous as Othello." 
 
 " You're joking." 
 
 " No, I'm perfectly serious. Now, why go to 
 Luchon ?" 
 
 " Don't ask me. My dear John, I have no 
 choice. Besides, I can't help owning up to a 
 strange sort of desire to kindle the last spark 
 of my youth and romance and all that once 
 again before I extinguish it forever." 
 
 " You had better go hang yourself," muttered 
 Cousin Jack, 
 
 *' No, — were it only to make sure that the past 
 
 is shut off from the future it would be worth 
 
 the step back. Do you think we should learn 
 
 to survive that wild moment when we consigned 
 
 o 7
 
 74 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 our heart's dearest to the tomb, if the tomb 
 were not locked by Fate for our sake ?" 
 
 " Nonsense !" cried Jack, impatiently. 
 
 " Not wholly 80, Jack. The man who gets 
 up from the banquet satisfied goes contentedly 
 to bed and enjoys his night's rest. But he who 
 has dined with kings and yet starved himself, 
 watched the wine flow and only half tasted it, — 
 he who has wasted one part of life's grand 
 possibilities, — be sure that man will bear a 
 blighted existence to the end. You may call it 
 a virtue if you will ; I call it a sin." 
 
 " Which reminds me," said Cousin John, " of 
 that hoary old Lothario who was asked at the 
 end of his life if anything weighed on his mind. 
 ' "Well, no,' said he, ' I think not. My life was a 
 pleasant one in most things, and I never neglected 
 an occasion for pleasing myself On the whole. 
 I have nothing to regret. ' " 
 
 " Well, which is best. Jack, regret or remorse ?" 
 
 " Why, regret," answered Jack, confidently. 
 
 " No ; remorse," said Lord Alfred. " They 
 are near relations, however : Regret is a spiteful 
 old maid ; but her brother. Remorse, though a 
 widower, has been wedded to young Pleasure. 
 Hang regret, my dear Jack !" 
 
 " Bref, then, you mean to go ?" 
 
 « Bref, I do." 
 
 Cousin Jack pondered a moment.
 
 Lucile. 75 
 
 " One more word, then. Are you really in love 
 with Matilda ?" 
 
 " Love ? What a question ! Of course I am." 
 
 " Were you really in love with Madame de 
 Nevers?" 
 
 "What, Lucile? No, by Jove, never, — really." 
 
 "Is she pretty?" asked Cousin John, tenta- 
 tively. 
 
 "Decidedly," was the answer; "or at least 
 she was ten summers ago. She was as soft and 
 sallow as autumn, with hair neither black nor 
 brown, — it had that tinge the atmosphere takes 
 on a September evening when the light of the set- 
 ting sun lingers through a vineyard. There 
 was something in her set you to thinking of 
 those strange backgrounds of Eaphael's, that 
 deep, brief, hectic twilight in which the southern 
 suns fall asleep." 
 
 " Coquette?" asked Jack briefly, as if in depre- 
 cation of his cousin's emotion. 
 
 " Not at all. That was her one fault. I could 
 have loved her better if she had loved me 
 less." 
 
 " Women change so," was Jack's laconic com- 
 ment. 
 
 " To be sure," Lord Alfred quietly acquiesced. 
 
 " And, unless rumor errs," went on Jack, " I 
 believe the Coratesse de Nevers was the rage 
 last year at Baden, — held an absolute court of
 
 76 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 devoted adorers and made no end of game of 
 her subjects." 
 
 " Indeed," said Lord Alfred, with just a hint 
 of annoyance in his voice. 
 
 "When she broke off her engagement with 
 you, it seems her heart did not break with 
 it." 
 
 " Would you have her dress in black and shut 
 herself up in a convent ? Besides, it was my 
 fault the engagement was broken, not hers." 
 
 " Most likely it was," said Cousin Jack. " How 
 did it happen, anyway ?" 
 
 " The tale's soon told. She bored me, and I 
 showed it. She saw I was bored, and reproached 
 me with it. I retorted. She grew vexed, of 
 course; and I Avas vexed that she was. She 
 sulked, and so did I. Then I became submissive. 
 She softened ; but I hardened. I was banished 
 at noon and pardoned again at evening. She 
 said I had no heart. I said she had no reason. 
 I swore she talked nonsense. She sobbed that 
 I was hateful. In short, my dear fellow, it was 
 time for things to come to a crisis. She released 
 me ; but I lingered, — she thought, with too sullen 
 an aspect. This gave me occasion to fly into a 
 rage, mount my horse, and declare myself un- 
 compreh ended. Sq we parted. You know the 
 rest of the story." 
 
 " Indeed I do not," said Jack, eagerly.
 
 Lucile. 77 
 
 " Well, we parted, as I said. We could not 
 continue to meet, — it was awkward. I think I 
 acted exceedingly well, considering the time and 
 place, for Paris was charming just then. It 
 broke up my plans for the whole winter. I 
 asked to be changed, — wrote for Naples, which 
 was then vacant, — got it, — and so joined my new 
 post at once; but scarcely had I reached it 
 when my first news from Paris informed me that 
 Lucile was ill and in danger. I travelled back 
 with all speed, and found her recovered but still 
 looking pale. I was seized with contrite regi'et, 
 and I asked to renew the engagement." 
 
 " And she ?" Cousin John was deeply inter- 
 ested. 
 
 " She reflected, but finally declined. We parted, 
 swearing to be friends forever, — but friends only. 
 We kept each other's letters, a portrait, and a 
 ring, with a pledge to return them whenever 
 they should be called back." 
 
 Lord Alfred stopped. There was just a touch 
 of real sadness mingled with his mocking tone, 
 but Cousin John did not notice this in his desire 
 to hear more. 
 
 " Pray go on," he said. 
 
 " My story's finished," said his lordship. " Of 
 course I enjoined upon Lucile all the thousand 
 good maxims we invent to supply the grim de- 
 ficit in our days when they are left bankrupt 
 
 7*
 
 78 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 by love. I preached and she obeyed. She went 
 out into the world and took to dancing again. 
 I went back to my post and cultivated an en- 
 tirely new taste for Antiques and Elzevirs. 
 There, Jack, I believe you know the whole story." 
 
 Cousin John was thoughtful. 
 
 " You really mean to go back, then ?" he said, 
 after a moment's silence. 
 
 " Where ?" asked Lord Alfred. 
 
 " To that worst of places, the past." 
 
 " My honor's pledged to it. It was a promise, 
 I tell j^ou, when we parted." 
 
 " Well, then," said Jack, resigned, " what is it 
 you wish me to do?" 
 
 " You must tell Matilda that I meant to have 
 called to leave word — to explain, — but the time 
 was pressing and " 
 
 " My lord, your lordship's obedient," said Jack, 
 with a low bow, " but I can't do " 
 
 " You wish to break ofi" my marriage, then ?" 
 Alfred was hurt at his persistence. 
 
 " No, no ! But, indeed, I can't see why you 
 need take these letters yourself." 
 
 " Not see ? Would you have me break a 
 promise my honor is pledged to ?" 
 
 Jack hummed the words of a song : " ' Off, off, 
 and away ! said the stranger.' " 
 
 "Oh, you scoff!" said Alfred, with a show of 
 indignation.
 
 Lucile. 79 
 
 " Scoff at what, my dear Alfred ?" 
 
 " At everything." 
 
 " Indeed ?" 
 
 "Yes, I see the dew of youth is quite rubbed 
 off of you ; you have no feelings left in you, — 
 even for me. You jest at honor; you are as 
 cold as a stone to the voice of friendship ; you 
 carry a blight about with you; you " 
 
 " Is that all ?" interrupted Cousin Jack, at the 
 first semblance of a pause. " Well, then, listen 
 to me. I suppose that when you made up your 
 mind to propose to Miss Darcy you weighed the 
 gains with the drawbacks carefully. Now, what 
 is there left but to stick to your choice ? You 
 want money : here it is ; a settled position : it is 
 yours ; a career : by this means you secure it, 
 and at the same time you get a young and 
 pretty wife. Why must you itch to be running 
 away from all this to a woman whom you 
 have never once missed in all these years ? The 
 letter is a palpable trap to my thinking. The 
 woman has changed and yet seeks to renew her 
 youthful romance. I'll stake my last farthing 
 she's a coquette to the end of her fingers. Per- 
 haps she simply wants to win a triumph over a 
 once reckless lover, but why should you help 
 her ? You are risking the substance of all you 
 have schemed for, and for what? — merely a 
 mad dream."
 
 80 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " But there's nothing to risk, Jack. You exag- 
 gerate! I'll be here again in three daj's at 
 most." Lord Alfred was vexed at his cousin's 
 stupidity. 
 
 " Yes, but how ?" persisted Jack : " discon- 
 tented and unsettled ; so sulky your betrothed 
 will break off the engagement in a huff. Three 
 days, do you say ? But who knows what may 
 happen in three days ?" 
 
 This was an unanswerable question, and Lord 
 Alfred gave it up. But nevertheless he signified 
 no intention of following Cousin John's counsel, 
 and his good-natured relative therefore with- 
 drew from the contest and submitted to his de- 
 cree. Having come to terms. Jack helped Lord 
 Alfred to pack a slender valise whose dimensions 
 excluded a large outfit, — the sole concession his 
 remonstrance had obtained, — then cursing his 
 stars and in no very amiable frame of mind, he 
 shook hands and returned to Miss Darcy. 
 
 Before Lord Alfred had quitted his chamber 
 he turned for a last look through the window ; 
 and, for reward, saw Matilda ride by with her 
 beaming cheeks and golden hair. He sighed as 
 he looked at her. Did he regret her, with her 
 dainty hat and habit, her arch rosy lips and blue 
 eyes that showed an impertinent little look of 
 wonderment, her round figure and fair neck 
 below the drooping feather ? I can only protest
 
 Lucile. 81 
 
 that if I had the chance of passing three days in 
 the light of those eyes, and of caressing the hand 
 that patted that fine English mare, I should 
 grieve deeply to be deprived of one little half- 
 hour of so pleasant a pastime ! 
 
 At any rate, whatever the feelings may have 
 been which prompted it, the truth is that Alfred 
 Vargrave did actually sigh as he watched Miss 
 Darcy ride past his window. 
 
 II. 
 
 Notwithstanding that Lord Alfred Vargrave 
 was by nature vacillating and unsteady of pur- 
 pose, he despatched a reply very promptly to the 
 Comptesse de Nevers. In it he signified his in- 
 tention of setting forth the same day for Luchon, 
 where, he informed her, a line addressed to him 
 at Duval's, the hotel where he meant to stay, 
 would find him awaiting her orders. 
 
 In an hour from the time he wrote this he 
 was on his way, giving rein to his steed as well 
 as his thoughts, through the blue solitudes of 
 the mountains. The September moon, now half 
 at the full, was unfolding from the darkness, 
 and the hills seemed to watch, as if well pleased, 
 the light-streams dancing and singing down 
 their steep marble stairs. 
 
 Lord Alfred was pensively puffing his cigar 
 HI.-/
 
 82 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 and humming broken snatches of an old opera, — 
 thinking perhaps of the castles in Sj)ain hid 
 from his view by the rock}'^ barrier, — when, sud- 
 denly, a horseman emerged out of the night, and 
 80 startled his steed, which was wandering on at 
 will, that if his ready hand had not immediately 
 seized the rein both rider and horse might have 
 been hurled over the grim precipice. 
 
 As soon as the momentary alarm had sub- 
 sided and the ever -ready oath of the thorough- 
 bred Englishman had safely exploded, Lord 
 Alfred unbent, and looking no ruder than such 
 an inroad would warrant, surveyed the new- 
 comer. He was a man of his own age or less, 
 well mounted and richly, though simply, dressed. 
 He wore his beard in the French fashion ; and 
 his pale face gathered force from the glance of 
 a pair of dark, vivid, and eloquent eyes. 
 
 With a gesture of apology, he lifted his hat and 
 bowed courteously, making some excuse in 
 French, which denoted the Parisian from the 
 first syllable. 
 
 Upon hearing him speak, Lord Alfred dis- 
 cerned the stranger to be a man of good-breed- 
 ing whom one might safely meet after dark. 
 The stranger, in turn, seemed equally well dis- 
 posed towards his fellow-traveller ; and thus, 
 pleased as they were with each other, they rode 
 on slowly abreast.
 
 Lucile. 83 
 
 " I see, sir, you are a smoker," said the stran- 
 ger ; " allow me " 
 
 " Pray take a cigar," returned Lord Alfred, 
 offering his case. 
 
 "Many thanks! Such cigars are a luxury 
 here. Do you go to Luehon ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and you ?" 
 
 " Yes. I fear, though, since our road is to be 
 the same, that our journey must be somewhat 
 closer than our acquaintance. I am tempted 
 to ask your permission to finish the cigar you 
 have given me in your company." 
 
 " Charmed, sir, to discover your road lies in the 
 way of my own inclinations," said Lord Alfred. 
 " I find the dream of your nation in this weed. 
 It is a talisman from the distant savannas that 
 makes all men who use it brothers. Who knows 
 but the blaze which broke out awhile ago from 
 the Boulevart has ended where wisdom begins, — 
 in smoke ?" 
 
 " Yes," said the stranger ; then pointing ahead : 
 " Ah, what a scene !" 
 
 Lord Alfred took a puff or two of his cigar 
 in silence. 
 
 " Nature is too pretentious here," he said, at 
 last. " One likes to be coaxed, not compelled 
 to notice such beauty. She seems to be saying 
 too plainly, ' Admire me,' and I answer, ' Yes, 
 madam, I do ; but you weary me.' "
 
 84 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 "That sunset just now, though," began the 
 stranger. 
 
 But Lord Alfred cut him short with a con- 
 temptuous exclamation. 
 
 " A very old trick," he said. " One would think 
 the sun would be tired of blushing at what by 
 this time he must know too well to be shocked 
 at, — the world, I mean." 
 
 " Ah, it's so with all of us," said the stranger. 
 " It is the sinner who knew the world best at 
 twenty who disdains its follies most at sixty. 
 You stay at Luchon? " he asked, abruptly. 
 
 " Only a day or two," replied Lord Alfred. 
 
 " The season is over." 
 
 " Already ?" 
 
 "It was shorter this year than last. Folly 
 soon wears out her shoes. She dances so fast 
 we are all tired." 
 
 " You know the place well, then," said Lord 
 Alfred, turning to look in his face. 
 
 " I've been there two seasons." 
 
 " And who, pray, is the Belle of the Baths at 
 the present moment ?" 
 
 " The same who has been the belle of every 
 place where she is seen ; the belle of Paris all 
 last winter ; the belle of Baden in the spring." 
 
 " Quite uncommon !" said Lord Alfred. 
 
 " Sir, an uncommon beauty !" exclaimed the 
 stranger, warmly. "I should say, rather, an
 
 Lucile. 85 
 
 uncommon character. One meets women every 
 day whose beauty is equal to hers, but none who 
 have the charm of Lucile de Nevers." 
 
 "Madame de Nevers!" cried Lord Alfred, 
 turning round in his saddle with astonishment. 
 
 " Do you know her ?" asked the stranger. 
 
 " I know — or, rather, I knew her — a long time 
 ago — I almost forget," stammered Lord Alfred, 
 He was incoherent with surprise and wonder. 
 
 " What a wit ! what grace in her language, 
 her movements !" went on the stranger, noticing 
 nothing. " What play in her face ! and yet she 
 seems to conceal some deep sadness." 
 
 " You speak like a lover," said his lordship, 
 venturing all on a single throw. 
 
 " I speak as I feel, but not like a lover. 
 What interests me so in Lucile, at the same time 
 forbids me. I can give to my interest only the 
 name we men give to an hour's admiration, — a 
 night's passion " 
 
 " Yes, I quite comprehend," said Lord Alfred, 
 insensibly relieved. "But this sadness which 
 you speak of, — it would almost make me afraid 
 your gay countrymen have grown less adroit 
 since I knew them in Paris — and terrible rivals 
 they were then — if they lack the skill to console 
 this regret. I take it for granted, of course, that 
 they did not want the will." 
 
 The stranger displayed some irritation. 
 
 8
 
 86 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " I've heard," said he, " that an Englishman — 
 one of your nation, I presume, — and, if so, I 
 must beg you to excuse the contempt which 
 I " 
 
 " Pray proceed, sir," said Lord Alfred, coolly 
 puflSng his cigar. "My compatriot, you were 
 about to say, — what was his crime ?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing," laughed the stranger; "his 
 folly scarcely merits so exalted a term. It 
 was not the sin, but the silliness, I blame him 
 for." 
 
 " How's that ?" 
 
 " Well, I own I hate botany, yet I admit that 
 there may be some reason for the ruthless dis- 
 section of the botanist ; but the stupid and mis- 
 chievous boy who uproots and tramples the 
 exotics solely for pastime, one would wish to 
 catch him and soundly flog him." 
 
 " Some compatriot of mine, then, I understand, 
 has injured your Eosebud of France with his 
 cold Northern heart?" Lord Alfred put the 
 question tentatively between the puffs of smoke. 
 
 "Sir," said the stranger, "I know little or 
 nothing. But some faces bear the last act of 
 a tragedy in their looks, notwithstanding that 
 the first scenes are wanting. It is not hard to 
 divine what the plot may have been and what 
 sort of actors took part in it. Whenever I gaze 
 upon Lucile's face, with its passionless languor.
 
 Lucile. 87 
 
 I feel that some emotion has burnt up there all 
 the health and hope." 
 
 " Humph !" was Lord Alfred's response; then, 
 after a pause, " I see you have finished your 
 cigar, sir ; can I offer you another ?" 
 
 " No, thank you ; we are not two miles from 
 Luchon." 
 
 " You know the road well." 
 
 " I have often been over it." 
 
 Here there was a pause. They rode on side 
 by side in the moonlight, each silently following 
 the train of his own thought. Then, at last, as 
 if roused from a deep revery, they almost shouted 
 at sight of the Baths which burst on them 
 through the distance, shining silverly under the 
 moon. There were the long lime-tree alleys ; 
 the dark paths with the lamps twinkling through 
 them ; and the quaint wooden roofs of the white 
 houses. The clatter of horses and the music of 
 the wandering bands came up the steep hill 
 at remote intervals, mingled with the clacking 
 of whips ; and here and there, through the ver- 
 dant rose-gardens, sheltered behind acacias and 
 evergreens, they could mark the white dresses 
 moving about and catch the echo of gay songs. 
 
 At length the two horsemen alighted and ex- 
 changed their last greetings at the door of the inn 
 I'Herisson, well pleased to have reached it. The 
 Frenchman invited Lord Alfred to dinner ; but
 
 88 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 he declined, saying he had to write letters and 
 felt tired. He therefore dined that night in his 
 own rooms. He watched his companion depart 
 with an unquiet eye. He could not give a reason 
 for it, yet he felt towards him a deep displeasure. 
 "The fellow's good looking," he muttered to 
 himself, " and yet not a coxcomb." Some ghost 
 of the past still vexed him. " If he loves her," 
 he thought, " let him win her." Then he turned 
 to the future, and ordered his dinner. 
 
 Lord Alfred found a note from Lucile waiting 
 for him at his hotel, which he secured at once. 
 
 " Your letter has reached me," she wrote. 
 " Alas, this evening I must go to the ball, and 
 shall not be home. But to-morrow, sans faute at 
 one, you will find me in and alone. Meanwhile, 
 let me thank you sincerely, milord, for the 
 honor with which you fulfil your pledge. Yes, 
 I thank you, indeed. Lord Alfred ! To-morrow, 
 then, at one." 
 
 It would be hard to describe the feelings with 
 which Alfred Vargrave flung down this note 
 and turned to pour out his wine. " Yes, Jack's 
 right after all," he muttered. " The coquette! " 
 
 " Does milord mean to go to the ball?" asked 
 the waiter, who lingered. 
 
 " Perhaps. I don't know. You may keep me 
 a ticket in case I should." 
 
 The wasp settled undisturbed over the fruit
 
 Lucile. 89 
 
 and wine, for Lord Alfred had finished his meal 
 in no very amiable temper and had drawn his 
 chair to the window, where he languidly lit a 
 cigarette. The window was open, and the warm 
 air waved the flame of the candles. The moths 
 flew about him as he sat brooding alone there in 
 the gloom ; but gay sounds floated up from 
 below with the deepening night. The lamps 
 began to twinkle through the dark avenues, and 
 the idlers of Luchon went past by twos and 
 threes. As he turned his head to watch them, 
 Lord Alfred suddenly beheld his late travelling 
 companion passing the inn. He was in full 
 toilet, with boots varnished, and a snowy cravat, 
 and he was gayly smoothing and buttoning a 
 yellow kid glove as he turned down the avenue. 
 Lord Alfred, watching above, saw by the way 
 hats were raised and glances turned that he was 
 a person of rank or fashion. 
 
 By and by the stranger's form was lost in the 
 distance, but Lord Alfred still sat by himself in 
 the ffloom. He had smoked a dozen or more 
 cigarettes, and had thought of his cousin, of 
 Matilda, of Lucile, and, not a little, of himself, 
 — of his past life, his future, and his present. 
 A thousand subjects passed through his head, 
 mingling love, his debts, his digestion, and even 
 his dinner. At last he concluded the night 
 would be stupid beyond endurance if he thought 
 
 8*
 
 90 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 of Bueh matters any longer, so he resolved to 
 get ready and set out for the ball. 
 
 Before he had finished his toilet he had spoiled 
 and flung away in a pet half a dozen white 
 neckcloths. In drawing them on he split up 
 three pairs of pale lavender gloves, — this is no 
 doubt the reason why, as he hurriedly entered 
 the Casino, he heard the church-clock strike 
 twelve. 
 
 The last waltz was just over. The chaperons 
 and dancers were in a fluttering crowd about 
 the door, and a buzz went through the room as a 
 young man, whose face Lord Alfred had seen 
 before he entered, left the ball-room with a lady 
 leaning on his arm, who looked like a queen in 
 some old fairy-tale. 
 
 The hubbub of comment and praise reached 
 Lord Alfred just as he crossed the threshold. 
 
 "ilfa foi!'' said a Frenchman at his side. 
 " Luvois has got all the gifts of the gods : rank, 
 wealth, good looks ! ' He that hath shall have 
 more,' and that's the reason why he goes off" to- 
 night distinguished above us all by la charmante 
 Lucile's beautiful eyes." 
 
 " Is it true Luvois will marry her ?" asked an 
 aggressively fat lady of another at her side, 
 who looked like a needle, all steel and tenuity. 
 
 The needle seemed as if it were about to drive 
 a stitch through somebody's reputation.
 
 Lucile. 91 
 
 " Madame," remarked a young man at her 
 elbow, " I am ready to bet my new Tilbury that 
 if Luvois has proposed the Comtesse has re- 
 fused him." 
 
 The fat and thin ladies were highly amused 
 by this sally. 
 
 " Eefused ! What, a young duke, not thirty, 
 with at least half a million a year?" 
 
 "That may be," said another; "yet I know 
 that some time since Castelmar was refused, 
 though he is as rich, and a prince beside. But 
 Luvois, who was never before in love with a 
 woman who was not a wife, is now most certainly 
 serious." 
 
 The music began anew ; but Lord Alfred felt 
 that the ball was a bore and returned to his inn 
 somewhat the worse for his adventure. 
 
 As he lounged at his window above the dark 
 valley musing as before, spirits of love were 
 wandering through the warm land. A soft breeze 
 stirred the white drapery of the Avindow and 
 the crickets chirped in the blossoming acacia 
 outside. A scent of roses faintly came through 
 the night and the moon dreamed far away on 
 the mountains. 
 
 A stone's throw from the hotel a white 
 chalet peeped between large lime-trees in a gar- 
 den of roses. The windows were open down 
 to the lawn and the casements were drawn up.
 
 92 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Lights streamed from inside, and with them 
 came out the sound of music and song. In the 
 garden was a table laden with fruits, wine, tea, 
 and ices. About it sat half a dozen young men 
 and women. Light, laughter, and voices all 
 rippled through the quiet limes. Lord Alfred 
 seemed to see for one moment at the window the 
 fair and familiar outline of a white dress, a 
 white neck and dusky hair. It hovered only 
 an instant or so, then passed into shadow, and 
 the soft notes of a piano floated forth, while an 
 unforgotten voice sang a pathetic ballad. 
 
 III. 
 
 The chalet of the Comtesse de Nevers at 
 Luchon was at the base of a mountain of firs 
 and in the midst of a rose-garden. It was re- 
 vealed to the road, but peacefully withdrawn 
 from its noise ; and its deep gables were built 
 of sweet, resinous woods. 
 
 As Lord Alfred ascended the steep garden 
 paths, the noonday sun had mingled the carna- 
 tions and heliotropes with the balms which 
 floated down from the wooded slopes above. A 
 breeze was playing at the windows and the white 
 curtains floated in and out. The house was 
 hushed ; but his ring at the door brought out 
 an old negress, whose sable head shincd like a 
 polished cocoanut under the snowy foulard which
 
 Ludle. 93 
 
 bound it. Lord Alfred sprang forward eagerly. 
 He remembered Lucile's nurse, whose eyes and 
 teeth used to beam when he came in the blithe 
 days of yore. The old woman had fondled 
 Lucile on her knee when in her infancy she left 
 India to pine away in Paris. She had soothed 
 the child's sobs on her breast as she read the 
 letter which told her that her father was dead. 
 He had been a shrewd adventurer, strong of will, 
 with subtle tact and soft manners, who had Hved 
 a checkered existence, though he bore a noble 
 name. Scarcely had he settled at Mysore, in 
 the smile of a rajah, whose court he gained 
 control of, and scarcely had he married an Indian 
 wife of great wealth, who died in giving birth 
 to this daughter, when he himself was carried to 
 his wife's tomb. His fortune, which fell to his 
 orphan daughter, had secured her a home in 
 France with his sister, a lone woman who was 
 the last of her race. 
 
 Lucile neither wished nor affected to hide her 
 half-Eastern blood, which brought to her strange 
 character something almost wild. The nurse 
 had parted with the orphan for a while at the 
 door of a Parisian convent ; but later had gained 
 her mistress again, when Lucile had been mar- 
 ried by her grim aunt, to a dreary old count, 
 ■who had died sullenly with no claim upon the 
 tears of his youthful bride.
 
 94 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " Your mistress expects me," said Lord Alfred. 
 
 The old woman opened the draAving-room 
 door and left him there alone. 
 
 Silence and perfume rested over this temple 
 of grace. No sound reached it. The delicate 
 shades of the acacias wavered across the white 
 curtains. Fragrant white Indian matting lay 
 upon the polished wooden floor, and rich flowers 
 gathered by Lucile herself hung in light olive 
 baskets at both door and window. Lord Alfred 
 felt that he stood in the shrine of sweet thoughts. 
 All was pure and tranquil. No vestige of a 
 young woman's coquetry troubled the place. 
 Everything seemed self-possessed and aware of 
 the silence. 
 
 Lord Alfred stood by the window. A light 
 breeze lifted the leaves one by one. Just then 
 Lucile entered the room, but he did not see her. 
 His face was turned away in a strange revery. 
 
 The time had been when Lucile, in beholding 
 that man, could not have suppressed the rapture 
 and fear which touched every nerve in her 
 heart. Now she gazed at him calm, smiling, — 
 perhaps indifferent. 
 
 Happening to turn, Alfred Yargrave unawares 
 encountered her face. Her soft, dusky hair 
 streamed over her snow-white bodice, and she 
 held a half-blown rose-bud in her hand. A 
 pensive smile hovered in her eyes.
 
 Lucile. 95 
 
 Lord Alfred gave a sharp cry of surprise. 
 Some unknown agitation — a strange tremor — 
 confused his wit. It was entangled and para- 
 lyzed, and for once rebelled. He looked at her 
 without speaking a word. Perhaps what troubled 
 him most was, that the face had so little in it he 
 remembered. The face he had so long cher- 
 ished in his memory was faded with tears. 
 Grief had famished the figure and dimmed the 
 eyes. But that gracious and fond coqiietterie of 
 a woman who knows that her least ribbon is dear 
 to him who beholds it, this Lord xllfred had never 
 admired in Lucile before. The woman who now 
 met his look without a thought of shrinking 
 seemed to bask in the sumptuous haze of a 
 second summer riper than the first. Lucile 
 had acquired that matchless but unconscious 
 demand for homage which none but a churl 
 would withold. Her figure, though slight, had 
 revived everywhere to the luxurious proportions 
 of youth, and her hair, once shorn as an offering 
 to passionate love, now floated or rested abun- 
 dantly over her pure forehead and throat ; under 
 which, gathered loosely by a single violet knot, 
 reposed the milk-white folds of her cool gar- 
 ment. Her simple attire revealed at all points 
 that fine art which artfully conceals its own 
 presence. 
 
 Lord Alfred never conceived that Lucile could
 
 96 Tales from Ten Poets, 
 
 look 80 enchanting. He felt tempted to kneel 
 at her feet and implore her pardon. But the 
 calm smile that met his eyes sufficed to recall 
 the pride and bitternesa needed to meet the 
 occasion. 
 
 " Madam," he began, in a voice fully reas- 
 sured, " you sec that your latest command 
 has gained my immediate obedience. I presume 
 I may consider my freedom now restored." 
 
 " I had thought," she replied, with a smile 
 that was both sad and gay, " that you had long 
 had your freedom from me. I did not flatter 
 myself that you still rested in my chains." 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, madam, do not jest! 
 Has the moment no sadness for you ?" 
 
 " It is an ancient tradition," she returned, " a 
 tale too often told, — a burden sure to come at 
 the end of all love-legends. At twenty we be- 
 lieve our frail vows eternal ; we smile with con- 
 fident pity at the results of all poor human love. 
 The error is a noble one. Shall we blame it be- 
 cause we survive it? jSTo, no, — it was the youth 
 of our youth, my lord." 
 
 Lord Alfred was mute. He remembered her 
 as a child, blindly yielding herself to the errors 
 of life and borne down by the tumult of passion. 
 To watch her now, as she pronounced the death- 
 warrant of all the illusions of that life and lifted 
 the pall from the bier of the dead Past, — this
 
 Lucile. 97 
 
 woman so fair and young, yet her own self- 
 survivor, who traced her Ufe's epitaph with so 
 cold a finger, — it was a picture that deeply pained 
 his self-love. He himself knew, no one better, 
 the things to be uttered on such subjects ; yet 
 he bowed down his head, and with a trouble he 
 could not control, crumpled the letters in his 
 hand. 
 
 " You know enough of my nature," she con- 
 tinued, "to know that I do not recall these 
 pledges of what was perhaps once a foolish 
 affection from any motives of prudence. If you 
 have such a doubt, I need only remind you to 
 dispel it, that for ten years these letters have 
 rested in your hands unclaimed." 
 
 She seemed to suggest a reproach by these 
 words, and Lord Alfred looked up to meet it. 
 His gaze had been fixed with profound connois- 
 seurship upon a blue Sevres cup ; but now he 
 looked directly into her face to see if it would 
 reveal any jealousy of Miss Darcy. He looked 
 keenly and long, but it was in vain. 
 
 " You are generous, madam," at last he said. 
 A slight irony vibrated in his voice. He had 
 looked for reproaches, and fully arranged his 
 forces to meet them. But the enemy straight- 
 way changed its position. 
 
 " Come," Lucile gayly interposed with a smile 
 of divine sweetness, disclosing a depth in her 
 III.— E g 9
 
 98 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 nature he had never known. At the same time 
 she tenderly laid her hand on his. " Come, 
 don't think I abuse the occasion. We gather 
 justice and judgment with years, or else the 
 years were futile. You shall not hear a single 
 reproach from me. I have sinned to myself 
 and to the world, — and I fear to you, chiefly. 
 The woman who loves should indeed be the 
 friend of the man she loves. Rather than seek 
 to allure his life into impossible destinies, she 
 should use all her skill to make his sole place 
 in the world lie in her own heart. Alas! I 
 perceived this truth too late. I tormented 
 your youth and I have darkened your life. 
 Forgive me the wrong I have done for the sake 
 of its long expiation." 
 
 Lord Alfred seemed to wander in a waking 
 dream. He found himself suddenly changed 
 from a criminal to a judge who was besought 
 for mercy. In that moment the world's fool- 
 ish pride was as nothing. All his plausible 
 theories were posed. He bowed his head, thrilled 
 by the beauty of the nature which had been 
 revealed to him. He said a few faint words of 
 self-reproach as he lifted her hand to his lips. 
 It was a white, delicate and dimpled hand, warm 
 and languid as a woman's hand in youth. 
 The more he looked and hstened the more he 
 discovered perfections before unknown. '''Vis
 
 Lucile. 99 
 
 woman who had survived the romance of which 
 he was the hero seemed more charming a thou- 
 sand times over than of old. They talked of the 
 years since they had parted ; Lucile asked many 
 questions with a sisterly interest. She spoke of 
 Lord Alfred's new life, of Miss Darcy, her face, 
 her temper, her accomplishments. Then she 
 told with wit and humor about the journeys she 
 had taken, the books she had read, and all that 
 might interest him ; yet in everything she said 
 there appeared to him an amiable irony. 
 
 Time flew by unobserved to Lord Alfred. He 
 abandoned himself with the ardor which belongs 
 to a mind accustomed to change, and sought 
 with delicate devices to surprise from Lucile the 
 true state of her heart. But his efforts were 
 vain. The woman, as is always the case, was 
 more adroit than the man, and baffled every 
 endeavor to entrap her. 
 
 Suddenly a sharp ring was heard from the hall. 
 A quick footstep stirred in the passage. The 
 negress knocked at the door, then thrust in her 
 head. 
 
 " The Duke of Luvois has just entered, and 
 insisted " 
 
 " The Duke !" cried Lucile, while his ap- 
 proaching step made a light echo outside. " Say 
 I do not receive until the evening. Explain 
 that I have business of private importance."
 
 100 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 She glanced significantly towards Lord Al- 
 fred. 
 
 At the sound of the Duke's name there had 
 come over Lord Alfred a deep sense of vexation. 
 He saw a look of confusion in Lucile's face, 
 and he instantly concluded that it was caused 
 by his presence. 
 
 " Do not let me interfere with other claims on 
 your time," he said, sneeringly ; " allow me to 
 wait on you when you are free from more 
 pleasant engagements ;" but the words were 
 scarcely uttered before he wished them recalled. 
 He bitterly read his mistake in Lucile's flashing 
 eyes. Inclining her head with a haughty move- 
 ment more reproachful than a direct rebuif, she 
 resumed her seat, saying merely, — 
 
 " Tell the Duke he may enter." 
 
 Vexed with his own words as well as hers, 
 Alfred Vargrave bowed low, passed through the 
 casement and entered the garden. 
 
 Before his shadow had vanished from the room 
 the Duke stood at the door. 
 
 When he was alone Lord Alfred seemed 
 strange even to himself. The last look from 
 Lucile had bewildered him. The Duke's visit 
 goaded him to desperation. He had not yet 
 given up the letters. He must call again. 
 He resolved to stay where he was till the 
 Duke went out. He would stay, were it only
 
 Lucile. 101 
 
 to know when he did go. But just as he had 
 formed this resolution he saw, between the 
 thick leaves of the laurels, Lucile and the Duke 
 approaching him. His first thought was to 
 seek for some nook from which he might re- 
 treat from the garden. They had not yet seen 
 him. The sound of their feet and voices had 
 warned him in time. They were walking to- 
 wards him. The Duke was speaking with the 
 gestures of a Talma. Lord Alfred saw at a glance 
 they barred the only path to the gateway ; but 
 an arbor stood near by, deeply hidden in foliage. 
 He slipped in, safe from observation, and they 
 passed on in front of him still conversing. They 
 paused beneath a laburnum and sat down on a 
 bench in the shade, so close that he could not 
 avoid hearing their words. 
 
 " Duke," Lucile said, " I scarcely conceive " 
 
 " Ah, forgive me ! I desired so deeply to see you. 
 You retired from the ball so early last night. 
 This whole week you have been pale, silent, 
 preoccupied. Speak, speak, Lucile, and forgive 
 me ! I know that I am a rash fool, — but I love 
 you ! I love you, madame, more than language 
 can say ! My love is not a caprice. It is strange 
 to my nature. It has made me a new being. I 
 implore you to save me. Be my wife ! stoop and 
 raise me up to you !" 
 
 Lord Alfred could scarcely restrain the pang 
 
 9*
 
 102 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 of anger with which he heard this. The laurel 
 leaves were shaken as if by some unfelt wind, 
 and the two in converse started at the sound. He 
 could hear Lucile's low voice, but its tone was so 
 faint that her answer escaped him. 
 
 Luvois hurried on as though in remonstrance. 
 
 " I know it, Lucile, but your heart was not 
 broken by the trial. Eather all its fibres were 
 proven by it. You may mistrust love, yet you 
 need to be loved. You mistake your own feel- 
 ings. What you may have suffered can only 
 impart more profound pity to the love I feel for 
 you. Hush, hush ! I know all. Tell me nothing!" 
 
 "You know all, Duke? Well, then, know 
 that I have learned from the rude lesson taught 
 me in my youth to shelter my life from my own 
 heart. To mistrust the heart of another." 
 
 " Oh, madame !" he answered, " you trifle with 
 a feeling which you know to be true. It is not 
 my life alone, Lucile, that I plead for. If I read 
 your nature truly, it is for yours as well. That 
 nature will prey on itself; it was made to influ- 
 ence others. Consider ; genius craves power, — 
 what scope is there for it here? Gifts less 
 noble give me command of the sphere in which 
 genius is power. Do you despise such gifts? 
 Yet you cannot disdain what they realize ! I 
 ofi'eryou a name not unknown, a fortune which 
 is worthless without you. I lay down all my
 
 Luclle. 103 
 
 life at your feet, and a heart which can throb 
 for you." 
 
 " That heart, Duke, and that life — I respect 
 them both. The name and position you oifer, 
 deserve what I now ask you " 
 
 " Lucile !" 
 
 " I ask you to leave me " 
 
 " You do not then reject ?" 
 
 " I ask you to leave me time to consider." 
 
 " You ask me—?" 
 
 " Time to consider." 
 
 " Say one word. May I hope ?" 
 
 Lucile' 8 reply was never known to Lord 
 Alfred, for just then she rose and moved on- 
 ward. The Duke bowed his lips over her hand 
 and was gone. 
 
 There was not a sound saving the birds in the 
 trees. When Alfred Vargrave reeled out into 
 the sunlight again he just saw Lucile's white 
 robe flutter away as she entered the house. 
 Scarcely conscious of what he did, he followed 
 her and went in also. He was unnoticed. Lucile 
 never stirred, so wholly absorbed was she in 
 thought. Her back was turned to the window. 
 As he drew near the sofa her face was reflected 
 from the glass. Her dark eyes were fixed upon 
 the ground. She seemed pale, dejected, and lost 
 in deep meditation. The afternoon sunlight 
 streamed softly over her drooping shoulders.
 
 104 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Alfred Vargrave let fall an icy hand upon her 
 arm. It was as clammy as death. She uttered 
 a cry of fear and surprise, which told, all too 
 cruelly, how far he was from her thoughts. 
 
 His whole face was disturbed with his effort 
 to speak. 
 
 " It was not my fault. I have heard all ! Xow 
 the letters — and farewell, Lucile! When you 
 wed, may " 
 
 The sentence broke short like a weapon that 
 snaps with the weight of the man upon it. 
 
 Lucile's whole answer was revealed in the 
 flush of quick color at her brow. 
 
 " Perhaps this is our last farewell in life, Alfred 
 Vargrave. Let us part without bitterness. Here 
 are your letters. Be assured I hold you no 
 longer in bondage." 
 
 She gave a sad little laugh as she said this, 
 and stretched out her hand with the letters. 
 Angry with himself at feeling his anger rise and 
 unable to depend on his powers of self-restraint, 
 he thrust the packet in his bosom with a short 
 sigh, bowed his head, and departed in silence. 
 
 And Lucile was alone. The men of the world 
 were gone back to the world again. Her hand 
 dropped, and out of it, loosened from their frail 
 silken bond, fell those early love-letters, scatter- 
 ing at her feet! Her head was bowed on her 
 bosom. She looked vaguely over these strewn
 
 Lucile. 105 
 
 records of passionate moments never again to 
 be. From each page leaped some words that be- 
 lied the composure with which she had rejected 
 the claims of those poor, perished days. But 
 at last they avenged themselves, and she burst 
 
 into tears. 
 
 lY. 
 
 Lord Alfred, lingering beyond his allotted 
 three days in Luchon, received an urgent letter 
 from Cousin Jack entreating him to return to 
 Bigorre, where his aifairs were growing awk- 
 ward. He himself was now impatient to leave 
 Luchon, and he promptly engaged Bernard, a 
 trusty guide, and set forth homeward by a new 
 route over the mountains. As they journeyed on- 
 ward, the serpentine road unexpectedly brought 
 to sight a gay cavalcade only a few feet in ad- 
 vance of them. Alfred Vargrave's heart beat 
 wildly. He saw instantly the slight form of 
 Lucile in the midst of the riders. His next look 
 showed him that the Duke was joyously ambling 
 beside her. He did not know the rest of the 
 group, nor did he notice them. They were 
 laughing and talking together, but his sudden 
 appearance suspended their gayety. 
 
 " You here !" exclaimed Lucile in surprise. " I 
 imagined you were far on your way to Bigorre. 
 What has delayed you ?" 
 
 " I am on my way," he said ; " but, since my
 
 106 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 way would seem to be also yours, let me ride 
 
 for a moment beside you " He stooped to her 
 
 ear and murmured, " and forgive me !" 
 
 By this time the troop had all come up. Lu- 
 cile was pale, and the Duke, observing it, had 
 never quitted her side. Alfred smiled. " He is 
 jealous of her," he thought, and this added a 
 spur to his resolution to please her. He talked 
 wittily and unceasingly and was entirely at his 
 ease. 
 
 At noon the clouds, which had been rising 
 slowly in the east, gathered closer and lifted 
 higher. The wind changed and grew chilly. 
 A confused hissing noise ran up the trees as 
 though out of the ground. The guides sniffed 
 the air like chamois. Thej' looked at each other 
 and halted, unbuttoning the cloaks from the 
 saddles. The aspens rustled and turned up their 
 frail leaves in fright. Everything in nature an- 
 nounced the approach of the tempest. 
 
 Before long thick darkness came down among 
 the mountains and a vivid flash gored the gloom. 
 The rain fell in large heavy drops. Then the 
 thunder broke. 
 
 The horses took fright. The Duke's nag was 
 far away in a moment. The guides whooped 
 after him. The band was obliged to alight, and 
 dispersed up the perilous path. 
 
 Through the darkness and awe around him
 
 Lucile. 107 
 
 Lord Alfred could see, now and again revealed 
 by the fierce glare of the lightning, a woman 
 all alone on a shelf of the mountain. She was 
 as still as the rock on which she sat. All terror 
 and all love added speed to the instinct with 
 which he rushed up to her. She started at his 
 approach, and the lightning once again sur- 
 rounded her with its flickering halo. Alfred 
 Vargrave seized her hand. He felt the light 
 fingers tremble. 
 
 " Look, look !" she cried, " the whirlwind has 
 stricken yonder tree like the passion that brings 
 destruction to the being it embraces. Alfred 
 Vargrave, the lightning is around you!" 
 
 " Lucile ! I hear — I see nothing but yourself. 
 I can feel nothing here but your presence. 
 My pride fights in vain with the truth that leaps 
 from my lips. Yonder terrible heaven will 
 avenge you if I lie when I swear I love. Be- 
 neath its tempest I humble my head and heart at 
 your feet. Pardon me, Lucile, for the past ! I 
 implore your mercy for the future. By the 
 power which invisibly touches us both, by the 
 rights I have over you, Lucile, I demand " 
 
 " The rights !" Lucile drew her hand from 
 his. 
 
 " Yes, the rights ! For what truer right can 
 belong to man than in the future to repair the 
 wrong of the past ? I, who injured your heart,
 
 108 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 urge the right to repair it! Be my wife, my 
 guide, my good angel !" 
 
 He paused. A swift flush came over her 
 face. 
 
 " And your pledge to another ?" she said, in 
 a voice marred by emotion. 
 
 " Hush !" he said. " My honor will live where 
 my love lives. It were poor honor indeed to 
 give that life of which you alone keep the 
 heart. Could I live under those young eyes 
 forever suppressing a lie? Alas, no! Your 
 hand holds my destiny. I can never recall what 
 my lips have avowed. The great crime of my 
 existence has been to have known you in vain. 
 Speak ! Restore me the blessing I lost in losing 
 you!" 
 
 She was silent; but Lord Alfred could feel 
 the light hand and arm that reposed upon him 
 thrill and tremble. Her dark eyes were half 
 closed, but under their languid fringe was beam- 
 ing a passionate softness. A glow of faint in- 
 ward fire flushed transparently through the 
 delicate olive hue of her averted cheek. Her 
 rich bosom heaved, as a rose will from the strug- 
 gles of an imprisoned bee. 
 
 Meanwhile the setting sun sent up his last 
 smile to baflle the storm. The rear of the 
 tempest drew slowly ofl" in retreat, and night 
 had already put forth a signal star.
 
 Lucile. 109 
 
 The curls of Lucile's soft luxuriant hair had 
 escaped from her dark riding hat, and Lord 
 Alfred covered them with kisses. Neither he 
 nor Lucile felt the rain, which had not yet 
 ceased. 
 
 The Due de Luvois came down the rough 
 mountain road splashed and wet. His horse was 
 limping and he made slow progress. The beast 
 had just lost his footing and thrown his master 
 over the brow of the mountain ; but the Duke 
 had leaped to a stone and the horse had scram- 
 bled to his feet again. Both rider and horse 
 now showed traces of the disaster as they 
 heavily footed their way through the mist. The 
 horse's shoulder and the Duke's wrist were 
 bruised and bleeding. 
 
 It was late when the party at last descended 
 to Luchon. Lord Alfred escorted Lucile to her 
 chalet in silence. As they parted she whispered 
 low to him, "Alfred, you have made me an offer 
 I know the worth of, believe me ; but I cannot 
 reply without time for reflection. Good-night, — 
 not good-by." 
 
 " But this is the very same answer you made 
 to the Due de Luvois only a day since," he 
 pleaded. 
 
 " No, Alfred ! not the very same," she said, 
 with a trembling voice. " If you love me, obey 
 me. Wait for my answer till to-morrow." 
 
 10
 
 110 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 V. 
 
 After leaving Lucile, Alfred Vargrave had 
 time to review the rash step he had taken. His 
 mind wavered between loyalty to the love he 
 had parted from, in Bigorre, to Matilda with in- 
 fantine face and sad, reproachful eyes, and to 
 this maturer beauty in Luchon, the choice of 
 his youth. He felt little doubt what answer he 
 should have from Lucile. Her voice and eyes 
 still enraptured his heart. And yet he could 
 not avoid acknowledging a vague sense of awe 
 for her nature. There was something imknown 
 behind all the beauty of her heart. He felt that 
 she penetrated and prized whatever was noblest 
 and best in himself; but he did not feel sure 
 that he knew what remained lofty and lonely 
 in her. Then her life, which had been so un- 
 tamed and free, would she yield him her inde- 
 pendence ? But plunge himself as he would into 
 the dejection aroused by such thoughts, he 
 always escaped by exclaiming, " I love her, and 
 everything else is as naught !" 
 
 His hand trembled strangely as he broke the 
 seal of a letter from her which at last reached 
 him. At the sight of the first words it dropped 
 from his hand like a dead autumn leaf. He 
 passed his hand hurriedly over his eyes, bewil- 
 dered and incredulous. A sharp moan broke
 
 Lucile. Ill 
 
 from him. Then he picked up the note and 
 hurriedly read it through. 
 
 " No, Alfred !" it began. " If the glamour of 
 the past rose over the present when we first 
 met, it has now rolled away, and our two paths 
 are plain. Those two paths divide us. The 
 hand which clasped mine once again belongs 
 to another. Forgive me if I have made you 
 forget what was due to yourself and her. Mine 
 the fault aud mine be the repentance. Let me 
 own now, in acknowledging the fault, that I did 
 not foresee the sorrow involved in it. I own that 
 when the rumor of your engagement first reached 
 me my heart and mind suffered intense torture. 
 It was cruel to think that so much of the life 
 of my life had been silently settled on another. 
 Then I said to myself. There is but one hope of 
 escape. The image which fancy seems to fashion 
 from the solitude around the ruins of the past 
 is a phantom. The being I loved is no more. 
 What I hear in the silence and see in the void 
 of life, is the young hero born of my own per- 
 ished youth. His image rests in my heart un- 
 conscious of change and time. Could I but see 
 it once again as time and change have made it, — 
 have proof that the being I loved is really no 
 more, — then I should wake from my dream and 
 my life would again be reconciled to the world. 
 So we met ; but a danger has occurred that I
 
 112 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 did not foresee : the danger to yourself! Hap- 
 pily for both of us, it has been discovered as soon 
 as it was visible. "We meet no more, Alfred Yar- 
 grave. I shall be far from Luehon when you read 
 this letter. My course is decided. Doubt is over. 
 My future is fixed. Do not suppose that I blame 
 you. Perhaps, after all, it is you who are right. 
 Best, then, all as it is. These words are life's 
 good-night to the hope of the moment, — no 
 more ! If a tear fell upon this page, it was a 
 friend's. So, farewell to the past and to you. 
 
 " LrciLE." 
 
 Thus the letter ended. The room seemed to 
 turn round and round in the mist that was 
 scorching his eyes. Grief and resentment half 
 choked him. He passed from the chamber with 
 an unsteady step. He thrust the letter in his 
 breast and paced under the long lime-trees of 
 Luehon in search of fresh air and solitude. 
 Striding on, he finally reached a bare and nar- 
 row heath by the skirts of a wood. It was som- 
 bre and silent and blent well with his feelings. 
 A small, ruined abbey stood by a mineral spring 
 long abandoned and unknown. He sat down 
 on a fragment of rock beside it and read over 
 again the perplexing letter. 
 
 As he read on, the mist of resentment rolled 
 from his mind and he began to feel the pathos
 
 Lucile. 113 
 
 which breathed through it. Tears rose in his eyes 
 and a strange, sweet hope came to his heart. He 
 saw the truth now. Each word betrayed the 
 love which the writer sought to conceal. His 
 love was rejected for the sole reason that he 
 was not free to give it. 
 
 True ! he was not yet free, but could he not 
 be so, — free as air to revoke that farewell and to 
 sanction his own hopes ? He had only to speak 
 the truth to Matilda and she would instantly 
 release him. Her relations would welcome a 
 pretext for breaking off a match which they 
 had acquiesced in solely at the whim of their 
 spoiled child. And she herself! was her love 
 deeper than a first joyous fancy succeeding the 
 thought of her last doll ? Was she able to feel 
 a love like that of Lucile's? He would seek 
 Matilda, obtain her release, and then fly to Lucile 
 and again claim the love which he would be free 
 to command. 
 
 Thus musing, he sat with the letter spread 
 out on his knee, and was quite unconscious of 
 the angry looks which an intruder was casting 
 upon him. He neither saw the wan, stern face, 
 nor heard the footsteps passing and repassing 
 the lonely spot where he sat. At last a hoarse 
 voice aroused him. He looked up and beheld 
 the Due de Luvois. With aggressive and ironi- 
 cal tones the Duke made a sneering allusion to 
 III.— A 10*
 
 1 14 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 • 
 
 " the doubtless sublime reveries his trespass had 
 interrupted." 
 
 " Milord would do better," he said, " to fold 
 up a note which bears a handwriting too well 
 known to have failed to attract my regard." 
 
 It was obvious to Lord Alfred that the French- 
 man was bent upon picking a quarrel. A mo- 
 ment sufficed for his quick instinct to take in 
 the situation. He felt that he could not expose 
 his own name, or Lucile's, or Matilda's to the 
 idle tongues that would bring down the odium of 
 the world upon him if he should fight this man. 
 Indeed, as he looked at the Duke's haggard 
 countenance he was moved to pity by the change 
 which had taken place in it. He therefore put 
 by with some careless response each remark 
 from the Duke, and finally, making a stern saluta- 
 tion, coldly but courteously rose and turned away. 
 
 The Duke put himself in the path, made a 
 stride in advance, raised a hand and fixed his 
 eyes upon him. 
 
 " Hold, Lord Alfred !" he commanded. " Away 
 with disguise I I will own that I sought you 
 out to fix a quarrel upon you. I can still justly 
 do so ; but I prefer to be frank. I admit of no 
 rival either in fortune or rank to the hand of 
 any woman. I love the Comtesse de Nevers. 
 I believe, and still have the right to believe, that 
 before you crossed me she would have been
 
 Lucile. 115 
 
 mine. You return to her, and the woman is 
 suddenly changed. You, who are now betrothed 
 to another! You, whose name was coupled 
 nearly ten years ago with Lucile's, because of 
 ties which you broke ! You, the man I reproached 
 on the day our acquaintance began ! You, who 
 left her so lightly. I cannot believe that you 
 love her as I love her ; nor can I deem that you 
 have the right so to love her. It is plain that 
 there is but one way to settle this contest. Need 
 I name it ?" 
 
 Lord Alfred was moved by the earnestness of 
 the Duke's plea, and he made a reply which he 
 trusted might turn aside a quarrel he felt bound 
 to avoid if he could. He tried to explain with 
 stately urbanity that he also, at worst a fair 
 rival, had not been accepted. 
 
 " Accepted !" cried the Duke. " Say first 
 whether you are free to have made the offer ?" 
 
 Lord Alfred was silent. 
 
 "Ah, you dare not reply!" exclaimed the 
 Duke. " Why palter with me ? You do not 
 speak because you cannot deny that you stepped 
 in between us from mere vanity and the desire 
 to reclaim your lost ascendency. If you are 
 sincere, milord, I ask only one word. Say that 
 you renounce her. Then I will ask your for- 
 giveness with all my heart, and there can be no 
 quarrel between us."
 
 116 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Lord Alfred was galled and impatient. The 
 Duke's tone aroused a strong irritation in 
 him. 
 
 "You have not the right, sir," he said, "and 
 still less the power, to make terms and condi- 
 tions with me. I refuse to reply." 
 
 As a diviner may see in some occult figure 
 a fate he cannot avert, so Lord Alfred foresaw 
 in a moment all the evil results of the quarrel 
 which was now imminent. There, face to face, 
 amid the ruins and tombs, with a stern autumn 
 sky overhead for witness, these two men had 
 met on the narrow bridge dividing the past 
 from the future. So small was the pathway 
 that if one passed over the other must sink. 
 
 At that moment the sound of hoofs urged 
 into speed smote sharply on the ear, and out 
 from the edge of the forest emerged a horseman 
 at full gallop. He appeared to be a guide, by 
 the red silk sash around his waist and the long 
 whip slung crosswise behind his short jacket. 
 He wheeled his horse up the heath, leaped the 
 rivulet, turned sharp from the bank, and, ap- 
 proaching the Duke, raised his woollen hat, then 
 bowed low in the saddle, and delivered a note. 
 
 The two stood quite astonished. The Duke, 
 with a gesture of apology, stretched out his 
 hand and took the letter. He changed color, 
 tore it open, and read its contents.
 
 Lucile, 117 
 
 In a moment his whole aspect changed. A 
 light came into his eyes and a smile played 
 about his lips. Lord Alfred watched him with 
 surprise as he turned and said gayly, — 
 
 "A pressing request from Lucile. You are 
 quite right, Lord Alfred. You are not accepted 
 — nor free to propose. Perhaps I am already 
 accepted. But here's the letter ; you can read 
 it for yourself" 
 
 It was now Lord Alfred's turn to feel angered. 
 But Lucile was not pledged to him by any ties 
 which could sanction resentment. He did not 
 speak, but took the letter and read it. 
 
 It was dated at Saint Saviour, and ran : 
 "Your letter, which followed me here, detains 
 me till I can see you again. I entreat you by 
 all that you feel or profess, to come to me with- 
 out a moment's delay." 
 
 Your letter ! The Duke had been writing to 
 her, then! Lord Alfred coldly shrugged his 
 shoulders. 
 
 " Sir, do not let me detain you," was all he said. 
 
 The Duke smiled and bowed, placed the note 
 in his bosom, and turned to the messenger. 
 
 "Say that your despatch will be answered 
 before nightfall." He spoke half aloud, then 
 glanced at his watch, mounted, and started back 
 to the Baths. 
 
 Alfred Vargrave stood still. He was torn and
 
 118 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 distracted in heart. He turned to Lucile's fare- 
 well letter to him : " Doubt is over. My future is 
 fixed now, my course is decided." Her course ? 
 What ! to wed this insolent rival ! 
 
 At that moment he looked up and saw the 
 Duke riding fast through the forest. The French- 
 man waved his hand to him and sped out of 
 sight. He felt that it would be dark before that 
 man reached Saint Saviour, and a vague fear 
 for her ran through his heart. He walked on 
 heedlessly, but not in the direction of Luchon. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Duke's horse was reeking with foam 
 when at last he reached the door of a small 
 mountain inn on the brow of a promontory 
 overlooking a fierce torrent. He could see a 
 shadow moving in a glimmering casement above, 
 and at the door stood the old negress ready to 
 welcome him. 
 
 " My mistress awaits you," she said, and in- 
 stantly showed him up the rude stairway. 
 
 In a few moments he stood alone, behind a 
 closed door, with Lucile. 
 
 She was in a gray travelling dress. Her dark 
 hair, streaming down over it, was tossed now 
 and then by the wind which came through the 
 lattice. The dull flame in a brass lamp also 
 waved to the little gusts of air, and by the light
 
 JJucile. 119 
 
 of this the Duke could see that there was a faint 
 hectic fire in her cheeks, and that her eyes had 
 the lustre of fever. 
 
 "You relent?" he said. "My letter has 
 changed your plans?" His voice sank, as if 
 borne down with inward emotion. 
 
 " Your letter ! Yes, Duke, for it threatened 
 a man's life and a woman's honor." 
 
 " The last, madame, not f " 
 
 " Both," she said, firmly. " Blush, son of the 
 knighthood of France, as I read your words. 
 You say in this letter, ' I know now why you 
 refuse me. It is for the man who has trifled 
 with your heart once and now does it again. 
 But he shall not ! By man's last wild law I will 
 seize upon the right to avenge the past for you 
 and give the future freedom. That man shall 
 not live to make you as wretched as you have 
 made me!' " 
 
 " Well, madame," asked the Duke, " what do 
 you see in these words to threaten the honor of 
 a woman ?" 
 
 " See ! what word ! do you ask ? Every word ! 
 "Woman's honor ? Is there no dishonor, sir, in 
 a woman whose smile men shudder at and say : 
 In that smile there is a grave ? No, you can have 
 no cause, for you have no right in the contest. By 
 all the human laws of man's heart and by all 
 the sanctities of man's social honor I forbid itl"
 
 120 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 The Duke dropped his eyes. 
 
 " I obey you," he said ; " but let woman beware 
 how she plays fast and loose with human woe 
 and the storm in man's heart. Madame, it was 
 your duty to have extinguished the hope you 
 saw in me, but you should have done this from 
 the first, for I feel that you knew from the first 
 that I loved you." 
 
 This sudden reproach seemed to startle her. 
 She raised a slow, wistful look to his face and 
 gazed silently at it. His own looks were turned 
 to the ground. When the first wild alarm was 
 past, pity crept through her heart, and a tear, 
 falling across her conscience, awoke it. 
 
 " Was I wrong ? is it so ? Hear me, then, 
 Duke. You must feel that, whatever right you 
 may have to reproach me, I may claim your 
 esteem on one ground, — I at least am sincere. 
 You say it was plain to me that you loved me 
 from the first. But what if this knowledge 
 came at a time when I felt most alone and least 
 able to be so ? a moment when I strove to eman- 
 cipate my life from one haunting regret and 
 once more fulfil a woman's destiny ? Do you 
 still blame me, Duke, that I did not then bid 
 you refrain? Alas, I, too, hoped at that time!" 
 
 " Oh, say that thrice-blessed word again !" 
 cried the Duke. " Say, Lucile, that you then 
 deigned to hope "
 
 Lucile. 121 
 
 " Yes," she answered, " to hope that I could 
 give you a free heart " 
 
 " Oh, Lucile !" 
 
 " Do you blame me," she went on, " that when 
 I at last had to own to my heart that its hope 
 was gone forever, I said to you, * Hope no 
 more' ? I myself hoped no more." 
 
 The Duke answered with ill-suppressed wrath. 
 
 " What, then ! you have only to see this man, 
 and you take his worthless heart back to yours 
 which he wronged so long ago !" 
 
 " It is not that," she murmured, brokenly, " but 
 I cannot conceal that I still remember the past. 
 I cannot accept all your gifts in return for a 
 heart which is a ruin." 
 
 " Euin though it be, trust me to rebuild and 
 restore it !" he cried, approaching her. 
 
 She shrank back. The grief in her eyes an- 
 swered " No !" 
 
 A fiercer emotion still took possession of 
 him. 
 
 " Am I right ? You reject me, then, and ac- 
 cept him f 
 
 " I have not done so," she said, firmly. 
 
 " Not yet — no ! But can you with as firm 
 a voice promise me that you will not accept 
 him?" 
 
 " Accept him ? Is he free ?" she eagerly asked. 
 
 " You evade me, madame. You will not say 
 V 11
 
 122 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 what you feel. Might he not make himself free ? 
 Oh, you blush and turn away ! Dare you openly 
 look in my face and reply to one question ? You 
 tell me I may not hope : may he ? What, si- 
 lent ! Let me alter the question. If he were 
 released, might he then hope ?" 
 
 " He might," she said, softly. 
 
 Those two whispered words let out in a single 
 maddening moment all the fierceness and evil 
 in the man's nature. The wild animal in his 
 bosom was set free. Jealousy, the deadliest of 
 all human passions, rushed upon him. He stared 
 wickedly about the lonely place. No sound 
 came through the darkness to that room save 
 the roar and drip of the cataract far below. 
 His spirit was driven beyond his control on the 
 wind of a reckless emotion. He had thrown, 
 and missed his last stake. 
 
 Lucile rose from the place transfigured with 
 a saintly scorn in her countenance. Such a 
 dread " Get thee behind me" was written on 
 her forehead that the fiend himself would have 
 shrunk back abashed into perdition. She rose 
 and swept on to the door, then paused. As 
 though from immeasurable distance she mur- 
 mured, — 
 
 " Farewell ! "We have mistaken each other. 
 One more illusion in my life is over. Due de 
 Luvois, adieu !"
 
 Lucile. 123 
 
 He felt she was gone forever from that heart- 
 breaking gloom. 
 
 " Come back ; I repent !" he cried at last. But 
 no sound disturbed the silence saving the roar 
 of the waters. He walked to the window. A 
 candle shone from a closed casement. As he 
 watched it in his bewilderment it was extin- 
 guished. Then the sound of wheels at the inn- 
 door aroused him. He ran down-stairs and 
 reached the door just in time to see her depart 
 upon the mountain road. 
 
 He rushed out heedlessly into the midnight, 
 and went on and on till he sank exhausted 
 among the dead leaves by the forest-side. A 
 glimmering cross of gray stone stood for prayer 
 at the edge of the trees. He sank powerless at 
 its foot and hid his face in the dark weeds. He 
 knew that from henceforth his whole life was 
 divided : behind him a past forever lost, before 
 him a future devoid of purpose. He sat on the 
 damp mountain sod and stared sullenly up at 
 the sky. One object alone glimmered through 
 the darkness. It was the gray cross ; but he 
 turned from it with no touch of reverence in 
 his soul, and set his face sternly towards the 
 black road. 
 
 When the light of the dawn began to flicker 
 in the east he was grimly riding across the 
 forest towards Luchon.
 
 124 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Suddenly he beheld the pale face of a man, 
 gray with the light of early morning upon it, 
 peer through the autumn branches. With the 
 sense of a strange second sight the Duke at 
 once recognized the phantom-like face because 
 of its eyes. They were the eyes of his rival, 
 and were fixed upon him with a stern, sad in- 
 quiry. To meet it, a lie leaped at once to his own 
 eyes. He answered the wistful look with an- 
 other which in its calm smile conveyed beyond 
 a doubt the announcement that he had tri- 
 umphed. It seemed to say, The question your 
 eyes would ask comes too late, Alfred Vargrave I 
 
 He rode by, and onward out of sight, leaving 
 his false look of triumph behind him to rankle 
 in the breast of his foe. 
 
 And surely it did rankle there. Lord Alfred, 
 scarcely knowing or choosing his way, impelled 
 by one wild hope and pursued by a wilder fear, 
 had that evening strayed moodily on down the 
 deserted highway, and on through the rich haze 
 of sunset into the gradual night, which began, 
 unnoticed by him, to shut everything from his 
 view. He went unconsciously towards Saint 
 Saviour; and not till the moon had sunk far 
 down in the west did he notice the mile-stone 
 scored on the face of the bare rock, and realize 
 that he was but two hours' journey from the 
 place where Lucile and Luvois must have met.
 
 Lucile. 125 
 
 He looked about him and listened for the sound 
 of a rider, but nothing stirred. He knew 
 that day was approaching, and he resolved to 
 proceed to Saint Saviour. At last, the morn- 
 ing, which broke chilly and forlorn through 
 the trees, revealed the Duke riding towards 
 Luchon. 
 
 He rushed onward, tearing a path through 
 the thicket. He reached the inn door, roused 
 the dreaming porter, and inquired for the Count- 
 ess, The man rubbed his eyes. The Countess 
 was gone. 
 
 "And the Duke?" 
 
 The man stared a sleepy inquiry. 
 
 "The stranger!" cried Lord Alfred. "The 
 stranger who was here last night !" 
 
 The man grinned with a vacant intelligence. 
 
 " He, oh, ay, ay ! He went after the lady." 
 
 Lord Alfred demanded no more. What ! the 
 Duke had passed the night in that lone inn with 
 her ? Was that look he had cast at him when 
 they met in the forest thus explained ? 
 
 The day was half turned to evening before he 
 re-entered Luchon, He saw the Duke in the 
 midst of a light crowd of babblers. He was gay, 
 insolent, and noisy, and his eyes were sparkling 
 with laughter. Lord Alfred glided with swift 
 and menacing steps right through the throng. 
 The Duke noticed him and stepped aside. He 
 
 11*
 
 126 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 grasped him cordially by the hand, whispering 
 low, — 
 
 " Oh, how very right you were ! There can 
 never be any more contest between us. Milord, 
 let us henceforth be friends." Then his gay laugh- 
 ter burst forth as before, echoed loudly by his 
 train of young imitators. 
 
 Lord Alfred stood rooted to the spot. He 
 felt weary and ill. What makes the Duke so 
 gay? he thought. Suddenly he heard a name 
 which stirred his whole heart into a tumult: 
 Lucile de Nevers' name coupled gayly in some 
 light and free allusion with the Duke's. Not 
 so that it might give him the right to turn 
 fiercely round upon the speaker, but still set to 
 an irreverent compliment. 
 
 Slowly the world came gathering back again 
 on its smooth downward course, usurping the 
 place in his soul where the thought of Lucile 
 lay enshrined. " No," he muttered, " she can- 
 not have sinned. There are women who love 
 liberty — but is she so? I will not believe 
 it ! But the world ? What would it say ? 
 The look and laughter of this man! The insin- 
 uating question and slanderous joke ! No, she is 
 right, — we could never be happy. It is best as 
 it is. I will write to her, and accept her fare- 
 well. Must we then part, Lucile? Ah, I feel 
 it. We could not be happy. It was a dream."
 
 Lucile. 127 
 
 • "With bowed head and moody steps he re- 
 turned slowly to his inn. 
 
 As he passed by on entering, Lord Alfred 
 noticed a travelling carriage drawn apart from 
 the gate in the court-yard, packed with port- 
 manteaus and mounted by post-boys ready to 
 set off. He ordered his horse, then slowly 
 went up to his room. It was twilight and 
 the chamber was dark. He listlessly lighted a 
 candle on the mantel-piece, and there a large 
 stout visiting card caught his eye. The name 
 was Sir Ridley MacNab. It was very familiar 
 to him, for it was that of his own future uncle- 
 in-law, Mrs. Darcy's rich brother, a shrewd 
 puritan Scot whose sharp wits made the most 
 of this world and the next. 
 
 As Lord Alfred vacantly brooded over the 
 card, a waiter put his head through the door-way. 
 
 "Sir Ridley MacNab would like to speak 
 with milord." 
 
 Alfred Vargrave could feel that there were 
 tears on his cheeks. He brushed them away 
 and glanced at the glass. He was scared by 
 the pallor of his face, but he said in a calm 
 voice, — 
 
 " Sir Ridley may enter." 
 
 Sir Ridley MacNab had fled away from the 
 cares of business and sought the Pyrenees in 
 company with his sister and niece for a sea-
 
 128 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 son of recreation. He now found himself at 
 Luchon, but was that night starting for Bigorre. 
 He had heard of Lord Alfred's presence in 
 Luchon, and that he, also, was about to set forth 
 for Bifforre. As a storm seemed to be threaten- 
 ing, he proposed that they should travel in com- 
 pany. 
 
 Lord Alfred had been walking restlessly up 
 and down, but after a pause, which not a little 
 surprised Sir Eidley, he answered, — 
 
 <' My Mear Sir Eidley, allow me but a few 
 moments — half an hour at the most — to con- 
 clude an affair of a very urgent nature — which, 
 indeed, brought me here — before I accept your 
 very kind offer." 
 
 "Why not?" said Sir Eidley; but before he 
 had quite uttered the words Lord Alfred, with 
 intense agitation, had descended, and was cross- 
 ing the garden below. What passed through 
 his mind no one could tell; but before another 
 half-hour had gone by he was standing with Sir 
 Eidley, firm and composed, with not a sign of 
 agitation in his face. He accepted a seat in the 
 carriage, and the two travellers embarked cheer- 
 fully upon their journey. 
 
 It wanted but two hours of noon when the 
 fellow-voyagers passed through the wild little 
 garden in front of the small house in Bigorre 
 where their carriage had stopped. Matilda, fairer
 
 Lucile. 129 
 
 than the garden blooms, sprang to him at once, 
 with a face of sunny sweetness. She showed 
 such gladness and radiant confidence, that his 
 whole heart upbraided him. 
 
 " Look up, my sweet flower," he softly whis- 
 pered. " My heart has returned to you as the 
 bee returns to the rose." 
 
 " And will wander no more ?" laughed Matilda. 
 
 " No more," he repeated. Then to himself. 
 "Yes, it is over. My course, too, is decided. 
 "Was I blind, to have dreamed that these clever 
 Frenchwomen could satisfy a plain English 
 heart ?" 
 
 YII. 
 
 It is at Ems that we next find Lord Alfred, 
 and with him is Lady Vargrave, whom we left 
 only a little while ago at Bigorre as plain Ma- 
 tilda Darcy. They seem to have grown half 
 weary of each other already though the honey- 
 moon has scarcely waned. It may have been 
 the fault of the life they led, or it may have 
 been due entirely to themselves ; but it was un- 
 mistakably true that these two creatures had 
 not found in each other what they had expected ; 
 a nameless something in the heart and mind 
 was absent ; and missing it, each felt a sadness 
 which they could not explain. 
 
 But whatever the mysterious something was, 
 III.— i
 
 130 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 the world never noticed it in the light-hearted 
 beauty and the gay wit, her husband. Praise 
 followed Matilda wherever she went, and even 
 Lord Alfred forgot the source of his disquietude 
 now and again as she turned to him blushing 
 from the flattery of those around her. At 
 such moments she, also, would cease to regret her 
 fate, and murmur, " Yes, he loves me, — this is 
 love, then, — and yet " 
 
 The Due de Luvois and Lord and Lady Var- 
 grave had encountered each other some few 
 evenings after the arrival of the latter, in the 
 gaming-room. The idlers from England and 
 the idler from France shook hands cordially. 
 An acquaintance at Ems is a treasure to most 
 people, and, besides, these men of the world 
 were both too well-bred to betray any discour- 
 teous remembrance of the past. Their greeting 
 was most frank and pleasant, and their inter- 
 course became frequent during the succeeding 
 days. This, then, is no doubt the reason why 
 Lord Alfred one night sat down alone at rou- 
 lette, leaving his agreeable French friend and 
 Matilda together in a remote corner of the great 
 room. 
 
 Lord Alfred began his combat with a few 
 thalers ; but they ran away rapidly, and his re- 
 serve followed quickly in their rear. As his 
 pockets grew lighter his spirits grew visibly
 
 Lucile. 131 
 
 worse. Finally, as he watched his last coin 
 tumble into the bank, he turned away with a 
 frown. He could not tell why, but he seemed 
 to feel within him the strange sense that some 
 unseen eye had been intently regarding him. 
 He looked quickly up. Was it a fact or a dream ? 
 There, across the green table, those eyes whose 
 deep gaze so curiously answered to his own ! 
 What was it? Some ghost come from the 
 grave ? Some cheat of his brain made feverish 
 by the play ? Or was it really herself, — with 
 those deep eyes of hers and that unforgotten 
 face, — Lucile de Nevers? 
 
 With a countenance all transfigured by sur- 
 prise he moved towards her. She looked at 
 him with searching eyes. Not a word or a blush 
 betrayed the slightest emotion. She seemed to 
 smile through him at something beyond. She 
 answered his questions as if she responded to 
 some voice within herself. She replied without 
 hesitation to each troubled inquiry. She had 
 come back, she said, from her long hiding-place 
 at the source of the sunrise. She had returned 
 to the cities of Europe once again, an exile from 
 her old home in India. 
 
 Then pacing onward together in earnest talk, 
 they left the crowd unobserved, but not wholly 
 unnoticed by the Duke and Matilda. Matilda 
 had never seen her husband's new friend. She
 
 132 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 had observed by instinct the sudden menacing 
 glance which the Duke had turned towards 
 them when he saw them meet. The gloom 
 on his face grew so deep that she shuddered 
 in spite of herself To her startled inquiry he 
 made no reply. In his mind at that moment 
 a malignant purpose vaguely shaped itself, 
 such as could alone spring from the chaos of 
 thought into which his whole nature had been 
 shaken. 
 
 "So!" he brooded, "they meet again and re- 
 weave the old spell ! She hangs on his voice and 
 leans on his arm. She neither heeds me nor 
 seeks me out. What if I could show her that I, 
 too, can be loved by her own rival, younger and 
 fairer than herself?" 
 
 Unconscious of the serpent eye thus fixed 
 upon them, Lucile and Lord Alfred saun- 
 tered by in earnest talk ; but a smile now 
 and then seemed to show where their thoughts 
 touched. 
 
 Meantime, the Duke had referred to Lucile, 
 with that aggressive false praise which is meant 
 to beget a remonstrance, and then stopped 
 to observe the efifect upon Matilda. There is 
 no weapon that slays its victim so surely as 
 praise. Thus a pause had fallen on their con- 
 versation, and now they were silent and pre- 
 occupied.
 
 Lucile. 133 
 
 There are moments when prolonged silence 
 may be more expressive than all the words ever 
 spoken. This is when the heart instinctively 
 divines what is passing in the heart of another. 
 And what was passing now in Matilda's heart? 
 What brought that sudden flame to her cheek, 
 and what weighed down her head ? 
 
 All the Duke could discover was that Matilda 
 was troubled, and that his presence seemed to 
 increase that trouble. She, however, broke the 
 silence first. She was plucking the leaves from 
 a pale rose blossom which had fallen from her 
 bosom. 
 
 " This poor flower," she said, " seems to be out 
 of place in this hot, lamplit air." 
 
 She bent her head low as she spoke, and the 
 Duke watched her caressing the leaves, but re- 
 mained silent. He knew this would force her 
 to renew their talk at the point where he wished 
 it to begin. Matilda saw the meaning of the 
 significant pause and lifted her head ; but her 
 eyes encountered the ardent look of the Duke 
 and dropped back abashed. Then, still conscious 
 of lacking the assurance which she fancied her 
 manners implied to him, she took up again the 
 theme she should just then most have avoided. 
 
 " Duke," she said, and she could feel her cheeks 
 burn as she spoke, " you know this — lady, then ?" 
 
 " Too well," he returned, 
 
 12
 
 134 Tales froyn Ten Poets. 
 
 " True, you drew her portrait with emotion 
 just now." 
 
 " With emotion ?" he questioned. 
 " Yes ; 3'ou described her as possessed of an 
 unrivalled charm." 
 
 " But, madame, you mistook me completely. 
 You yourself surpass this lady as moonlight 
 does lamplight ; as youth surpasses its best imi- 
 tations ; as the fresh and pure creature in its 
 native adornment outvies all the charms got by 
 heart at the world's looking-glasses !" 
 
 " Yet you said," she gently persisted, but with 
 some trepidation, " that you quite comprehended 
 
 — a passion so strong as " 
 
 " Exactly," he exclaimed ; " but not in a man 
 who had once looked upon you, I cannot con- 
 ceive or excuse, or " 
 
 "Hush, hush!" she said, with reddening 
 cheeks. "These things differ so between men 
 and women. It may be that the world pardons 
 in you what it visits upon us ; or it may be that 
 we women are better than you." 
 
 "Who denies it?" said the Duke. "Yet, 
 madame, you make another mistake. The world 
 may judge differently of men and women in 
 regard to its social enchantments, but not as 
 to the one sentiment which is the sole law the 
 moment we love." 
 " That may be," said Matilda ; " but I think 1
 
 Lucile. 135 
 
 should be less severe. Although I am so inex- 
 perienced, I have learned that the heart cannot 
 always repress the feelings which sway it." 
 
 "Yes! yes! that is true, indeed," sighed the 
 Duke, and again there was a momentary silence 
 between them. 
 
 At length he began slowly, as though he 
 needed all this time to repress his emotions. 
 
 ■' And yet," he said, " what avails a gift of 
 beauty like yours if it cannot elevate a woman's 
 heart above the reach of doubt and despair, or 
 the pangs of wronged love to which women 
 with less charm are exposed ?" Then, with a 
 quick change of tone, as though impelled by 
 resentment, he went on : " It is whispered you 
 took the name you bear because you loved, not 
 in deference to convention. Well, madame, that 
 excited look on the face you know so well 
 throughout all its expressions, that rapturous 
 look, those eloquent features and significant eyes 
 which that pale woman so calmly sees," — he 
 pointed as he mentioned her to the door where 
 Lucile and Lord Alfred were standing, — " have 
 you ever before seen what you see now in that 
 familiar face ? No, it is new ! Young, lovely, 
 and loving as you are, are you really loved ?" 
 
 He looked at her ; then paused, and felt that 
 thus far the ground held. The ardor with which 
 he had uttered the question, thus suddenly
 
 136 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 spoken, inspired Matilda with a vague sense 
 of fear. She replied, however, with composure : 
 
 " It is three years since I became a bride, and 
 I have never had cause to suspect my husband, 
 nor ever stooped, sir, to question his honor. 
 Yet if I should fancy I saw some moments' for- 
 getful n ess of me in his looks, I trust I should 
 soon overlook it, for you must have seen that 
 my heart is my husband's." 
 
 Her cheek was white as the rose she held in 
 her hand. The last word seemed to die on her 
 lips. Then there was silence again. 
 
 A great step had been made by the Duke. 
 There, half drowned by the music, Matilda had 
 listened in spite of herself to a voice she should 
 never have heard at all, and her heart had been 
 troubled by it. The Duke suffered his eye to 
 fathom hers during the short silence, and then 
 resumed : 
 
 " Will you allow me to invade your thoughts 
 by disclosing my own ? The position in which 
 we seem so strangely placed may excuse my 
 frankness. You say that your heart is your 
 husband's, — that you love him. You think so, 
 of course. I admit that such a love is a 
 merit. But, trust me, there can be no true love 
 without its dread penalty, — jealousy. There, 
 do not start! Until now, thanks to supreme 
 self control, you have held it down, or have per-
 
 Lucile. 137 
 
 haps never known one of those fiercer pangs 
 which engender deep passion. But if this be 
 the case, is it not most cruel to expose that 
 happy content, to the meeting and receiving of 
 a woman whose place in life is to be your 
 rival in love? You will be unhappy because 
 you will deem your own power less than hers, 
 and I shall not be by your side day by day 
 to tell you, in spite of your noble displeasure, 
 that you are fairer than she is, — as the star is 
 fairer than the diamond." 
 
 This appeal both in looks and language in- 
 creased Matilda's alarm. Still she spoke with 
 what calmness she could command. 
 
 " Allow me, sir, to express surprise," she said, 
 "at your zeal in disclosing the depth of my 
 own misery to me." 
 
 " The zeal would not startle you, madame," he 
 returned, " if you could read in my heart the 
 peculiar interest which causes it " 
 
 Matilda could no longer hide her terror. She 
 rose from her seat. 
 
 " I continue to listen," she said, " but permit 
 me to say, I no longer understand." 
 
 " Forgive !" he cried, with a nervous appeal 
 of the hand and a well-feigned confusion of 
 voice. " I forgot that you knew me so slightly. 
 1 entreat your leave to speak of myself for one 
 moment, for I think you wrong me." 
 
 12*
 
 138 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 His voice sunk and tears glistened in his eyes 
 as he lifted them. Matilda involuntarily sat 
 down. 
 
 " Beneath an exterior which seems worldly 
 and frivolous," he said, " my heart hides in me 
 a sorrow which draws to me all things that 
 suffer. Nay, do not laugh at such an avowal." 
 His hand went out imploringly. "At a ball, 
 for instance, do I seek for the belle ? No, but 
 for some plain, insignificant creature whom all 
 the world is accustomed to neglect or oppress. 
 I console where I can. It is not a brilliant part 
 I admit, but yet it brings me unalloyed joy." 
 
 From the tone in which they were spoken, 
 these trite words received an appearance of 
 truth which might have affected a heart much 
 more incredulous than Matilda's. 
 
 " Your life, it would seem, then, must be one 
 long act of devotion," she said, demurely. 
 
 "Perhaps so," said he, and would have con- 
 tinued his self-revelation ; but at this moment, 
 to Matilda's relief, she saw her husband ap- 
 proaching. He had the Comtesse de Nevers 
 on his arm. The Duke turned and adjusted his 
 collar. " Good !" thought he, " the gods fight 
 my battles to-night !" 
 
 Lord Alfred presented his wife. The Duke 
 answered Lucile's startled cry of recognition 
 with a bow betokening a distant defiance. With
 
 Lucile. 139 
 
 the grace of kindness which seeks to win kind- 
 ness, Lucile stepped over beside Matilda, perhaps 
 unconsciously, or resolved not to notice the half- 
 frightened glance which followed her move- 
 ment. The Duke had relinquished his seat in 
 silence. The moment was undoubtedly awk- 
 ward for all present ; but nevertheless, before 
 long, Lucile's gracious tact was felt by every one, 
 and the reserve seemed to melt unconsciously 
 away. The whole four sauntered, smiling and 
 conversing, through the crowd. 
 
 As they approached the door, the Duke, who 
 had fallen behind, was joined by Lucile. She 
 made a little gesture as if to say. Let us feel that 
 the old friendship has survived that one mad and 
 forgotten moment. Then she asked aloud, — 
 
 " You remain at Ems, Duke ?" 
 
 He turned upon her a look of frigid and 
 sullen rebuke. Then with a significant glance 
 at Matilda, — 
 
 " Perhaps I have an attraction here. And 
 you ?" 
 
 Lucile had folloAved his look and understood 
 his boast. 
 
 " 1, too," she answered. 
 
 He thought he heard her sigh as she left him 
 and resumed her place by Matilda. 
 
 Before long they shook hands and parted at 
 the gate of the hotel.
 
 140 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 As Lord Alfred and the Duke returned to the 
 Rooms through the thick alley of lindens, sud- 
 denly the Duke said, — 
 
 " Once more ! yet once more !" 
 
 "What?" asked Vargrave. 
 
 " We meet again the woman for whom we 
 were once to destroy each other. Laugh, mon 
 cher Alfred /" 
 
 " It is not with laughter that I raise the ghost 
 of that troubled time. Can you, Luvois, recall 
 it with coolness now?" 
 
 " Now ? Yes, mon cher. I am a true Parisien. 
 Now the red revolution, next the dance and 
 play. I am now at the play." 
 
 " At the play, are you ? Then I may presume, 
 Duke, to ask you what I have waited " 
 
 " Ask what you will. Franc jeu! My cards 
 are spread out on the table." 
 
 " Well, then : you were called to a meeting 
 with Lucile. It was night when you started ; 
 and before you returned it was morning. We 
 met. You accosted me with a brow betokening 
 triumph. Your words were, Let us be friends." 
 
 " Well ?" 
 
 " How, then, after that, can you and she meet 
 as acquaintances ?" 
 
 " What ! did she not then resolve your riddle 
 herself to-night witli those soft lips of hers?" 
 The Duke feigned a deep surprise.
 
 Lucile. • 141 
 
 " We avoided the past to-night," said Lord 
 Alfred. " But the question will be answered at 
 last, — by j'ou, if you will ; if not, by her." 
 
 " Indeed ? But can that question arouse such 
 an interest in you if your passion for her is 
 over?" 
 
 " Yes," said Yargrave, emphatically. " Esteem 
 may remain, though love has vanished. Lucile 
 asked me to present her to my wife to-night, — 
 to my wife, understand ! I did so. Her hand 
 has clasped Matilda's. We gentlemen owe re- 
 spect to our name, and to the woman that bears 
 it we owe a twofold respect. Answer, Due de 
 Luvois ! Did Lucile reject you ? or did you 
 relinquish a prior claim ? Simply make a sign 
 that you know Lucile de Nevers is what you 
 would shield your virgin sister from, and Ma- 
 tilda and I leave Ems to-morrow." 
 
 The Duke paused and hesitated. He could 
 tell by Lord Alfred's look that he meant exactly 
 what he said. " Suppose they should leave 
 Ems," thought he, " would that suit me ? No, 
 that would mar all. Besides, if I do not explain, 
 she herself will, — and then, one should be a 
 gentleman before all else." 
 
 " No," he said aloud ; " Madame de Nevers 
 had rejected me. I was mad, and threatened 
 my rival's life. She feared for his safety, and I 
 showed you the letter she wrote me. We met,
 
 142 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 and my hand was again refused. The glance 
 you mistook was the mask pride lends to hu- 
 miliation. And yet, it has all proven for the 
 best. By all means stay at Ems." 
 
 The Duke turned with a smile and entered 
 the Eooms, which they had now reached. Lord 
 Alfred strode on alone in the darkness. He was 
 bewildered in heart and mind. " And so," he 
 muttered to himself, " it was to rescue me from 
 danger — and I doubted her for this ! A light 
 word, a look, — the mistake of a moment ! Oh, 
 pardon, pardon Lucile !" Thought and memory 
 rang weary changes through his brain, like a 
 funeral knell, as he stumbled on in the darkness. 
 
 When the Duke re-entered the Casino he was 
 smiling. He turned to roulette, played fast 
 and lost heavily. Yet he continued to smile. 
 The night deepened, and he played his last num- 
 ber. Then he went home and slept and smiled 
 in his sleep. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 It was not long after this that Lord Alfred 
 received a letter from Cousin John, which gave 
 him a great deal of London news, mingled with 
 an abundance of worldly wisdom, and conveyed 
 in no very doubtful terms the warning that if 
 Matilda's fortune still remained in the hands of 
 her uncle McNab, it was in serious danger and
 
 Lucile. 1-43 
 
 should be withdrawn at once. Startling as this 
 advice was, my lord gave it little heed. It 
 reached him in an unlucky hour. He cast a 
 half-languid glance at his cousin's homilies, read 
 the warning without at all realizing its gravity, 
 and cast the letter aside. In fact, he was be- 
 having just then in a manner to have maddened 
 Job, had that patriarch known him. The more 
 one would have expected him to notice the 
 Duke's attentions to Matilda, the less attention 
 he paid to her himself; but his ardor towards 
 Lucile increased daily. A natural consequence 
 of this was that Matilda began to shrink less 
 from the Duke as her husband drifted farther 
 from her aflPections. Each day they instinctively 
 felt themselves growing asunder. Alfred passed 
 more and more time at the Rooms and played 
 high, losing more than he was able. He grew 
 feverish and perverse. As the Vargraves and 
 the Duke were staying at the same hotel, it 
 hardly need be said that they all saw too much 
 of each other. The weather was so fine that it 
 brought them together every day in the garden, 
 of course, to listen to the band. Lucile and 
 Matilda were pleased to discover a mutual pas- 
 sion for music. Moreover, the Duke was an 
 excellent tenor, and Lord Alfred would also, at 
 times, when he was not too bored, play Bee- 
 thoven, or Wagner's new music, and occasionally
 
 144 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Borae little thing of his own. This and some 
 other causes made the Vargraves' rooms a 
 pleasant enough rendezvous for the entire party. 
 
 There was a cool and verdurous arbor in the 
 garden, which offered a gracious retreat from 
 the noonday glare, and here, with some friends 
 of their own little world, the gay company 
 passed many happy hours. The men loved to 
 smoke there, and the women would take their 
 work out and sing or converse till the dew fell. 
 Towards evening there was tea, a luxury due to 
 Matilda, with ices and fruits. 
 
 One afternoon, when Matilda presided, with 
 the Duke, a small German prince, an old Rus- 
 sian countess, wicked and witty, and two Aus- 
 trian colonels for guests, Lord Alfred, who was 
 lounging apart with his last cigarette, saw Lucile 
 pacing to and fro in the cool linden-trees. He 
 went forward and joined her. 
 
 " Thank the good stars I have found you !" 
 he exclaimed. " I have much to say to you." 
 
 " Yes," with her sweet, serene voice. " And 
 I also was wishing to say something to you." 
 She was paler just then than was her wont. 
 Her voice had a proud sadness in it. 
 
 "You are ill?" he asked, anxiously. 
 
 "No," she answered, hurriedly. "No, no!" 
 
 "You alarm me !" 
 
 Her head drooped down.
 
 Lucile. 145 
 
 " If," she murmured, "your thoughts have of 
 late cared to discover what has been passing in 
 mine, my farewell can scarcely alarm you." 
 
 "Lucile! Your farewell! You are going !" 
 
 " Yes, Lord Alfred." 
 
 " But the cause of this unkindness I" 
 
 " Unkindness?" she repeated. 
 
 " Yes ! what else is it ?'' He was startled into 
 almost rudeness. 
 
 " No, no !" she said, softly. " Look into your 
 heart and home. Can you see no reason for 
 this, saving unkindness in me? Look into the 
 eyes of your wife, — those true eyes, too honest 
 to conceal the soul shining through them." 
 
 But his only thought was of Lucile's departure. 
 He told her with hurried and incoherent words 
 how he had been defrauded of her and had taken 
 what was left : the one life that could help him 
 to fill the void made by her loss. He pleaded with 
 her, not for love, but for the hallowed friendship 
 that might still subsist between them. 
 
 " May we not be friends, the dearest of friends, 
 Lucile ?" 
 
 She put by his passionate words and calmly 
 reasoned with him. She too had dreamed of it, 
 but it was a dream which always brought a 
 fatal awakening to those who indulged it. 
 
 " The dreams of my life are fled," she sighed. 
 " Trust me, Lord Alfred, the best friend you 
 III.— o k 13
 
 146 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 have is your wife. She is sweet and yonnfj. 
 See her now, sitting there! How tenderly 
 fashioned — to love and to be loved !" 
 
 He turned sharply away. 
 
 " To be sure she is," he said ; " but Matilda is 
 a statue, a child. Matilda cannot love — " 
 
 Lucile quietly smiled. 
 
 " Yesterday, all that you say might have been 
 true. To-day it is false, wholly false." 
 
 " How ? — what do you mean ?" he asked, look- 
 ing closely into her face. 
 
 " I mean that to-day the statue has become 
 endowed with life. The child has grown to a 
 woman : and that woman is jealous." 
 
 " What, she !" he cried, in a tone of ironical 
 wonder. " She jealous ! Matilda ! Of whom 
 pray? Not of me!" 
 
 " My Lord, you deceive yourself. She is jeal- 
 ous of no one but you. Trust me, and thank 
 heaven that the passion has appeared in her so 
 lately. Who can say what it might have be- 
 come if she had known sooner what she has 
 now discovered." 
 
 "Explain, explain, madame!" he cried. 
 
 "How blind you men are! Can you doubt 
 that a young and fair woman, neglected " 
 
 " Speak plainly," he demanded, as she hesi- 
 tated. "You mean what? Do you doubt 
 
 her fidelity ?"
 
 Lucile. 147 
 
 " Certainly not. Listen to me, my friend. 
 Your honor and your wife's are most dear to 
 me. I am certain that you are risking that 
 honor." 
 
 He winced and turned pale. She had aimed 
 at his heart, and she saw that she had not 
 missed. 
 
 " Stay, Lucile !" he exclaimed. " What in very 
 truth do you mean? Matilda — my wife — do 
 you know ? " 
 
 " I know that she is spotless. But I do not 
 know how far your continued neglect might 
 warp her nature. Jealousy in a woman is too 
 often healed by a criminal cure." 
 
 " Such thoughts could never have reached 
 Matilda's heart," he faltered. 
 
 " Matilda ?" said Lucile. " Oh, no ! But re- 
 flect. There is rarely wanting some voice at a 
 woman's side to conjure them up for her." 
 
 " Beware !" he said. " I will search every 
 corner for a clew to your words." 
 
 " You mistake them, my lord. I was putting 
 a mere hypothetical case." 
 
 She took alarm at the effect her speech had 
 made. He gazed at her with a long, troubled 
 look. 
 
 " Woe be to him," he muttered, " woe to him 
 who shall feel such a hope ! I swear it should 
 be the last hope of his life !" The clinched hand
 
 148 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 and bent brow betokened the inward strife she 
 had aroused. 
 
 " You forget," she said, " you menace only 
 yourself. You are the guilty man." 
 
 In the silence that followed, poor Lucile could 
 mark in the droop of his head and the heaving 
 of his chest the new germ of life and emotion 
 she had given him. New fears awakened new 
 hopes. In the indifferent husband she could 
 discern that Matilda had gained a new lover. 
 After some moments of silence she extended 
 her hand to him. 
 
 "Well?" she said. 
 
 " Lucile, I both understand and obey you." 
 He took her soft, quiet hand warmly in his own. 
 
 "Thank heaven!" she murmured, turning away. 
 
 " But one word more, I beseech you !" he 
 said. "We are parting forever. You have 
 shown me my pathway. Where is your own 
 to be ?" 
 
 Her calmness was suddenly and strangely 
 broken. She turned from him nervously. " I 
 do not question. I follow where heaven leads. 
 I only know that it must tend far away from 
 all the places where we have met or are likely to 
 meet." A smile sweet as incense which rises 
 from some sacred cup and mixes with music 
 crossed her face. 
 
 "Wherever it be, may all gentlest angels
 
 Lucile. 149 
 
 attend you !" he sighed, then kissed her hand 
 with deep emotion. 
 
 But, as it happened, that kiss was seen by- 
 Matilda with quite other emotions. Her young 
 bosom swelled and her cheeks grew crimson with 
 anger. The Duke had adroitly attracted her 
 look towards it by a faint but significant smile. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The stars were looking down on the dim 
 garden when Matilda next entered it. She had 
 descended alone from her chamber with aching 
 brow and a vague sadness oppressing her. The 
 house, out of which she had hurried into the 
 open air, half stifled her and seemed ready to 
 sink upon her head. The cool night air, the 
 boundless starlight, and the dark isolation 
 brought her instant relief 
 
 Her husband had that day looked in her face 
 and pressed both her hands. He had reproach- 
 fully noticed her recent dejection with a smile of 
 kindest wonder. He, of late so indifferent and 
 listless ! Was he startled at last by the change 
 which had taken place in her? Whence had 
 come that look of solicitous fondness? Would 
 he deceive her again by it? Had she been 
 the sport of a transparent illusion ! She wan- 
 dered between the dark trees musing thus, and 
 at last entered the arbor of lilacs where she 
 
 13*
 
 150 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 had so latel}'- sat face to face with her husband 
 and the pale woman whom she detested. The 
 spot was haunted with the evil remembrances 
 of that day. Farther off the acacias were 
 muttering the story over to themselves. Each 
 word was a wound. They seemed to whisper 
 wild instructions to her, revealino: man's last 
 right of reprisal. 
 
 An uncertain image began dimly to shape 
 itself forth in the darkness in front of her. It 
 came and went, sending a faint sense of peril 
 through her senses. At last she could vaguely 
 recognize the man to whose image her mind 
 had more and more turned as her heart slowly 
 detached itself from her husband. She saw 
 that it was the vigilant Frenchman. 
 
 There was a light sound behind her. She 
 trembled. She felt, without turning, that he 
 was approaching her. Her first instinct was 
 flight ; but her foot was as heavy as though it 
 had taken root in the soil. The Duke's voice 
 held her like fear in a dream. 
 
 "Ah, lady," he was whispering close to her 
 now, " there are meetings in life which seem 
 ordained by fate. Dare I think by sympathy 
 also ? What else can I bless for this good for- 
 tune? I felt myself drawn by an irresistible 
 instinct to revisit the memories left here where 
 80 lately I had looked in your face. And I find
 
 Lucile. 151 
 
 you — you, yourself — my own dream ! Can there 
 be one thought in common between ua? If so 
 — I who but a moment ago felt my heart un- 
 eompanioned, should indeed be blessed ! To 
 receive but a single word from your lips " 
 
 She interrupted him quickly. 
 
 "I sought a moment's solitude here, — she 
 began. 
 
 "Does solitude live for one only?" he insinu- 
 ated. " If my heart is the reflex of yours, are 
 we not alone, even though we be two ?" 
 
 " For that," said Matilda, " it were needful 
 that you should read what is in my heart." 
 
 " Forgive me, then, if I look in it and read 
 what lies there." 
 
 " Well, Duke ! and what do you read, unless it 
 is profound weariness and sadness ?" 
 
 " No doubt," he said ; " but there are laws con- 
 trolling all facts. The eflPeet always has a cause." 
 
 Matilda shrank back. She suddenly found a 
 finger pressed on the still bleeding wound she 
 had that day discovered in her breast. 
 
 " You are sad," he continued. The finger 
 pressed with cruel persistence on the wound. 
 " You are sad because the first need of a young 
 and beautiful woman is to love and be loved. 
 You are sad because knowledge is sad !" 
 
 " What gave you," she cried, " such strange 
 power ?"
 
 152 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " To read your thoughts ?" he asked. " Oh, 
 lady, a deep and profound love ; whether it be 
 received or rejected, a true and intense love 
 such as you, and you only, could awaken in my 
 breast." 
 
 " Hush, hush ! I beseech you — for pity !" 
 She snatched the hand he had taken hurriedly 
 from him in an instinctive effort to fly from the 
 place. 
 
 " For pity ?" he echoed ; " and what pity do you 
 owe him ? He, the lord of a life that is as fresh 
 as new-fallen dew. The guardian of a match- 
 less woman, and he neglects her — for whom ? 
 For a fairer ? No ! This pure world of ours 
 has no second Matilda. Why, then, be bound 
 by a chain which he himself wantonly breaks? 
 Why repel a love which 3-ou have but to stretch 
 forth your hand and take ?" 
 
 " Oh, hush, hush, sir !" Matilda cried. " Is 
 not Alfred your friend and am I not his wife?" 
 
 " And have not I respected his rights till he 
 himself neglected yours as a wife ? Do you think 
 I have loved you for only three days ? My love 
 may have grown since I first felt the spell of 
 your eyes, but oh, believe me, I loved you before 
 I knew your eyes could weep. I ask no re- 
 sponse : I only ask to live in your life and to 
 feel with you when you are in sorrow." 
 
 " Leave me, leave me !" she gasped in a voice
 
 Lucile. 153 
 
 thick from emotion. " For pity's sake, Duke, 
 let me go ! We should both be to blame if I 
 lingered." 
 
 "To blame? Yes, no doubt!" he answered. 
 " If your husband's love had forbidden you to 
 hope. But he signs your release by the hand 
 of another. Who knows when I may see you 
 alone again, to avow the thoughts that are 
 pining for utterance ?" 
 
 " Duke, Duke ! For heaven's sake let me go ! 
 It is late. I must return to my lord." She 
 struggled to get away, but he detained her 
 still. 
 
 " To your lord ?" he repeated, with a lingering 
 reproach. "Do you think he awaits you? At 
 this moment his looks are seeking another face. 
 Other ears are listening to his soft speeches." 
 
 " You are mistaken, sir !" A calm, severe, 
 and sad voice spoke close by them. " You are 
 mistaken : she is here!" 
 
 The Duke and Matilda started up. 
 
 " Lucile !" 
 
 Matilda felt herself grow dizzy as she gave a 
 half-stifled scream. 
 
 " Ho, oh ! Eavesdropping, nxadame ?" cried 
 the Duke. " You were listening, then ?" 
 
 " Say, rather, that I heard without wishing 
 it." 
 
 " Belle Comtesse," said the Duke, with a rage
 
 154 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 which betokened that he was baffled, "you 
 know that your place is not here." 
 
 " Duke," she answered, calmly, " my place is 
 wherever my duty is. Therefore at this mo- 
 ment my place is here. This morning, lady, 
 my place was beside your husband because I 
 felt that heaven yet spared me time to save him 
 the love of an innocent wife." 
 
 She turned to Matilda and lightly laid her 
 soft, quiet hand on her. 
 
 " It is the honor which that husband has con- 
 fided in you I have striven to save to-night. 
 Due de Luvois, what say you ? — is my place not 
 here?" She caught Matilda's hand, wound one 
 arm around her waist, and gently drew her 
 away. The Duke stood confounded. He did 
 not follow them. Before they had reached the 
 house, Lucile could feel her tender burden sink 
 and falter beside her. She knelt down, flung 
 her arms about Matilda, and pressed to her 
 own bosom the poor heart beating against hers. 
 
 " In the name of your husband, dear lady," 
 said Lucile, " in your mother's name, be brave ! 
 Lift your head. Those blushes arc noble. Never 
 trust to the maxim that the husband's fault 
 conceals the wife's. Take refuge .in silence. 
 Kneel and pray and hope !" 
 
 "Saved, Lucile!" sobbed Matilda, "but to 
 what fate ? Tears and prayers, but no hope."
 
 Lucile. 155 
 
 " Hush ! Your husband will return to you. 
 Do not doubt it. You were both chilled, not 
 by the absence of love, but through ignorance 
 how love is nourished by itself. Henceforth 
 your heart will be worthy to receive it, since 
 it knows how to grant it." 
 
 " What gives you such power over me that I 
 ttm thus drawn to obey you ? What are you, 
 Lucile?" 
 
 Matilda sighed and lifted her eyes to the 
 pale face above her. A deep sadness passed 
 suddenly through it. 
 
 " The pupil of sorrow," Lucile answered, with 
 a pensive smile. 
 
 " Of sorrow ?" exclaimed Matilda. " Oh, con- 
 fide in me ! I should find guidance, in all you 
 told me, for my own aflliction." 
 
 " And I consolation," said Lucile. " Few tears 
 have flowed for me in the days gone by." 
 
 Matilda seized her hand and lifted her up, and 
 they entered the house together. They went 
 to Matilda's room. A lamp of white alabaster 
 was suspended from the ceiling. The casement 
 opened into the garden. The pale, cool moon- 
 light streamed in through it. A single nightin- 
 gale sanai; in the laurels. The two women, hand 
 in hand, sat down by the open window, unseen 
 save by guardian angels.
 
 156 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 "When Lord Alfred returned to the salon that 
 night he found it deserted. The lamp burned 
 dimly, as though out of humor at having to 
 light an empty room. He sat alone by the 
 window and endeavored to think. But his 
 mind was disturbed, and for half an hour he 
 brooded bitterly with his head bowed down. 
 Once he rose and opened the door and wistfdlly 
 looked along the passage towards Matilda's 
 room. But with a sigh he crept back again to 
 his seat. His arms fell loosely at his side. His 
 head drooped to his breast, and his eyes were 
 vaguely fixed on impalpable space. 
 
 How long he had thus sat there he could not 
 have told, when, on a sudden, he started up as 
 though he had been shot. A familiar voice was 
 making a great noise in the passage. It was an 
 English voice with a round English accent. The 
 complaint of an injured cab-driver mingled with 
 it, demanding more fare. Then came the hur- 
 ried steps of no diminutive foot, and the door 
 was flung open. On the threshold Lord Alfred 
 was seized by Cousin John, who greeted him 
 with a frenzy of affectionate hugs. As soon as 
 he could escape Lord Alfred drew his cousin to 
 a chair, and, seating himself opposite, the two 
 scanned each other eagerly. Alfred saw that
 
 Lucile. 157 
 
 John was affected with unwonted emotion. 
 There was certainly something wrong. 
 
 " What's the matter ? What have you to tell 
 me ?" he asked. 
 
 " Haven't you heard ?" 
 
 " Heard what ?" 
 
 " About this sad business " 
 
 "I? No." 
 
 " You received my last letter, Alfred ?" 
 
 " I think so. If not, what then ?" 
 
 " You have acted upon it ?" 
 
 "On what?" 
 
 " The advice I gave you " 
 
 " Advice ? — let me see : you are always giv- 
 ing me advice, Jack. About Parliament, wasn't 
 it?" 
 
 " Hang Parliament ! No. The bank, the bank, 
 Alfred !" 
 
 " What bank ?" 
 
 "Heavens! I know you are careless, but 
 surely you have not forgotten — or neglected — 
 I warned you of the danger. You have at least 
 withdrawn those deposits ?" 
 
 "No; I meant to have written to-day. But 
 I'll write to-morrow, positively." 
 
 "To-morrow? But, Alfred, it is too late." 
 
 " Mercy save us !" cried Lord Alfred, waking 
 up to the gravity of the situation. " You don't 
 
 mean to say " 
 
 14
 
 158 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 « Yes, I do." 
 
 "What! Sir Eidley?" 
 
 " Smashed, broken, blown up, bolted too !" 
 
 " But his own niece ? In heaven's name, 
 Jack " 
 
 " Oh, I told you the old hypocrite would." 
 
 " But surely you can't mean we are ruined ?" 
 Lord Alfred was transfixed with dismay and 
 astonishment. 
 
 " Sit down," said Cousin Jack, and he pro- 
 ceeded in a business-like way to reveal the 
 situation in detail : " About a fortnight ago 
 there was a report about town that made me 
 most apprehensive. I wrote at once and 
 warned you. My forebodings were confirmed 
 about five days ago by a run on the bank. I 
 drove down to the city at once. The door 
 was closed, ^he bank had stopped payment 
 at four o'clock. Next morning the failure 
 was known to be a fraud. A warrant was 
 out for MacNab, but he had fled to the conti- 
 nent. I endeavored to get some information, 
 but as yet have learned nothing, and so I 
 joined you as quickly as I could with the 
 news." 
 
 He stopped here, aghast at the change in Lord 
 Alfred, who had grown livid. 
 
 " Courage, courage !" he said, " bear the blow 
 like a man."
 
 Lucile. 159 
 
 " I bear it," said Alfred. " But, Matilda, the 
 blow is aimed at her." His head seemed forced 
 down by some unseen weight. 
 
 <' Matilda ?" said Cousin Jack. " Pooh, pooh ! 
 I half think I know the girl better than you do 
 yourself She has courage enough and to spare. 
 She cares less than most women for luxury and 
 nonsense." 
 
 "But the fault was mine," persisted Lord 
 Alfred. 
 
 " Well, let it be yours to repair it, then. If 
 you did not avert it, help to soften it." 
 
 " I might have averted it," said his lordship, 
 ruefully. 
 
 "Perhaps so," said Cousin John; "but now 
 there is no use of considering that. You must 
 stir yourself for her sake ; something may yet 
 be saved from the wreck." 
 
 " Oh, Jack, I have been a brute, idiot !" wailed 
 Lord Alfred. " I have sinned, and against her. 
 I have been heedless, blind, and now I see all 
 things in a flash." 
 
 He bowed his head low on the table as if to 
 shut out a hated vision. The great tears rolled 
 in silence down his face. Cousin John rose 
 without speaking and paced up and down the 
 long room, much afflicted in his own cordial 
 heart for Matilda. 
 
 At last he bent over his cousin, whose sobs
 
 160 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 betokened the pain he was enduring, and sud- 
 denly laid a hand on his shoulder. 
 
 " Where is she?" he asked. 
 
 Lord Alfred lifted a face disfigured with 
 tears and gazed vacantly at him. 
 
 " Where is she?" repeated his cousin. 
 
 Lord Alfred motioned to the door. 
 
 " There, I think," he said. 
 
 Cousin John relapsed into his own cogitations. 
 Then, at last, a time-piece struck twelve, which 
 drew his attention to the dial. He quietly put 
 his arm around Lord Alfred's neck and drew 
 his hands down from his face. 
 
 " It is time that she should know what has 
 happened," was all he said. 
 
 Lord Alfred started at once to his feet. Wan 
 and distorted as his face was, he looked more 
 than ever like a man. He was strong for once 
 in his own weakness, uplifted and inspired with 
 a manly resolution. 
 
 " I will go alone. Jack. Trust it to me," he 
 said. 
 
 " I do, Alfred. But it is late, remember. If 
 she is asleep you will not wake her ?" 
 
 " No, no ! The news will keep — poor infant ! — 
 only too surely. If she is asleep, I will let her 
 rest till to-morrow." 
 
 He opened the door and passed out. Cousin 
 John watched him wistfully and left him to
 
 Lucile. 161 
 
 seek her alone. "When Lord Alfred knocked at 
 her door, his heart beat so loud he could not 
 have heard a reply from within. He repeated 
 the knock. Then tried the handle. The door 
 opened, and he entered undiscovered. 
 
 The pale lamp shed an indistinct light about 
 the chamber, through which, by slow degrees, 
 he could see Matilda kneeling at her bedside. 
 She was so deeply wrapt in prayer that she did 
 not know of her husband's presence. There 
 seemed to be a faint, unearthly effulgence min- 
 gled with the moonlight and lamplight, as if to 
 denote the presence there of something angelic 
 and pure. 
 
 She had put off her dress, and looked, in his 
 eyes, like a young soul escaped from its earthly 
 garb. Her neck and shoulders were bare, and 
 her soft golden locks rippled down over ihem. 
 Her simple white bodice was undone, and all 
 the curves of her slender waist were unconfined. 
 Her beauty went trembling through him as the 
 light through rippling water. His heart was 
 bowed down. Scarcely knowing what he did, 
 he silently knelt and prayed beside her. 
 
 Then, for the first time, she knew that he 
 was near her. A blush rose swiftly upon her 
 pale cheek where the tears yet sparkled. She 
 shrank back instinctively; but he caught her, 
 and, putting his arm round her waist, pressed 
 III.— ^ 14*
 
 1<!2 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 one long kiss on her brow. Then her fear was 
 gone. Her head fell upon his breast, and she 
 hung upon him locked in a clinging embrace, as 
 though she feared, if her clasp were relaxed, 
 he might part from her again. Her smooth 
 shoulders, convulsed by sob after sob, and her 
 pulsing bosom pressed against his, told of the 
 tumult within her heart. 
 
 -' Oh, Alfred, Alfred ! forgive me !" she sobbed. 
 
 "Forgive you, my poor child! But I never 
 blamed you, and I have not a single reproach 
 for you now." He gently unwound himself 
 from her arms and forced her down beside him. 
 They sat under the canopy of their couch. 
 
 " Matilda," he said, softly, " when a proud 
 man has at length found out that he is but a fool 
 in his wisdom, to whom should he first own his 
 weakness ? Should it not be to his wife ?" 
 
 " Yes," murmured Matilda. 
 
 "Then this chamber, dear, is a confessional, 
 and you are my confessor." 
 
 " I ?" she faltered, timidly raising her head. 
 
 " Yes ! But first answer one question : When 
 a woman feels that she is not alone, that another 
 halves his life with her for weal or woe, will she 
 bear any better what life may take away from 
 her? AYhen calamities befall her, will she feel 
 that, though they darken the home, they brighten 
 the heart ?"
 
 Lucile. 163 
 
 She turned her eyes on him like a soft rainy 
 sky, and smiled through her fresh tears, trust- 
 fully and tenderly. 
 
 " That woman," she murmured, " were thrice 
 blessed." 
 
 " Courage then, true heart !" he said, and 
 gathered her closely to him. " The refuge of 
 these wide-open arms can never be closed to you 
 again. This room is an asylum for us both, 
 for when I crossed the threshold I left there 
 a sudden and heavy calamity. Henceforth I 
 fear we must face it daily, but here it cannot 
 enter." 
 
 She started : " Calamity, Alfred, to you ?" 
 
 " To both, my poor child ; but I trust it brings 
 with it the courage to endure it." Then he 
 gravely told her how, through all their troubles, 
 an angel had been near ready to rescue and 
 warn them. How the smile which Matilda had 
 seen with suspicion and the presence she had 
 daily resented were those of one whom they 
 would some day learn to remember in their 
 prayers. But she was gone now from their 
 sight forever. 
 
 " Here, alone," he cried, " I seek your forgive- 
 ness, dear, and open my heart to you. Your 
 fortune is lost. But I have found a greater 
 prize, the heart of my wife !" 
 
 She sprang from her seat with a beaming face
 
 164 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 and flung her arms about him, while her head 
 fell upon his shoulder. She sobbed there a 
 moment, but not with sorrow, nor even the 
 sense of loss. She was oblivious of all save 
 her own love. But his words rushed back upon 
 her as she la}' there : " The fortune lost!" 
 
 "Lost?" she said, at last. "Tell me! See, 
 Alfred, I need a fuller sense of afiliction to sober 
 this rapture." 
 
 "Poor innocent child!" He kissed her fair 
 brow and smiled mournfully as he told her all 
 he had heard ; assuring her of a loyalty which 
 should inspire him to valiant work in her ser- 
 vice. 
 
 " And I, too," she murmured, " am no longer 
 an infant. I have suifered since those old days. 
 With the faith I pledged as a wife now goes 
 the heart 1 have learned to feel as a woman. 
 For I love you, my husband." 
 
 She hid her head on his breast, as if to empha- 
 size the words; and he embraced her with a 
 new fervor and poured a torrent of endearing 
 words into her ear. 
 
 XI. 
 
 When Lucile left Matilda she sat a long time 
 in her chamber among the signs which betokened 
 her departure back to her old vacant life. Her 
 heart faltered within her. She was unable to
 
 Lxicile. 165 
 
 sleep or to free herself from comfortless reveries, 
 so she rose and went down again into the garden. 
 The air of dawn, which was just at hand, touched 
 her feverish brow with a strange sensation. 
 The land lay in darkness all about her. There 
 was no sound saving of the river and of the 
 crickets that sing all night. 
 
 She stood still. Emotions long pent up in her 
 breast began to stir anew. Then there came 
 a dull sound, and a ghostly hand touched her. 
 She felt herself fixed by a pair of hot and hol- 
 low eyes. It was the Frenchman. As he stood 
 before her his eyes seemed to scorch out the 
 darkness between them. He looked like a shade 
 sent forth to oppress the soul of some monk in 
 a wilderness. 
 
 " At last, then — and alone !" he muttered. " At 
 last you and I, Lucile de Nevers, have met !" 
 She was about to speak, but he prevented her, 
 " Hush ! I know the tryst was not meant for 
 me! But never mind, it is mine, and whatever 
 motive has brought you here, you shall stay 
 until we have spoken. My hour has come, and 
 you are at my mercy. You shall listen to me !" 
 
 She appeared to awaken with a start. 
 
 " Continue," she said : " I am listening." 
 
 He did not reply for a moment. She saw that 
 his face was disturbed by some new thought. 
 He continued to pace to and fro with closely-
 
 166 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 folded arms. He had the restless stride of a 
 panther as he paced in narrowing circles around 
 her. At last he stood still and searched her 
 face with one long look. 
 
 " Lucile, can you dare to look into my face ? 
 Is the sight so repugnant? Well, then, can you 
 identify one word of your writing there ? Your 
 own name is scrawled in it, and it defaces the 
 soul beneath." 
 
 There was something so wild and terrible in 
 his eyes that she was alarmed. He saw it and 
 smiled, then turned away and resumed the short, 
 restless stride, as if searching vainly for the 
 point of some purpose within him. 
 
 " Lucile, you shudder when you look into my 
 face : do you feel no reproach when you look 
 into your own heart ?" 
 
 "No," she said, calmly; "I do not deserve 
 your rebuke." 
 
 "No," he muttered; "gentle Justice first bids 
 life not to hoj^e, then says to despair, Do not 
 act. We are wrecked creatures, you and I, 
 only able to injure each other, and fall, sooner 
 or later, into the void we have ourselves pre- 
 pared. Woman, woman, what have you done 
 with my youth? Give me back again the 
 young heart I gave you." 
 
 " In vain," she murmured, with downcast 
 eyes.
 
 Lucile. 167 
 
 " Yes, yes !" he went on wildly, " I was not 
 always thus. I have not forgot, madame, what 
 I once was!" 
 
 "And you charge me with wrecking your 
 life! Alas, Due de Luvois, had I yielded to 
 your entreaties and defrauded my own heart by 
 marrying you, should I not more deeply have 
 wronged you?" 
 
 " Wronged !" he cried. " Is it so, then, that 
 you could never have loved me ?" 
 
 " Duke !" she interposed to soften the question. 
 
 " Never ?" he persisted, breaking into a fierce 
 laugh. " But you knew that I loved you. You 
 led me on to lay all the cruel power in that 
 cold face of yours to my heart. Was that 
 well? And yet I would not vent my hatred 
 upon you. It was he ! that man who tramples 
 on me in his triumph. He has cast his shadow 
 between me and the sun. My hate will yet find 
 him out !" 
 
 She murmured some words of regret, then 
 said a final farewell and turned coldly away. 
 
 " Stay, Lucile !" he cried. " I am mad, brutal- 
 ized, blind with pain ! I did not mean what I 
 uttered. Forgive me ! I — have wronged you, — 
 I — I — forgive, forgive me !" 
 
 " I feel nothing but sadness, sadness to my 
 soul, far too deep for resentment," she said, in 
 a low voice.
 
 168 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " But stand as you are one moment," he 
 pleaded. "I think if I could look awhile on 
 your face the old innocent days would come 
 back to me, and this scorching heart might free 
 itself in hot tears. I lied, Lucile ; stay a mo- 
 ment. And yet if you had helped me to bear 
 what you made me suffer " 
 
 " Could I have helped you ?" she murmured. 
 " But what can I say that your life will respond 
 to?" 
 
 "My life? No," he sighed. "My life has 
 brought forth nothing but evil. The love I 
 gave you was all I had. It perished, and all 
 else perished with it. By the law of fate I 
 am what I am." 
 
 She was silent for awhile, then answered 
 gravely,— 
 
 " I am onlj'' a woman and cannot judge fully 
 of this matter. But there is a purpose in pain, 
 for otherwise it were devilish. A large hope 
 should be yours, Eugene. What better proves 
 that there's life still in a heart than that it 
 bleeds ? Pain will burn itself out if sin ceases 
 to supply it with fuel. There is hope and love 
 in yonder dawn. Let hate and despondency die 
 with the night!" 
 
 The sound of her measured and sympathetic 
 words seemed to restore the forces of his 
 thought. A fancy passed through his mind that
 
 Lucile. 169 
 
 the woman he once loved was dead, and that 
 this was her spirit which stood by him in thq 
 light of dawn. He besought the soul of Lucile 
 to pray for his soul. 
 
 " We are parting," he said. " All is over 
 between us. It was the long-hoarded pain that 
 rushed from me. I was unjust, Lucile ; forgive 
 me ! I was maddened, delirious ! I saw you 
 return to him — not to me ; and my heart burnt 
 with vengeance. Are we, then, never to meet 
 again ? Ah, who knows or heeds where the 
 exile from Paris flies ?" 
 
 Once more her voice fell soothingly on his 
 senses : 
 
 " Our paths part henceforth, Eugene. I can- 
 not say that we shall never meet again, for I do 
 not know. But we can never meet again as we 
 met of old. This alone I will promise : that if 
 in the conflict before you you ever falter and 
 need my presence to rescue or support you, in 
 that hour of need, depend upon it, I shall be at 
 your side. Then we shall meet again soul to 
 soul." 
 
 Her voice ceased, and he lifted his eyes to see 
 her face ; but she was gone. 
 
 XII. 
 
 A YOUNG English officer who had fallen sword 
 in hand on the field of Inkerman had been 
 H • 10
 
 170 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 carried to the rear, still breathing, but wounded 
 almost to death. Through long days and nights 
 he lay in his tent, dark and hopeless, for in his 
 young heart there was a wound rankling as 
 pitilessly as the desperate hurt in his side. One 
 night as he lay there half delirious he heard the 
 wind wailing without and swaying the rain- 
 drenched tent curtain to and fro; then the 
 curtain was lifted suddenly, but not by the wind, 
 and a pale woman entered. The sufferer could 
 see her form floating towards him in the dim 
 lamplight. She paused at last by his bedside 
 and laid her white hand on his brow. A light 
 finger softly pressed the sore wounds. The hot 
 dressing was slipped away from them. A com- 
 forting tranquillity stole through him. He 
 could see two intense, tender eyes bending over 
 him from beneath a hood of rough gray serge. 
 Surely, he thought, this is Death's angel. But 
 a soft voice said, " Sleep !" 
 
 He fell asleep at the command and wakened 
 only at dawn. The vision was still there. It 
 had not moved from his side; but the aspect 
 of all things about him had been silently beauti- 
 fied. 
 
 "Say what you are, blessed dream of a minis- 
 tering spirit," he sighed. 
 
 A whisper came from the silence : 
 
 *' I am the Soeur Seraphine, young soldier, a
 
 Lucile. 171 
 
 poor Sister of Charitj'-. Inquire no further, but 
 sleep again." 
 
 Once more he obeyed her and slept till dawn. 
 She was by his side when he awoke, and he 
 asked her anew where she had come from and 
 who she was. 
 
 Bending down to smooth the hot pillow, she 
 whispered, — 
 
 " Your life is precious to me, for I know your 
 mother and your father." 
 
 "Can it be so? My dearest father and 
 mother, — you know thera?" 
 
 She bowed silently, half averting her face. 
 
 Brokenly and timidly he asked, — 
 
 " Do they know I am — here ?" 
 
 " Hush !" 
 
 She smiled and drew two letters, which bore 
 familiar writing, from her bosom. 
 
 He burst into tears. 
 
 " My poor mother — my father ! They know 
 the worst, then !" 
 
 " No !" she said, smiling ; " they know you are 
 living and that I am watching beside you." 
 
 Then again she soothed him to sleep, and he 
 lost his woes in the peace of dreams. 
 
 Day followed day in this wise until the lusty 
 young frame began to knit again and the boy 
 was nearly well. But there was still a feeble- 
 ness lurking in his system which looked oul of
 
 172 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 his hollow eyes and was apparent in his pinched 
 cheeks and the languor of his thin pale fingers. 
 
 "I have healed the wounds of the body," she 
 said one day. " But what do you hide in that 
 still-open wound of the heart? Will you trust 
 no hand near it ?" 
 
 He winced like one who is suddenly touched 
 on a nerve. 
 
 " What ?" he moaned. " Is my heart so bare, 
 then ?" 
 
 " No, young soldier," she said, reassuringly, 
 " but these eyes are too familiar with sorrow 
 not to know her features. Trust me !" drawing 
 his two feeble hands gently into her own. 
 " Trust me ! I am not so dead to the world but 
 that I can recall enough of its sorrows to grieve 
 for us both. Perhaps if I know the cause of 
 your unhappiness I could heal it. Tell me, then ; 
 trust in me !" 
 
 He was weeping when she paused. There 
 was small need to add entreaty to those gentle 
 accents. Without resistance they drew the brief 
 tale of an early sorrow to his trembling lips. 
 
 " A few years ago," he said, "a young girl, the 
 niece of a French noble, was brought from an 
 ancient Norman pile by the northern seas to 
 live with an old dame of her race in the P'au- 
 bourg Saint Germain. From babyhood the girl 
 had been without father and mother, but an
 
 Lucile. 173 
 
 uncle had supplied their place in her heart. 
 She had grown up at his side and under his 
 roof-tree from childhood to girlhood. She 
 seemed to be the sole human creature for whom 
 he had a regard. No smile but hers could win 
 a response from his dark and threatening face. 
 But after a few tranquil years in the old chateau 
 a letter arrived which suddenly called him away, 
 and when he returned he brought with him a 
 tall and ancient kinswoman, to whom he con- 
 fided the orphan. He then left them alone in 
 the far-away house, and the girl saw no more 
 of him for years. But it was at his command 
 that she had been taken to Paris, as he desired 
 her, he said, to see the world. And it was in 
 Paris that I met her. The old miracle of love 
 at first sight needs no explanation. I was gra- 
 ciously bidden to be an habitual guest at the 
 house, and the old lady seemed pleased to ob- 
 serve that my love was returned by Constance. 
 She wrote to her cousin of my father, and of 
 my deference to her ; of my love for Constance 
 and of hers for me. At length came a brief 
 and stern answer which much astonished the 
 aged lady : " Let Constance leave Paris with, you 
 on the day you receive this. She may remain 
 at her convent until I return. If she wishes 
 to see me again she will never marry that 
 man. You have broken faith with me. Fare- 
 
 15*
 
 174 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 well!" There was no appeal from such a decree. 
 The dream was over. Constance went away 
 with herold guardian, and though she nevermur- 
 mured she grew paler day by day and was visibly 
 drooping. It was then that I too sought death." 
 
 Thus his tale ended. As he had told it, in 
 faltering words, the night-wind had blown in 
 gusts about the tent door. When he was done 
 he sank back exhausted and fell into a feverish 
 slumber. She sat for a long while in deep 
 thought. The sweet smile which was wont to 
 linger in her face had fled away and a great sad- 
 ness was there instead. The tears began to fall 
 from her eyes, but she was not wholly joyless. 
 
 "Here, at least, I have not failed," she mur- 
 mured, as she drew two letters from her bosom. 
 
 In one, a mother's heart, wild with alarm for 
 her son, breathed forth a despairing plaint : 
 
 " The pledge of love owed to you, Lucile ; the 
 hope of a home saved by you, of a heart which 
 has never ceased to bless and to pra}' for you 
 since that happy time, — in the name of all 
 these, save my son !" 
 
 Then, from Lord Alfred, followed a few blotted 
 and heart-broken pages, in which he spoke of 
 his love for the boy and his grief that the 
 match could never come to pass. He also 
 appealed to her to save his son, and blessed her 
 for her loving care of him.
 
 Lucile. 175 
 
 " Ah," murmured the Sceur Seraphine again, 
 "there at least I have not failed. My part 
 is done; my mission accomplished." She knelt 
 down and prayed. When dawn broke into the 
 tent she rose from the bedside and passed out. 
 
 Meanwhile, in his well-ordered tent, sur- 
 rounded by his aides and going over his daily 
 reports, sat a French general, bronzed by the 
 sun and seared by the sands of Algeria. He 
 had strangely and rapidly risen from the wars 
 of the wild Kabylee to be the idol of the younger 
 French chivalry. He had entered the army 
 late in life, after discarding his Bourbonite alle- 
 giance, and had risen partly from a singular 
 aptitude for the desert warfare of ambush and 
 stratagem and partly from chance, — partly, too, 
 from a name and position which his countrymen 
 were proud to put forward. 
 
 He was, at the moment, bending over some 
 plan for hospital service, and the officer standing 
 behind him referred to the loving offices of the 
 Sisters of Charity ; one of whom in particular, 
 he declared, was known through the camp as 
 an angel of grace. 
 
 " Truly, I have heard much of her," said the 
 general, " and we already owe her the lives of 
 many of our bravest. You allude to — how do 
 they call her? — the Sceur Seraphine ; is it not 
 so? On my word I have very much wished to
 
 176 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 see her. Find her, and, if possible, let her come 
 to me. We shall, I think, aid each other." 
 
 " Oi«', mon General : I hear she has lately 
 been attending a sick man in the Second Division 
 of our allies; they say he is a relation of 
 hers." 
 
 "A relation?" asked the general, absently. 
 
 " So it is said." 
 
 *' Do you know the name ?" 
 
 '■^ Non, vion General^ 
 
 As they spoke a murmur arose around the 
 tent door, and a voice said, — 
 
 "A Sister of Charity craves the grace of a 
 brief private interview with the general. Will 
 he speak with her ?" 
 
 " Bid her declare her mission," he said. 
 
 " She will not do so. She desires to be seen 
 and heard personally." 
 
 " Her name, then." 
 
 "The Soeur Seraphine." 
 
 " Clear the tent. She may enter." 
 
 The general heard a light footfall behind him. 
 
 " Sit down. Holy Sister," he said ; " your worth 
 is well known to the hearts of all our men. I 
 owe you some thanks for your services. Now, 
 then, your mission ?" 
 
 The nun was silent. He eyed her more 
 keenly. His aspect grew troubled. A change 
 darkened over his features.
 
 Lucile. 177 
 
 " Strange," he muttered, " that the face should 
 remind me of her! Psha! it is only a dream!" 
 Then he repeated aloud : " Sit down. Sister, and 
 state the cause of your visit." 
 
 " The cause ?" she vaguely said. She made a 
 movement less towards him than away from 
 herself. Her head drooped and she folded her 
 hands on her bosom. They were long, fatigued, 
 and mournful hands. Not a stray hair escaped 
 from the white bands, which were scarcely paler 
 than the face bound within them. She fixed 
 her eyes on him, and he felt a strange awe creep 
 over his senses. 
 
 "Eugene de Luvois," she said in measured 
 words, "the cause of my visit is a promise 
 which remains unfulfilled. I come to fulfil 
 it." 
 
 He sprang from his seat, pressing his hand 
 over his face as if in doubt, and stepped toward 
 her. He laid one heavy hand on her shoulder 
 and searched her face with a long, troubled look. 
 Then he staggered backward. 
 
 " Lucile !" he cried. " And we meet again thus, 
 and here?" 
 
 " Soul to soul, Eugene, as I pledged you we 
 should one day do. I would speak now to your 
 soul. May I do so ?" 
 
 He said only, " Speak to me !" 
 
 " I come from the bedside of a man who is 
 III.— »»
 
 178 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 dying," she said. -'Even while we are talking 
 here his life ebbs away." 
 
 " Quick, then !" he cried ; " do you want medi- 
 cine or aid, or what ?" 
 
 " Medicine for the mind, — yes. It is the heart 
 which needs aid in this case. You, and you 
 only, can save his life. Now, will you save it?" 
 
 " But what man ? How ? Where ?" 
 
 She told him all in a few brief and vivid words, 
 then threw the whole pity of her heart into a 
 plea for the young soldier s love. 
 
 As she proceeded his face grew more and 
 more inflamed, aad at last the storm which had 
 been gathering within broke into grief and 
 rage. 
 
 "Hold!" he cried. "It is for his sake, then, 
 you are here, — for him you have deigned to think 
 again of my long-forgoLten existence!" 
 
 "Eugene," she said, soothingly. 
 
 "Fool that I was!" he went on. " But, be it 
 so. There's a sort of slow justice in it. At 
 last I can return him his own word, — Never !" 
 
 " When we parted," she said, " I urged you 
 to put forth the power which I knew was 
 yours. I foresaw you would conquer, and you 
 have conquered much that is noble. But I 
 saw, as well, that there was one foe whom you 
 might fail to subdue, and that was yourself 
 You remember that I promised, if I saw my
 
 Lucile. 179 
 
 champion falter, I would be promptly at his side. 
 The moment has come now, for you falter. I 
 plead for yourself and one other : for your own 
 nobler nature and for Constance !" 
 
 " Constance !" he exclaimed. " Ay, she entered 
 my lonely life when its sun had long been set. 
 I have only that one sole light in the midst of 
 much darkness." 
 
 " But can you feel assured of the life you 
 cherish so?" 
 
 " Why not?" he asked, startled. 
 
 " If the boy should die ?" she said. 
 
 He was pacing the tent with long strides and 
 muttering low to himself, — 
 
 " These young things lie safe in our hearts 
 while their wings are growing, and when they 
 are strong, they break the nest and, it is fare- 
 well, and they fly away." 
 
 The nun laid her hand on his shoulder. 
 
 " Eemembcr," she said, " life fleets away while 
 we talk thus. Oh, Eugene, let this day behold 
 your final victory !" 
 
 "If Constance weds the son of this man," he 
 said, solemnly, "she is lost forever to my 
 life !" 
 
 " But do not think of the son of the man whom 
 you unjustly hate ; think only of this young 
 human creature who appeals to you from the 
 edge of the grave !" .
 
 180 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 She pleaded with him with all the intensity of 
 her nature, and he seemed moved at last ; but 
 still he put the cup from him, and bowed his 
 face in his hands. Then, overtaken by a new 
 impulse, he sprang up from his seat and brushed 
 past her, bitterly crying, — 
 
 "No! Constance to marry a Vargrave! I 
 cannot consent!" 
 
 The Sceur Seraphine rose to her full height. 
 The low tent seemed dwarfed by her stature, 
 and a silent sadness poured from her imperial 
 eyes upon him. He felt himself shrink under 
 the compulsion of her regard. 
 
 " Eugene de Luvois," she said, "but for you I 
 might have been now, not this wandering nun, 
 but a wife pleading, not for another's child, but 
 blessing one of my own, — my own and his — 
 whom I once loved !" 
 
 He made a gesture of reproach, but she put, 
 forth a commanding hand, and continued : 
 
 " Hush ! that which is done I do not regret. 
 I breathe no reproaches. What God sends is 
 best. This only I say : You have not the right 
 to think yourself the wronged !" 
 
 " Have I, then, wronged you, Lucile!" he cried, 
 painfully. 
 
 " No, not me," she answered, " but man. The 
 lone nun has no claim on earth. She has passed 
 from earth's wrongs and reparations. But the
 
 Lucile. 181 
 
 dead woman, Lucile, whose grave is in me, 
 demands reparation to man and God." 
 
 " Hush !" he moaned. " I obey the Soeur Sera- 
 phine. Then, Lucile, let this pay the debt due 
 to the grave. Now lead on ; I follow you to the 
 son of Lord Alfred Vargrave — and then" — as 
 he spoke he lifted the tent door and pointed 
 across to the dark bastions and the city beneath 
 — " then, there, and valete et plaudite, as soon as 
 may be !" 
 
 The damp and sickly day was declining, and 
 the English camp shone in a ghostly glare. 
 Alone in his dim tent, with eyes fixed upon the 
 departing light, the sick boy was sitting on his 
 low bed, full of weary thoughts. Suddenly a 
 shadow fell between his eyes and the sun. It 
 was the pale Sister once more. But there was 
 some one else by her side. How often through 
 the glory of battle had he watched with long- 
 ing looks that dim plume which now shook 
 there in his tent door ! How that stern face 
 had haunted his dreams ! Through what fear 
 and doubt he had yearned to be a hero like this 
 famous warrior ! And now — could he speak out 
 his heart face to face with him before he died! 
 He sprang up, and the blood sprang up to his 
 throat and overthrew him. He reeled back ; a 
 dim haze filled his eyes, and a din like roaring 
 waters was in his ears, through which he could 
 
 16
 
 1S2 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 faintly hear the nun say, as she pointed to him, 
 " Behold !" Then the plume seemed to wave 
 like a flame and fade into the darkness which 
 put out the world. 
 
 The general bent at his side. 
 
 "Ah, the smooth brow, the fair Vargrave 
 face, and those eyes, all his mother's. The old 
 things once again. Do not get up," he said, 
 as the boy attempted to do so ; " you are suffer- 
 ing." 
 
 " Sir, I am dying," was the reply. 
 
 "Not so young!" said the Duke. 
 
 " So young ? Yes, and yet I have tangled 
 other lives in the warp and woof of mine. Yes, 
 Duke, very young, and I did not know you, 
 though I have done you a wrong which it is too 
 late to repair. I loved your niece, — loved ? — 
 why, I love her. I seemed born to love her. 
 There was no voice raised in warning of the 
 coming curse, and the blow fell upon us both. 
 This is why I implore your pardon for the great 
 injury done to her, and through her to you, 
 Heaven knows how unwittingly !" 
 
 " Ah, young soldier, but suppose I came to 
 seek, not to grant, pardon ?" 
 
 " Of whom ?" said the boy. 
 
 " Of yourself" 
 
 " Duke, I bear to the tomb not a single re- 
 sentment. There is nothing for me to forgive.
 
 Lncile. 183 
 
 Every act of your great life starts forward to 
 confirm ^x\y heart in its faith in yours. 1 
 believe in Constance as she does in you. There 
 is grief wherever we turn in this world, and 
 yet there sits God, calmly in heaven above ! 
 Do we trust one whit less in his justice ?" 
 
 "Enough!" said the Duke. "At last hear 
 the truth. Your father and I were foes, but 
 why it matters not. My heart buried slain 
 love in hatred. But the present shall acquit the 
 past. In the name of my niece, whom I give 
 you as a hostage, are you great enough to for- 
 give me and live ?" 
 
 A tumultuous joy arose in the young soldier's 
 face. He had risen to answer the Duke, but 
 strength failed him. A strange, happ\- feeble- 
 ness trembled through him. With a cry of 
 rapture he sank on the nun's breast. 
 
 " Yes, boy, thank this guardian angel," the 
 Duke said. " I, and you also, owe her all. Live 
 for her sake, and be true to your young life's 
 promise !" 
 
 " I will live, Duke," he said. " I must live 
 to make my life answer your claim. Joy never 
 kills!" His head sank back upon the nun's 
 breast. She saw his lip quiver, and motioned 
 the Duke to withdraw. He eyed them with a 
 wistful look, then turned and passed out of 
 the tent.
 
 184 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 As he stood outside watching the lurid sun- 
 set and deeply affected by what he had done and 
 seen, Lucile left the tent and came silently to 
 his side. 
 
 " Sceur Seraphine," he said, " are you happy ?" 
 
 " Eugene," she answered, " what can be hap- 
 pier than not to have hoped in vain ? And you ?" 
 
 " Yes," was all he said. 
 
 " You do not repent ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Thank Heaven !" she murmured. 
 
 He looked musingly at the sunset and sighed 
 as though from his very heart. 
 
 " Blessed are they, among whom I am not," 
 he said, " whose unclouded morning predicts a 
 pure evening." 
 
 " But the final question will be," she answered, 
 " not, How did the soul pass through its trials ? 
 but, What is its state at the last ?" 
 
 "May it be so!" he sighed. "There, the sun 
 drops!" and while he spoke all the purple and 
 gold in the west had turned ashen, save one 
 fading strip of light. 
 
 " Nunc dimittis !" she said. " Again we two 
 part, each to work out Heaven's will : you, I 
 trust, in the world's ample witness, and I in 
 secret and silence. We will meet at one gate 
 when all is over." She turned with a sad smile 
 and passed out into the twilight.
 
 
 iG^
 
 GEOKCE ELJOT. 
 
 
 /SSlt
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 16*
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 I. 
 
 Five good souls were grouped in the whitened 
 court of the Moorish tavern, expecting to see 
 the Duke and his soldiers pass by. The trel- 
 lised vines were purpling above their heads 
 as they sat in the shade, noting through the open 
 door the throngs that had come abroad to see 
 the procession. There was Mine Host, with a 
 well-arched nose, soft eyes, and fat hands, with 
 which he caressed Seneca the mastiff, leaning on 
 his knee. There was Blasco, prosperous silver- 
 smith from Aragon; Juan, a spare man who 
 held a lute and chattered like a magpie ; Eol- 
 dan, the juggler, all spangles and rosettes and 
 little else ; and, lastly, there was Eoldan's son, 
 whom his dead wife, the Spanish dancer, had 
 left him. He too had his spangles and large 
 rosettes, to hide his crippled left foot, which was 
 rounded like a hoof But beside these, and by 
 no means to be omitted, there was Annibal, the 
 monkey, who performed tricks and carried 
 
 187
 
 188 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 round the hat : a misanthrope very grim and 
 gray to look upon. 
 
 A braided matting was stretched above their 
 heads, partly rolled back to let in the sky and 
 partly protective of the grapes. A fountain 
 played in the court, where birds occasionally 
 alighted and drank ; and on the stone floor lay 
 the heaped-up goods of Roldan, the juggler : 
 carpet and hoops and a violin and tambourine, 
 among which was perched Annibal, with severe 
 brows and a look of hearty disgust. 
 
 "Hark, there's the trumpet!" cried Juan, 
 near the door-way. " Now the clattering hoofs, 
 and, there comes the banner !" 
 
 Mine Host joined Juan, and leaned far out of 
 the door. 
 
 "The Duke has finished reconnoitring, then," 
 he said. " We shall hear news now. They say 
 he means a sally against El Zagal's Moors as 
 they push home with their booty. Then, when 
 he is joined by the other nobles, he will lay 
 siege to Guadix. Juan, you're a bird who nest 
 in the castle : what say you ?" 
 
 "Nothing!" replied Juan, with eyes on the 
 street. " But here comes the Duke. What 
 feeble shouts they give him ! Some look sour 
 enough, too !" 
 
 " Spain does not hold a more gallant gentle- 
 man," cried Mine Host. " Long live Duke Silva!
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 189 
 
 What a rare smile he has, — it's so seldom seen !" 
 Then turning to Blaseo : " You are a stranger, 
 sir, and cannot know how our Duke's nature 
 suits his princely frame." 
 
 " No," said the silversmith, " but I marked 
 his spurs, — very cunningly chased. Your Duke 
 surely sat well : a true hidalgo ; but you seem 
 to say the people are slack in love towards him." 
 
 "They've nothing against him," said Mine 
 Host, reassuringly, " but certain winds make 
 men's temper bad. There's a wind just now 
 that blows right from Seville " 
 
 " Ay, you mean the wind — that's rather 
 hot " 
 
 " With fagots," explained Mine Host. 
 
 " A wind that does not suit with our towns- 
 men's blood," interposed Juan. 
 
 " We of Saragossa do not like this new tax, I 
 warrant you," said Blaseo: "but," with a cau- 
 tious look about him, " perhaps I speak too 
 bluntly. As for Holy Church, no man believes 
 more." 
 
 " Nay, sir," said Mine Host. " Good Master 
 Roldan here is no delator." 
 
 " You speak to me, sirs ?" said Eoldan, starting 
 from a revery. " I perform to-night in the Plaga 
 Santiago. Twenty tricks, all different. I dance, 
 too. The boy sings like a bird. I crave your 
 patronage."
 
 190 Tales from. Ten Poets. 
 
 " Faith, you shall have it, sir," put in Blasco. 
 '' I take a little freedom in travelling. You did 
 not mark what I said just now?" 
 
 " I ? No. I pray your pardon. My knee 
 twinges and makes it hard for me to listen. 
 You were saying ?" 
 
 "Nay, it was nothing," answered Blasco. 
 Then aside to the host he whispered, " Is it his 
 deepness ?" 
 
 " No, he's deep in nothing but poverty," was 
 the answer in Blasco's ear. 
 
 " Good ! I speak out my mind about the 
 penalties, but I'm against assassination for all 
 that. You know my meaning, — Master Arbues, 
 the grand inquisitor in Aragon. I knew noth- 
 ing, paid nothing towards the deed. But I was 
 there at prayers in the church. How could I 
 help it? I " 
 
 " Looked another way," put in Juan. 
 
 " Why, at my beads," continued Blasco. " It 
 was after midnight. I saw the martyr kneel. 
 I never liked his looks alive, — he was no martyr 
 then. I looked away and told my beads, and 
 across the chantinsj there came a sound as if a 
 tree had crashed above the roar of a torrent. 
 He had a good iron suit beneath the innocent 
 serge, — that made the sound. Then came shrieks 
 and rushing feet, and in the midst Master 
 Arbues lay felled like an ox. It was wicked
 
 The Spamsh Gypsy. 101 
 
 butchery. Some honest men thought it would 
 scare the Inquisition from Aragon. But it was 
 money thrown away, — I should say, crime." 
 
 " That was a pity now," said Mine Host. 
 "There's a high-born Dominican monk hero 
 within the city walls they might have made the 
 mistake to kill." 
 
 " What ! is he T asked Blasco. 
 
 " Yes ; a Master Arbues of finer quality. lie's 
 the Prior here ; uncle to our Duke." 
 
 " He will want plate, then ; a holy pillar or a 
 crucifix," said Blasco, keen for trade. " But did 
 you say he was like Arbues ?" 
 
 " As a black eagle is like a raven," put in 
 Juan. 
 
 Mine Host leaned back in his chair and de- 
 livered an opinion that was meant to be final : 
 
 " Our Father Isidor is — a living saint," he 
 said. " Some think a living saint is a heresy, for, 
 according to the Church, saints should be dead. 
 It would be a sin to detain his soul from bliss, 
 say I, and I've never grudged him the shortest 
 journey to the seventh heaven." 
 
 " Piously said," cried Blasco. " Look you 
 I'm dutiful, always obey the Church — when 
 there's no help for it, — and Pope, Bishop, and 
 all customers order alike." 
 
 Blasco was a little startled by hearing, after 
 this bit of treason, a resonant step on the stones
 
 192 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 and seeing the bronzed face of a soldier come 
 through the door-way. 
 
 " At your service, sirs," he said, with an angu- 
 lar gesture, as he came into their midst. 
 
 " Ha, Captain Lopez !" called out Juan. " You 
 have a face as full charged with tidings as a 
 herald's. What's the latest news from the wars ?" 
 
 " Such news as is most bitter to my tongue," 
 answered the soldier, as he took the seat offered by 
 the landlord and lifted a fresh-filled cup to his lips. 
 
 " Then spit it forth," retorted Juan, thrum- 
 ming his lute carelessly. 
 
 " The news is bad," said he of the sword and 
 spurs. " We are to make no sally ; but sit here 
 and wait whatever the Moor pleases to do." 
 
 " Some townsmen will be glad of that," said 
 Mine Host. 
 
 " Glad, will they be ? Well, so am not I," ex- 
 claimed the Captain. " No Spanish soldier's 
 glad of clean blood. But the Duke has decided 
 to wait a siege instead of laying one. Mean- 
 time, he will marry." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha !" laughed the landlord, shaking 
 his fat sides. "Your speech is like an hour- 
 glass. Turn it down and it will stand just as 
 well. Why not say the Duke means to wed, 
 therefore he will wait a siege ? But what do 
 Don Diego and the Prior say to this?" 
 
 " Oh, there are sayings abroad as thick as
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 193 
 
 overturned nuts. Some say letters from Kome 
 changed the Duke's plans, some from Malaga, 
 some say it is a pretext. Bias said that. Last 
 week he said " 
 
 " I'd as lief be pelted with a pea forever in the 
 same spot as hear such a repetition of saids," 
 interrupted the impatient Juan. 
 
 " Santiago ! but you are hard to please, Juan," 
 exclaimed the Captain. " But I do not speak 
 for my own delight. I can be silent." 
 
 " Nay, speak on, sir," urged Blasco. " I like 
 your matter well. I deal in plate, and the wed- 
 ding therefore touches me closely. Who is the 
 bride?" 
 
 " Her name is Fedalma," went on Lopez with 
 an injured air ; " the Duchess Diana, the Duke's 
 mother, who died last year, gave it to her. They 
 say the Duke stoops in marrying her. That's 
 the simple truth. Father Marcos says she will 
 not confess and avoids holy water; says her 
 blood is infidel ; says the Duke's wedding her 
 is a union of light with darkness." 
 
 "Tush!" from Juan, with a squirm of the 
 body and an emphatic stamp of foot on the 
 stone floor. He had been touching his lute as 
 the soldier spoke, first in a soft arpeggio, then 
 louder and louder, till, as he delivered himself 
 of this exclamation, he struck a chord as sudden 
 as a whip-crack right at Lopez's ear. Mine 
 III.— I n 17
 
 19-t Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Host and Blasco smiled broadly, the mastiff 
 barked, Roldan looked suddenly up, and Annibal, 
 cautiously neutral, looked down. The boy lifted 
 longing and listening eyes, like those of an ex- 
 iled spirit waiting for voices from the distant 
 land it hailed from. Lopez was the only one 
 unmoved. He bore the assault like a rock. 
 
 " If that's a hint," he said to Juan, " the com- 
 pany should ask you for a song, I suppose ?" 
 
 "Ay, sing, Juan," put in Mine Host ; '-some- 
 thing brand-new." 
 
 Juan preluded with a score of desultory 
 notes, then sang, in a voice of fine masculine 
 vibrations, a chanson about the priest's scandal 
 of Fedalma. As he rolled forth the melody 
 there came a constellation of black eyes all 
 about the court. Fat Lola leaned on the bal- 
 cony ; thin Alda leaned over her nodding baby ; 
 little Pepe strained his two black beads of eyes ; 
 while Lorenzo's wife stood patting his head and 
 holding in her arm the senior baby. These 
 were all on the balcony ; but at the door there 
 was a knot of lank boys and men with lazy 
 shoulders who had lounged dreamily within hear- 
 ing of the music. 
 
 When Juan had finished he was urged by 
 Mine Host and the rest to give another ballad, 
 and, nothing loath, sang again. After he had 
 done, Roldan rose quietly from his seat.
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 195 
 
 " Sirs," he said, " you will hear my boy, I hope ? 
 It is very hard when gentles sing for nothing to 
 the whole town. How can a poor man live? 
 We must go to the Plaga now; but who'll give 
 UB pence when he can hear hidalgos for nothing?" 
 
 " I'll sing no more, friend ; be pacified," said 
 Juan. " You go and we'll follow." 
 
 The little group went slowly out, escorted by 
 all the idlers, Annibal, on his master's shoulder, 
 looking gloomier than ever. 
 
 "vShall we go? All of us together?" said 
 Lorenzo, the host, gayly. 
 
 " Well, not I. I'll be there anon," answered 
 the Captain. " There's a strict command that 
 all our Gypsy prisoners shall be lodged in the 
 fort to-night. We shall meet again." 
 
 He went clanking forth, and Blasco called 
 after him, " Go, sir, with God !" Then to the 
 others : " A very proper and soldierly man. 
 But as for this banishment that so many are 
 hot on, it pleases me very little. The Jews are 
 not fit for heaven, but they are most useful on 
 earth, and when God sent the Gypsies wan- 
 dering in punishment for not sheltering Our 
 Lady and Saint Joseph, it is plain he saw the 
 use they would be to the Spaniards. Shall we 
 banish them and tell God we know better? 
 They might serve very well in war to climb 
 and be killed and fall so as to make an easy
 
 196 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 ladder. I once saw a Gypsy sorcerer kill a 
 man who came to seize him : talk of strength ! 
 swiftness, too, — for he vanished ^while we were 
 crossing ourselves like — say, like " 
 
 " Like a swift black snake," suggested Juan, 
 without looking up from his lute. 
 
 " Why, did you see him ?" asked the surprised 
 silversmith. 
 
 " Not then, but now," answered Juan. " We 
 have a Gypsy here in Bedmar whose frame has 
 been so firmly compacted by nature that it 
 would yield a dozen types: all the Spanish 
 knights, every deity, and all hell's heroes 
 writhe like demigods beside him." 
 
 " There, there, Juan, don't pause," laughed 
 Mine Host. " More hyperbole. Shoot upward 
 and flare into meteors before you sink back to 
 the dull brown fact !" 
 
 "Nay, I prefer fact," said Blasco. "What 
 is your Gypsy ?" 
 
 Mine Host took upon himself the office of 
 narrator as being more likely to deal in prose 
 than Juan, 
 
 "He's chieftain of a band who are the Moor's 
 allies," said he. "The Duke surprised them 
 and brought them home as captives a month 
 ago. He needed smiths and got them, and de- 
 prived the Moor of some archers at the same 
 time. Juan's pleasure is to watch them forg-
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 197 
 
 ing and to talk with the chief, who, I'll wager, is 
 nothing more than a piece of stalwart cunning." 
 
 " No !" broke in Juan, lustily. " My inven- 
 tion is too poor to fancy Zarca as I first saw 
 him. He was stripped then. In his chieftain's 
 gear and among his own men he was like a 
 royal barb followed by wild Andalusian colts. 
 He had a necklace of finest gold, and wore fine 
 mail and a rich sword and belt. When they 
 stripped him it was these poor things that lost 
 grace, not he." 
 
 " Maybe," put in the cautious Blasco ; " but 
 nakedness is bad for trade, — then, it's not 
 decent." 
 
 " Faith, wisely said !" cried Mine Host, 
 "Purge your speech, Juan. It's over-full of 
 this Gypsy. Praise the Catholic king, rather. 
 But come now, let us go see this juggler's skill." 
 
 The time of day had come in Bedmar when 
 color glows without glitter and every object 
 bears a silent happiness in the evening light. 
 The Pla^a where the church, once a mosque, 
 stood seemed to widen in the passive air. The 
 ground gently sloped up to the church, which 
 was girdled with low white houses. High 
 above on the hill-tops towered a strong for- 
 tress and the castle wall. The breath of flowers 
 and aromatic leaves spread over the roofs from 
 cool, shadowed patios, and fanned the dark 
 
 17*
 
 198 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 faces clustered about the central spot where 
 Eoldan performed his tricks. 
 
 Gilded balls began to play, and the juggler's 
 form moved in graceful harmony. He was no 
 longer the old Eoldan, dull, hard, and weary ; 
 but, gloriously holding all eyes, he was king of 
 the moment, saving when Annibal divided the 
 scene and played the comic part in mimicry of 
 his master. Pablo stood beside them holding his 
 viol and awaiting the command to begin. 
 
 Juan and Mine Host, with Blasco, came up 
 and found their way into the midst of the 
 crowd. Lorenzo, indeed, knit them all into 
 one family by showing all alike good will and 
 recognition. Juan cast his glance around till 
 it fell upon little Pepita, the blondest maid in 
 all Bedmar, with red hair and a saucy lip and 
 nose. 
 
 The gilded balls soon ceased to play, and 
 Annibal began to leap through the hoops. 
 Then Eoldan spread his carpet and showed 
 strange feats of legerdemain. Next he tum- 
 bled, while Annibal imitated his antics, and as 
 this was going on, Pablo began to play his viol. 
 But, presently, he dropped his bow, as if car- 
 ried away by the music into singing, and 
 poured forth in a wondrous voice a ballad of 
 Spring. He sang again and again, until, at 
 last, some voices shouted, "The dance, the
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 199 
 
 dance !" Then Pablo again took up the bow, 
 and Pepita, as ready as a bird that sees the 
 corn sprinkled, put forth her foot at Juan's 
 nod and smiles and sounded the castanets, 
 which were held ready in her hands. Eoldan, 
 followed by Annibal, gathered pence among 
 the scattering crowd, while the carpet still lay 
 on the ground inviting tiptoeing feet. 
 
 Suddenly, with a gliding motion like a flame, 
 a lithe figure, all robed in white and saffron, 
 flashed across the circle, and paused with up- 
 lifted arms and a regal head in its midst. 
 
 Juan stood fixed and pale. Pepita stepped 
 backward into the ring. The voices fell to 
 more passive tones, half of welcome and half 
 of astonishment. 
 
 " Lady Fedalma !" was the cvy. "Will she 
 dance with us ?" 
 
 Swayed by a passionate impulse and feeling 
 that all life was music, Fedalma moved like 
 Miriam of old in a religious dance on the 
 shore of the Eed Sea. At first a reverent si- 
 lence fell upon the crowd ; but the admiring 
 tension soon found relief in sighs of delight 
 and low murmurs of applause. Even Juan 
 succumbed to the impulse. He took up his 
 lute and struck in with the melody, raised now 
 and again to a clear flood by Pablo's sweet 
 voice, which died away only too soon.
 
 200 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 The exquisite hour, the ardor of the crowd, 
 and the stirring notes of the music all urged 
 Fedalma on. Earth and heaven seemed one 
 to her, and life a gladness trembling on the 
 outer edge of rapture. She moved more and 
 more swiftly, and seemed each moment to glow 
 with a more glorious presence. Circling about, 
 she lightly bent and lifted her tambourine high 
 up, making it ring and boom, then lifted it 
 higher still, stretching her beautiful left arm 
 to the utmost. The crowd shouted exultingly, 
 forgetting poverty and care in the rich moment 
 of possessing her. 
 
 But suddenly, at one point, the throng was 
 pushed and hustled apart and something ap- 
 proached. It was the band of Gypsy prisoners. 
 Soldiers were in front and at the rear, and the 
 gallant Lopez walked aloof, commanding them. 
 The Gypsies were chained in couples, all saving 
 one, and walked in a dark file, with grand bare 
 legs and arms, and a savage melancholy in 
 their eyes that gleamed through their black 
 clouds of hair. They came full into sight at 
 last and stretched to the centre of the open 
 space. Fedalma, with gentle wheeling sweeps, 
 again faced the centre and swung about, her 
 tambourine lifted high in the air. At that 
 moment, with a stupendous throbbing like a 
 solemn voice from the grave, the great passing
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 201 
 
 bell tolled to prayer. At it8 mighty beat the 
 light seemed to sink as if awe-struck. Speech 
 and action paused. Little children gazed with 
 lips parted, and most of the men and women 
 prayed. Not many of the soldiers prayed ; but 
 the Gypsies stood as unmoved as pagan statues 
 with a proud level stare. 
 
 The one who was chained singly, at the head 
 of the file, turned to face Fedalma. She stood 
 motionless with her arm uplifted, guarding the 
 tambourine lest, if it were too suddenly low- 
 ered, its jingle might mar the religious pause. 
 She seemed to reverence the general prayer, 
 though she did not pray herself, but stood gaz- 
 ing into the Gypsy's eyes. Those eyes were like 
 the sadness of the world rebuking her. 
 
 Why does he look at her and she at him ? 
 His knit brow, inflated nostril, and scornful, 
 compressed lips seemed to be a dark hieroglyph 
 of her coming fate. Father Isidor had terrible 
 eyes and was her enemy. She knew it and 
 defied him. But this Gypsy, — was he her 
 enemy too ? She stood quelled. The impetu- 
 ous joy in her veins seemed turned to awe and 
 self-doubt. The brief minute stretched infi- 
 nitely, filled with dreams by a dilated con- 
 sciousness. 
 
 But now it was gone. The pious murmur 
 ceased. The Gypsies moved onward at the
 
 202 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 command of Lopez, and the careless noises 
 blent confusedly away. The ring closed again, 
 and many called for Pablo's music, while all 
 eyes were turned towards the carpet. It lay 
 bare and dim. Twilight was there. The bright 
 lady had departed. 
 
 II. 
 
 Duke Silva had doffed his mail, and with it 
 had laid aside the heavier cares of war. He 
 had not seen Fedalma ; but felt that he had 
 now by hard work in the field earned the joy 
 of wooing her ; and, with the wonted observ- 
 ances of Spanish gentlemen, he sent to ask 
 permission to do her homage. 
 
 As he sat one day in his handsome room in 
 the castle, where among other rich furniture 
 was a table on Which lay a costly jewel-casket, 
 some one knocked, and, being permitted to 
 enter, the Prior of San Domingo came in. 
 
 " You look perturbed, my son," he said, in 
 the grave voice of a priest. " Do I thrust my- 
 self between you and some beckoning intent 
 that wears a more smiling face than my own?" 
 
 " Father, it is enough that you are here," said 
 the Duke. " I await your commands ; indeed, 
 I should have sought an earlier audience." 
 
 "To give, I trust, good reasons for your
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 203 
 
 change of policy." The Pi'ior shot a keen 
 sidelong glance at the Duke. 
 
 " Strong reasons, father," was the answer. 
 
 "Ay, but are they good ones?" urged the 
 Prior. 
 
 "I will submit them to your strict judg- 
 ment," said the Duke. " Late despatches sent 
 by the Count of Bavien, without prompting 
 from me, have made the course which would 
 have been rational peremptory. Without the 
 forces furnished by allies the siege of Guadix 
 would be madness. More than this, El Zagal 
 has his eyes on this very town of Bedmar. In 
 three weeks from this the Master and Lord of 
 Aguilar will bring their forces. We shall catch 
 the Moors in a trap. Those are my reasons, 
 father." 
 
 " And they sound well," returned the Prior. 
 " But rumor adds another : that you, com- 
 manding in the Holy War of God, pray Satan 
 to retard the fight so that you may have time 
 for feasting, — in short, that you may marry. 
 That you, a Spanish duke, mean to wed like a 
 clown !" 
 
 " Rumor grows eloquent on your lips, father," 
 said the Duke, with half a reproach. 
 
 " Is she true ?" persisted the Prior. 
 
 " Perhaps. I justify only my public acts, 
 Dot my private joys," said Duke Silva.
 
 204 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " And yet you boast a conscience that con- 
 trols you and watches your knightly honor," 
 said the ecclesiastic, hotly. " You, a helpless 
 slave, whose will is strangled by lust and blind 
 passion. Oh, a famous conscience, believe me !" 
 
 " Pause there !" cried the Duke, sternly. 
 " More would be too much even from holy lips. 
 I own to no love but such as guards my honor, 
 since it guards hers whom I love. I will suffer 
 no foul words to stain the gift I mean to lay at 
 her feet !" 
 
 "Verse-maker's talk!" exclaimed the Prior. 
 "Your honor safe? Tell me, what honor has 
 a man with double bonds, — a Christian knight 
 married to an infidel?" 
 
 " An infidel !" The Duke spoke menacingly. 
 
 " Who may one day spurn the cross," went 
 on the Prior, heedless of the interruption. 
 "And you call that honor! Apostate's honor? 
 — harlot's chastity ? Iscariot's !" 
 
 " Strong words," said the Duke, " but they 
 cannot scorch me. Fedalma is a daughter of 
 the Church. She has been baptized and brought 
 up in the faith." 
 
 " Ay, as a thousand Jewesses, who, neverthe- 
 less, are brides of Satan." 
 
 " Fedalma is no Jewess !" said the Duke, 
 angrily. 
 
 " But she bears the marks of the unbaptized
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 205 
 
 races," persisted the Prior. " Her blood is as 
 unchristian as the leopard's." 
 
 " Say as unchristian as the Blessed Virgin's 
 before the angel spoke the All hail !" 
 
 The Prior smiled bitterly. 
 
 " Did I not speak the truth ?" he cried. 
 " Your passion already weaves blasphemies ! 
 And because of this woman, who is fit only to 
 make sport for Moorish palaces, — a lewd Hero- 
 dias " 
 
 " Stop !" cried the Duke ; " no other man, 
 priest though he were, would have had his 
 throat left free for the passage of such words ! 
 You think to scare my love from its resolu- 
 tion with bugbear names, as women frighten a 
 child, and after that to profane Fedalma." 
 
 " Oh, there is no need," said the priest, scorn- 
 fully. " She has profaned herself. Go see her 
 dancing even now in the Pla^a." 
 
 " It is false !" roared the Duke. 
 
 " Go prove it false, then." The Prior drew 
 on his cowl and turned away. 
 
 Duke Silva rushed through the corridor to 
 where Fedalma dwelt in the apartments of the 
 old Duchess. He knocked at the door, and re- 
 ceiving no response, opened it, and found the 
 rooms empty. He called, in a muffled voice, 
 " Fedalma," then again, louder, for Ifiez, the 
 trusted nurse, then searched the terrace garden, 
 
 18
 
 206 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 still calling at intervals. There was no answer, 
 and he hurried back, giving orders to pages 
 and ushers, as he went, that they should find 
 the Lady Fedalma at once. He reached his 
 room again, where the priest's menace seemed 
 to linger in the air, snatched his cloak and 
 plumed hat, and, scarce thinking why, grasped 
 his poniard. 
 
 " Here, Perez !" he called ; " hasten to Don 
 Alvar ; tell him Lady Fedalma must be found. 
 She is lost. He must send every way. I my- 
 self am going to seek her in the town." 
 
 As Perez opened the door, then moved aside for 
 the Duke's passage outward, Fedalma entered. 
 
 " Fedalma !" cried the Duke, half in joy that 
 she had returned and yet half in anger at her 
 absence. 
 
 "O my lord!" she said, innocently, "you 
 have come back and I have been wandering !" 
 
 " You meant I should not know it," he said, 
 coldly, but with suppressed agitation. 
 
 " Oh, no ; I should have told you afterwards, 
 as I told you of the birds I set free against 
 your wish, else you would have hindered me," 
 she said, archly. 
 
 The Duke spoke with haughty coldness : 
 
 " Will you tell me what prompting there 
 was stronger than my wish which made you 
 wander?"
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 207 
 
 Fodalma advanced a step towards him with a 
 sudden look of anxiety. 
 
 " Are you angry ?" she said. 
 
 "Angry?" The Duke smiled with bitterness. 
 " A deeply-wounded man may be too much 
 pained to feel anger." 
 
 " You — deeply wounded ?" 
 
 " Have I not made your place and dignity 
 the heart of my ambition, Fedalma? You 
 alone can strike it mortally." 
 
 " No, no, Silva ; some one has deceived you. 
 I only went to see the world with Iflez, — see 
 the town and the people. It was no harm. I 
 did not mean to dance. It happened at 
 last " 
 
 " God, it is true, then ! true that you flung 
 yourself out on the dusty highway for common 
 eyes to see !" 
 
 " Yes, it is true," she said. " The air was 
 filled with music, — there was a song that seemed 
 the voice of the eventide, a glowing light that 
 seemed to be our love, mine and yours, Silva. 
 It trembled through my limbs, and all the 
 people shouted for the dance. I longed to dance 
 before them, — nay, my dear lord, I danced, — . 
 there was no longing. And, once done, you 
 must say it was not wrong. I pray you say 
 so!" 
 Fedalma had gradually drawn near to Don
 
 208 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Silva, and as she spoke these last words, they 
 fell into each other's arms in an embrace of 
 forgiveness. 
 
 " Dangerous rebel !" said the Duke, holding 
 both her hands in his. " If the world without 
 were only as pure as the world within. But, 
 dear, all eyes, even when they look on you, do 
 not shed a blessing." 
 
 " Ah, no, no !" she said, sadly. " I meant to 
 tell you how my dancing came to an end. There 
 was one man among the rest, but he was first, 
 with irons on his limbs. When the bell tolled 
 and the people began to pray and stood, I paus- 
 ing among them, then he looked at me. Oh, 
 Silva, such a man ! I thought he must have 
 risen from the dark place of imprisoned souls 
 to say that Christ had never come to them. 
 His look found me there, — seemed to have trav- 
 elled far to find me and chill my blood with the 
 cold iron of unknown bonds. The joy in my 
 veins was frozen. I danced no more. Who is 
 he, Silva? Who are the prisoners with him? 
 Are they Moors ?" 
 
 '' No, they are Gypsies, — strong and cunning 
 knaves," said the Duke. " The man you mean 
 is their chief He is an ally of the Moors, and 
 they will sorely miss him. Such dread was 
 natural when he turned that savage glance on 
 you. But forget it, dear. This hour is worth
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 209 
 
 whole days when we are apart. Danger urges 
 us to make quick resolutions." 
 
 "What danger?" said Fedalma, with instant 
 alarm. 
 
 " There is a dark enmity that is plotting to 
 part us. Our only defence is a speedy mar- 
 riage. It must be secretly done, then publicly 
 declared. I beseech you, dearest, consent to 
 this and trust me. There is great need. The 
 bishop is my friend and furthers the marriage. 
 Our priest will be despatched from Jaen to- 
 night. I shall march out with a strong escort 
 to meet him. Before the day after to-morrow, 
 if you will, we may be wedded." 
 
 " Must it be in secret ?" 
 
 " Nobody shall know it beforehand but Inez 
 and Don Alva. But when the vows have once 
 been taken, my whole household shall acknowl- 
 edge 5^ou as their duchess. No man can then 
 aim a blow at you except through my breast. 
 There, put the seal of your dear lips upon 
 that." 
 
 She kissed him tenderly and looked earnestly 
 into his eyes. Then breaking away, she stood 
 at a little distance from him with a look of 
 roguish delight. 
 
 " Now I am so glad I saw the town to-day 
 before I became a duchess, — so glad I gave poor 
 Fedalma all her wish !" 
 
 III.— 18*
 
 210 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Don Silva drew her towards the jewel-casket 
 on the table and opened it to her eager eyes. 
 
 " You know these jewels, Fedalma," said he. 
 "They are precious signs of an honor long 
 transmitted and ennobled through the gen- 
 erations by worthy bearing. I give them to 
 you, now, — ask you to take them, — place the 
 trust of our house in your keeping. These 
 rubies, — see " 
 
 Fedalma bent over the casket and looked at 
 the jewels with womanly delight. 
 
 "Ah, I remember them!" she cried. " When 
 I was a child I felt as if they were alive. I 
 used to sit and look at them with awe. Now 
 they will be mine !" She held them up in her 
 ecstasy. " Come, I'll put them on. Help me, 
 my lord." 
 
 Don Silva took up a jewel and placed it 
 against her ear. 
 
 " Let us try," he said. " Take out your ear- 
 ring, sweet." 
 
 She did so, and he put in the jewel. 
 
 " I was right," she said. " These rubies have 
 life in them." 
 
 He was trying in vain to fasten the second 
 ear-ring while she stooped over the casket. 
 She raised her head with a laugh. 
 
 "Your lordly hands can never do it," she 
 said. "Let me try."
 
 The Spanish G-ypsy. 211 
 
 " No, no," he said. " I like the task, but you 
 must be still." 
 
 She stood perfectly still, clasping her hands 
 together. Suddenly a clanking noise was heard 
 outside. She started with an expression of 
 pain. 
 
 "What is that sound, Silva?" she asked. 
 " How cruel and jarring it is ! Listen !" She 
 tried to start away towards the window, but 
 Don Silva detained her. 
 
 " Oh, it is nothing," he said. " Perhaps the 
 workmen in the gallery." 
 
 " It is the sound of fetters !" she said. " Hark ! 
 they are passing along. I know it is those 
 Gypsy prisoners. I saw them and heard their 
 chains. Oh, my lord, do you not wish the 
 world were different ?" 
 
 " When the war is over it will be different, 
 You, yourself, will change it by wedding me, 
 dearest." 
 
 " I shall beg a great deal of kindness from 
 you for those who are less happy," she said, 
 gravely ; then brightening : " Oh, I shall rule 
 you, Silva !" 
 
 She broke away from him and returned to 
 the jewels, taking up a necklace and clasping 
 it about her throat, while he lifted a circlet of 
 diamonds and rubies towards her head. 
 
 " But I shall persist in loving you," he said,
 
 212 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 gayly. " Now take the coronet." He placed 
 the circlet on her head. 
 
 She went to the casket again. " Here is gold, 
 — a necklace of pure gold," she cried. " But you 
 have worn this, my lord ?" 
 
 " No, love," he answered, " I never wore it. 
 Lay it down." Then joining both her hands 
 and holding them up between his own, he said, 
 " Why look at jewels any longer ? Look at 
 me now." 
 
 " Oh, you dear heaven !" she murmured, gaz- 
 ing up at him. " I should see nothing if you 
 were gone !" 
 
 " But I must go this very night," he said. 
 " And will you rise and wait for me at dawn?" 
 
 She nestled into his arms. 
 
 " I shall surely come," he said, " and then we 
 shall be married. Farewell, love." And he 
 kissed her and went away. 
 
 " Poor, poor gems !" she said, looking at the 
 jewels. " Pray you, love me. Let us be 
 glad together. And you, gold," — she took up 
 the gold necklace, — " will you love me, too ? 
 Will you be my amulet to keep me safe from 
 hurtful eyes ?" She spread it out, meaning to 
 clasp it on her neck. Then paused, as if star- 
 tled, and held it before her. " Why, it is mag- 
 ical ! He says he never wore it, yet these 
 twisted lines seem to bring me a message from
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 213 
 
 the dead past. Perhaps I have lived before in 
 some strange world, and all this passionate love 
 and pain are old memories." 
 
 While Fedalma was looking at the necklace 
 Juan had entered unobserved. 
 
 " Seilora," he said in a low voice. 
 
 She started and, gathering the necklace to- 
 gether, turned around. 
 
 " Oh, Juan, it is you !" 
 
 " I met the Duke," Juan explained, " and 
 when he ordered some one to wait on you and 
 carry a burden you would give him, I prayed 
 leave to serve you. Don Silva owes me a score 
 of wishes that I have never claimed, but this 
 one of serving you weighs as much as all the 
 rest together." 
 
 " That sounds well," she said. " You turn 
 your speeches as prettily as your songs." 
 
 " Is not that the Gypsy's necklace ?" He 
 pointed to the jewel in her hand. " How cu- 
 riously it is wrought " 
 
 " The Gypsy's ?" She turned with aston- 
 ishment. " Do you know its history ?" 
 
 " No farther back than when it was taken 
 from the Gypsy chief's neck." 
 
 " What !" she asked, eagerly. " The one I 
 saw in the Pla^a?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Do you know anything about him ?"
 
 214 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " Something and nothing, lady. I have often 
 talked with him. He seems to say much, yet 
 he is a wizard who draws down rain by sprink- 
 ling, — casts out a sharp-hooked question that 
 cannot fail to catch an answer." 
 
 " It's hard that such a man should be chained 
 to work," she said, sadly, 
 
 " Oh, he is dangerous." Juan nodded his head 
 to give emphasis to his words. 
 
 " I thought his eyes showed no hatred," said 
 Fedalma. " If the Gypsies are savage beasts 
 and must be hunted, let them be set free and 
 have the benefit of the chase, or stand at bay 
 and fight for life and their offspring. They 
 may well hate cages as I hate them. I will 
 beg the Duke to release them." 
 
 "'Pardon me, lady," insinuated Juan. *' But 
 what if the Duke does not love to hear of 
 Gypsies ?" 
 
 " Oh, I am brave, and so cunning ! I always 
 prevail. But now, honored Troubadour, if you 
 will be servant to your pupil, carry out this 
 casket — no, not the necklace. liiez will be 
 there." 
 
 Juan went out, and Fedalma again took up 
 the necklace, murmuring over it words which 
 showed anew how deeply its owner's fate had 
 touched her heart. She vowed to herself that, 
 with or without the Duke's consent, he should
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 215 
 
 be free. But the Duke would consent The 
 Duchess Fedalma might do what she would. 
 
 III. 
 
 Fedalma, splendidly dressed and adorned 
 with pearls and rubies, was walking up and 
 down a large chamber opening on a terrace- 
 garden. The trees were visible through the 
 window in the faint moonlight, which also cast 
 a fair halo over the rich interior. Flowers 
 were hanging about the windows, lit up dimly 
 by tapers, while the casket of jewels lay open 
 on a table. She paused by a window to gather 
 some jasmines, then resumed her walk, some- 
 times musing silently, sometimes murmuring 
 her thoughts in low, unconscious words. 
 
 Suddenly something fell behind her. She 
 turned quickly to see what it was. A little 
 bird had fallen on the floor. She took it up 
 and found it still warm. There was a strip of 
 linen tied under its wing. It was streaked 
 with blood she thought at first, then found the 
 stains were written words. They read : 
 
 "Dear child, Fedalma, be brave, give no 
 alarm, — your father comes!" 
 
 She let the bird fall. 
 
 " My father — comes," she said, scarce heed- 
 ing the meaning of the words. She turned 
 in quivering expectation towards the window.
 
 216 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 Nothing was there and all was silent. But in 
 ah instant Zarea appeared. He entered noise- 
 lessly, then stood still at his full height some 
 distance from Fedalma. 
 
 " It is he !" she murmured, in an awe-stricken 
 voice. 
 
 " You know who I am, then ?" he asked. 
 
 " The prisoner I saw in the PlaQa," she said. 
 "And this necklace?" 
 
 " It was played with by your little fingers 
 when it hung about my neck fifteen years ago," 
 he said, gravely yet tenderly. 
 
 Fedalma looked at the necklace, then spoke 
 as if to herself: 
 
 " Fifteen years ago !" 
 
 " The very day I lost you, when you wore a 
 tiny gown of scarlet cloth embroidered with 
 gold. It was clasped in front by two gold 
 coins. The one on the left was split in two 
 right across the king's head. You see I know 
 it all by heart." 
 
 Fedalma grew paler and trembled again. 
 " Yes. It is all true," she said. '• I have the 
 gown, the clasps, the braid, — all true ! but they 
 are sorely tarnished : it was so long ago !" 
 
 " It seems but yesterday to me," said Zarca, 
 " for, till to-day, you have always been as that 
 little child. You were not all stolen. You had 
 a double life fed from my heart."
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 217 
 
 Fedalma let fall the necklace and made an 
 impulsive movement towards him with out- 
 stretched hands. 
 
 He reached his arms to welcome the caress ; 
 but Fedalma drew back before she had touched 
 him. 
 
 " How did you know me — no, I mean, how 
 did you lose me ?" she asked, pathetically. 
 
 " Poor child !" he answered. " Your father 
 and his rags are welcome. That is well." 
 
 Fedalma looked at him with admiration. 
 Her whole heart was moved towards him. 
 
 " I lost you by accident," he went on. " Ma- 
 rauding Spaniards swept like a storm near to 
 our camp, and snatched you up when your 
 nurse, Zino, as she confessed, had gone to the 
 stream for a drink. I never saw you again 
 until you danced in the Plaga to-day, — making 
 sport for your people's enemies." 
 
 " It was not for sport !" she cried, vehemently. 
 "I danced for joy, — for love of the whole world. 
 When you looked at me my joy was stabbed 
 with your pain. " Then with a new impulse : 
 " But how were you sure I was your child?" 
 
 "I had talked with one named Juan. I 
 learned how you had been brought up by the 
 Spaniards, and had grown to such perfection 
 that the Duke had wooed you for his Duchess. 
 Then I knew you were the child that Lambra 
 K 19
 
 218 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 bore me an hour before the Christians had 
 hurried her to death. Therefore I came to 
 claim you, not from the Spaniard, but from 
 yourself." 
 
 Fedalma sank on her knees before him with 
 a low sob. He stooped to kiss her brow and 
 laid his hands on her head. 
 
 " Then my child owns her father ?" he said. 
 
 " Father !" she murmured. " I will eat dust 
 before I deny the flesh I spring from." 
 
 " There spoke my true daughter. Away with 
 these rubies !" He seized the circlet and flunor 
 it on the ground. 
 
 Fedalma started up with strong emotion and 
 shrank backward. 
 
 " Such a crown is infamy around a Zincala's 
 brow !" he cried. 
 
 Fedalma stood silent over against him, gazing 
 into his face. Presently she said, falteringly, — 
 
 " Then — I — was born — a Zincala ?" 
 
 " Of blood as unmixed as virgin juice," he 
 answered, proudly. 
 
 " Of a race more outcast and despised than 
 the Moor or Jew," she muttered. 
 
 " A race never taught by a prophet how to 
 make their name, now but a badge of scorn, a 
 glorious banner to stir the air they breathe 
 with pride. My destiny is to guide them forth 
 to a new land where they shall kindle our
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 219 
 
 first altar-fire from settled hearths. The land 
 is waiting for them, and they await me, their 
 chief, who am a prisoner. All depends on you, 
 my child." 
 
 Fedalma rose and looked solemnly at him, 
 
 " Your child is ready, father !" she said. 
 
 Then she told him how, on the morrow, 
 she was to wed the Duke secretly, and when 
 this was done she would declare her birth 
 before the whole household, and so win his 
 freedom. 
 
 " And the Duke, — he will be your son," she 
 said. "He will send you forth with honors. 
 Then I'll clasp this badge on you before them 
 all and lift my brow for you to kiss. I will crj'' 
 aloud, ' I glory in my father !' " 
 
 Zarca smiled sadly. He showed her how 
 hopeless was such a course, and she drew back 
 discouraged. She mused a little, then spoke 
 what was in her heart. Silva's love for her was 
 stronger than all hate. He could never hate 
 the race which bore what he loved best in the 
 world. To-morrow, after she was married, all 
 the Gypsies should be set free. 
 
 " Too late, my child," said Zarca. " Too poor 
 a service. The woman who hopes to save her 
 tribe must not expect to do it by easy prayers 
 in her lover's ear. You were born in the dark 
 man's tent and lifted up in sight of the whole
 
 220 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 tribe, who greeted you with shouts of joy. 
 Yours is other worli, Fedalma." 
 
 " What work,— what is it you demand of 
 me ?" she asked, in wonder. 
 
 " A fatal deed," he answered. 
 
 A new thought entered her mind. He meant 
 to part her from the Duke. She was sorely 
 distressed, and spoke passionately of her love 
 for him. 
 
 " I know well the first wail of spirits called 
 to a great destiny," said Zarca. "It is in 
 vain, my daughter! Lay the young eagle in 
 whatever nest you may, the cry of the eagles 
 overhead vibrate prophetically through its frame 
 till it spreads its wings and poises itself for 
 flight. This is what you must do. My com- 
 rades are filing off their chains in a low turret 
 by the battlements, where we are locked. We 
 had files hidden in our shaggy hair and ropes in 
 our clothes. I found a friend among the jailers, 
 who loves the Gypsy as ally of the Moor. Now, 
 listen : By yonder terrace there is a narrow 
 stairway cut in the rock. At one point in its 
 straggling course it branches off towards a low 
 wooden door that looks like one piece with the 
 rock. Open that door ; it leads through a broad 
 passage underground a good half-mile out to 
 the open plain. It was made for escape in case 
 of siege. You know the number of the steps
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 221 
 
 that lead to the door, and the secret of the bolt. 
 You will open that door and fly with us." 
 
 Fedalma receded a little and gathered herself 
 up in an attitude of resolution. 
 
 "JS"o, I will never fly," she said. "Never 
 forsake the chief half of my soul where my 
 love lies ! I swear to set you free, but do not 
 ask more than that ; it is impossible. Wait till 
 the morning and I will win your freedom openly. 
 Silva will deny me nothing." 
 
 "Till you ask for what he is powerless to 
 give," said Zarca, contemptuously. "The sol- 
 diers even now murmur that he risks the town 
 to marry a bride too low for him. They'll mur- 
 mur louder if captives like us are freed. Nay, 
 murmurs may turn at last to the dagger, for 
 your Duke has a pious cousin for his heir." 
 
 " Then I will set you free now !" she said, 
 firmly. " It may put my marriage off, but " 
 
 " You cannot free us and go back to him," 
 Zarca said. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I would compel you to go forth." 
 
 " You tell me that ?" 
 
 " Yes ; for I'd have you choose !" 
 
 " 1 owe only a daughter's allegiance, not a 
 slave's," she said, haughtily. 
 
 "You belong to your tribe!" He spoke as a 
 chieftain rather than a father. 
 
 19*
 
 222 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " No ! I belong to him who loves me, and whom 
 Hove!" 
 
 Zarca reproached and mocked her by turns, 
 appealed to her native instincts, and dwelt upon 
 the sufferings of his people left without a leader 
 or an heir to his line. She melted under his 
 fiery Avords and knelt at last, praying him to 
 carry her away by force rather than make her 
 choose. He told her that his thirty followers 
 were assembled outside on the terrace, and that 
 he, her father, waited for her to lead them forth 
 to liberty. 
 
 " Now choose to save or destroy. Say you 
 will curse your race !" he cried. 
 
 " No, no, I will not say it. I will go. I will not 
 take a heaven haunted by shrieks of misery. 
 I can never shrink back into bliss. My heart 
 has grown too big with the things that might 
 be. Some happier bride shall wear these jewels." 
 She sank on a seat and took off the rubies and 
 pearls. " Now, good gems, we are to part," she 
 said. " Speak tenderly of me always to Silva." 
 Then to Zarca : " I will strangle this yearning 
 self, father. I will wed the curse that blights my 
 race. Come now, I am ready." 
 
 But he bade her write to the Duke ; and mur- 
 muring the while that Silva would know, would 
 understand her, she wrote what Zarca sug- 
 gested :
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 223 
 
 " Silva, my only love : he has come, — my 
 father. I am the daughter of a Gypsy chief 
 who means to be the savior of our tribe. He 
 calls on me to live only for his great end ; nay, 
 to die for it. I die in leaving you: all that lives 
 henceforth is the poor Zincala." 
 
 She rose when she had written this. 
 
 " Father, now I am ready to wed my people's 
 lot," she said, sadly. 
 
 " To wed a crown !" he cried. " "We will make 
 our people's lot royal ! Come, my Queen !" 
 
 As she started to go her eye caught her be- 
 trothal ring. 
 
 " Stay," she said ; " one kiss, — farewell ! O 
 love, you were my crown. All others are but 
 thorns on my poor woman's brow." 
 
 lY. 
 
 In a hollow between the hills, far southward 
 from Bedniar, and where the Moorish watch- 
 towers stand like tall white sails on a shadowy 
 green bay, there was a cluster of swarthy little 
 tents such as our fathers raised of old on the 
 Asian plains. They swarmed close together 
 about two taller tents, and in their midst there 
 was busy and bright-eyed life : tall girls feeding 
 goats ; women with babes ; tiny urchins crawl- 
 ing about or gurgling forth their infant gayety ; 
 lads lying sphinx-like on their elbows, their
 
 224 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 black manes tossed back, as they flung up the 
 coin and watched its fall ; others running to 
 l^lague their grandsires, who returned with 
 rabbits slung on their backs, guiding the fruit- 
 laden mules. 
 
 On a pleasant spot somewhat removed from 
 the hubbub lay Juan asleep. The sly maidens of 
 the camp were tiptoeing about him with ill-sup- 
 pressed fun, stealing piece by piece his dis- 
 carded apparel. He awoke at a more audacious 
 sally than usual and looked sleepily about him. 
 The young thieves leaped away, and he threat- 
 ened them without moving. Then at last he 
 took up his lute and played a few notes. The 
 bare brown feet could not resist. But he 
 stopped abruptly, and would not go on until 
 oneof his belongings had been returned. So by 
 alternate playing and stopping he regained his 
 hat, his feather, his belt, his scarf, his buttons, 
 and his rosettes. Then Hinda ran up, crying, 
 " Our Queen, our Queen !" Juan adjusted his 
 garments and his lute, and Fedalma approached, 
 wearing a Moorish dress, her black hair hang- 
 ing around her in plaits, and a dagger at her 
 side. She carried a scarf on her left arm, which 
 she held uj5 as a shade. 
 
 Juan knelt to take up the edge of her cymar, 
 and kissed it. 
 
 '' You look sad, lady," he said.
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 225 
 
 " I am sick at heart, my good Juan, and you 
 are cruel. You choose to hide something I long 
 to know." 
 
 "I, lady?" 
 
 "You! You know how many leagues this 
 camp lies from Bedmar, what mountains are 
 between, and could, if you would, tell me about 
 the Duke : that he is comforted, and sees how 
 he has gained by losing the Zincala, — no, that is 
 false ! He could never think lightly of our love." 
 
 Juan assured her that he knew nothing, that 
 her father trusted no secrets to the echoes, and 
 that of late his movements had been hidden 
 from all. Then the troubadour offered to sing, 
 but she thanked him, saying her soul was 
 clogged with self: she could not listen. 
 
 " Leave me in this green spot, Juan ; but 
 come again with the lengthening shadows." 
 
 As Juan wandered along the stream, there 
 came a ringing shout from the tents. Fedalma 
 rose at once and listened. It was her father. 
 She saw him advancing. When he came near 
 her a sudden sunshine was sent forth from his 
 terrible eyes. He tenderly laid his hand on 
 her shoulder and kissed her brow. 
 
 He told her that he had stolen the time, and 
 
 made a forced march to see her and give her 
 
 tidings of jiromise. Berber ships were to take 
 
 them to Africa, with abundant spoil, won 
 
 III.— P
 
 226 Tales from Ten Foefs. 
 
 bravely by service done on the Spaniards. El 
 Zagal trusted him, rated his counsel high, and 
 desired him to plead his cause in Africa. Thus 
 the Moor was the more willing to further their 
 pilgrimage. 
 
 They talked of the future, which was to be 
 80 brave, to fulfil so many dreams, and of their 
 people, whom they loved ; then, at last, he went 
 from her to the tents to give his orders to 
 Nadar, his lieutenant, before hastening back. 
 
 " The stars and young moon must see me at 
 my post," he said. "But you must rest here. 
 Farewell, my younger self, — shall I live in you 
 when the earth covers me ?" 
 
 " Death should make your will divine to me," 
 she said, fervently. " Kiss me now, and when 
 you see fair hair, oh, be pitiful !" 
 
 He embraced her and strode away. After 
 watching him disappear among the tents, she 
 seated herself on the bank, leaned her head 
 forward, and covered her face with her drapery. 
 
 While she mused thus, a figure came out from 
 the olive-trees and paused at seeing her there, 
 then slowly moved forward with careful steps. 
 A voice said, gently, — 
 
 " Fedalma !" 
 
 Fearing that fancy had overcome her senses, 
 she quivered and rose up, but did not turn. 
 
 " Fedalma, it is Silva !"
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 227 
 
 Then she turned. He beamed on her like 
 morning, with bare head and entreating arms. 
 She paused one instant, then, with a motion as 
 inevitable as a stream's, she found rest on his 
 bosom. 
 
 " O love," she murmured, " you are living and 
 believe in me !" 
 
 " Once more we are together !'' he said, with 
 deep emotion. 
 
 " You did not hate me, then, — think me an 
 ingrate, — that I forsook you ?" 
 
 " Dear, I trusted you as holy men trust in 
 God. You had the less trust, because you sus- 
 pected mine. 'Twas wicked doubt." 
 
 "Nay; when I saw you hating me, the fault 
 seemed in my lot, — my bitter birthright. Then 
 I said, It is better so. He will be happier! 
 But that thought struggling to be a hope ended 
 in tears." 
 
 " It was a cruel thought, Fedalma. Happier ! 
 True misery is not begun until I cease to love 
 you." 
 
 "Silva!" 
 
 They stood a moment or two in silence. 
 
 " But tell me how you came ?" she asked. 
 "Where are your guards? Is there no risk? 
 and — now I look — ^this is a strange garb." 
 
 " I came alone." 
 
 " Alone 1" 
 
 y
 
 228 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " Yes, — fled in secret. There was no other 
 way to find you safely." 
 
 She let one hand fall and moved a little from 
 him with a look of terror. Then he clasped 
 her more firmly with the other arm. 
 
 " Silva !" she murmured, in dread. 
 
 " It is nothing," he returned. " I am here, 
 and that is enough. Now we will cling to- 
 gether, and no power can hinder us !" 
 
 " Our joy is dead and only smiles on us," she 
 sighed. 
 
 " Is your love growing faint, then ?" he asked, 
 half playfully. " Love supreme defies dream- 
 terrors and avenging fires. I have risked all 
 things. But your love is faint-hearted, dearest." 
 
 " Silva," she said, with resolution, " if a naked 
 sword came between us, — if it severed my arm 
 and left our two hands clasped, — even then this 
 poor maimed arm would feel the clasp till death. 
 What parts us is a sword " 
 
 As if in fulfilment of her words a naked 
 blade was on the instant thrust between them. 
 Don Silva let go her hand and grasped his 
 sword. Fedalma started at first, but stood 
 firmly anon, as if prepared to interpose between 
 the combatants. 
 
 It was Zarca, who had stolen up unseen be- 
 hind them, and who now spoke scornfully to 
 the Duke.
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 229 
 
 " Ay, it is a sword baptized in Christian blood 
 that parts the Spaniard and the Zincala. My 
 Lord Duke, I was a guest in your fortress once, 
 against my will. I had entertainment like a 
 galley-slave. Have you come to the Zincala's 
 camp for a fit return ? or to make amends?" 
 
 "Chief," said the Duke, calmly, "I have 
 brought no scorn to answer yours with. I 
 came because love urged me, — love for her 
 whom you call your daughter." 
 
 " Doubtless you bring your men-at-arms for 
 the final ars-ument?" insinuated the chief 
 
 " I came alone," said Don Silva, fearlessly. 
 "The only force I bring with me is tenderness." 
 
 Thus, with manly simplicity and courage on 
 the one side and fierce suspicion on the other, 
 the two enemies continued their colloquy, half 
 forgetful of the innocent cause of it, who stood 
 at their side. Don Silva at last grew passionate 
 in his appeal. 
 
 "This sweet virgin," he cried, "reared like 
 the garden flowers to give the sordid world a 
 glimpse of perfection, — you snatch her away 
 and thrust her out in dreary wilds, — and for 
 what? You say you would be the savior of 
 your tribe, — say, rather, you have the will to 
 save men by ruling them, and the first wound 
 you make with that flinty will is a gash in your 
 own child's bosom !" 
 
 20
 
 230 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " You are loud, my lord," said the Gypsy, 
 with calm irony. " You have a heart, — I, none. 
 Fedalma's good is what you care for, while I 
 seek her ruin. She is my only offspring. If 
 she can leave her tribe for silken shame, then 
 let her go ! Now choose, Fedalma !" 
 
 Her choice was made slowly as her father 
 spoke. She moved from where she stood be- 
 tween them with pleading hands, to choose the 
 sublime pain of duty. She was wrought upon 
 by awe. Her own brief Hfe seemed but a little 
 island very remote through the visions of the 
 wide world about it. She stood apart from 
 both, yet near her father, 
 
 " My lord, farewell," she said, tenderly. " It 
 was well we met once again. Now we must 
 part. I think we had the whole of love's joy 
 in knowing we loved each other." 
 
 " I thought we loved with a love that clings 
 till death," he said, with imploring arms 
 stretched out, 
 
 "Silva," she murmured, "it is fate. Fare- 
 well, dear ; I must go to my people." 
 
 She reached forth the tender hands which 
 had so often lain in his ; but he stood as still as 
 death. The chief was silent and unchangeable, 
 
 " No," said Silva, at last. " I can never take 
 those hands and then let them go forever," 
 
 " It must be," she said.
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 231 
 
 " My Lord Duke," broke in the impatient chief, 
 " I have given room for speech, because I de- 
 sired my daughter shoukl make her own choice. 
 But now all further words are idle. You are 
 here with the safe-conduct of the trust you 
 showed us in coming unguarded, but you 
 must now accept our escort back to the Moor- 
 ish bounds." 
 
 " I faced all risks to find Fedalma," said the 
 Duke, "and I here declare that I choose to 
 abide with her and adopt her lot, only claiming 
 fulfilment of her vows to be my wife." 
 
 Fedalma wrestled herself from her father 
 and stood opposite the Duke with a look of 
 terror. 
 
 "No, Silva, no!" she cried. "You could not 
 live so. You shall not spring from your high 
 place !" 
 
 " Yes, I have said it !" he replied, deliberately ; 
 then turning to Zarca: "And you, chief, are 
 bound by her vows !" 
 
 The chief was softened by the Duke's noble 
 purpose ; yet he painted in grim colors all the 
 hazards and sacrifices of the lot he had chosen. 
 Nothing, however, could shake Silva's resolu- 
 tion. His heart swayed all things, and his 
 heart was given to Fedalma. 
 
 When Zarca had exhausted all his arguments 
 of dissuasion, he strode towards the camp to
 
 232 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 prepare his followers for the ceremony of ad- 
 mitting Don Silva to their fellowship. The 
 Duke caught Fedalma's hands ; but she seemed 
 dazed by what he had spoken, and pleaded with 
 him to retreat while there was time. But his 
 resolution was fixed. Life, he said, would be 
 no gain to him if he were robbed of her. He 
 would go straight to the Moorish walls, chal- 
 lenge their bravest, and seek death. 
 
 As they talked together in a calmer mood, 
 the chief approached, bringing his swarthy 
 followers. When their ceremonies were finished, 
 Don Silva solemnly took the vows and was 
 adopted into the tribe. 
 
 V. 
 
 There was a great crowd of soldiers and 
 towns-people in the Pla^a Santiago at Bedmar, 
 They gathered about the central space, but on 
 the higher ground in front of the church there 
 was a stake with fagots heaped around it, and 
 a gibbet. As the crowd swayed impatiently 
 back and forth, the chief, Zarca, came into its 
 midst accompanied by a small band of armed 
 Zincali. He wore the Gypsy badge over the 
 dress of a Moorish captain. The Moorish king, 
 in whose service the chief had borne arms at 
 the capture of Bedmar, had given him com- 
 mand of the town and fort.
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 233 
 
 Zarca addressed the throng, and swayed them 
 with a fiery eloquence. He appealed to their 
 hatred of the Duke and of Father Isidor. They 
 greeted him with huzzas and cries of " Long 
 life to Zarca !" 
 
 In the midst of the cheering Nadar appeared, 
 and advanced towards his chief till he was near 
 enough to speak with him in an undertone. 
 He told Zarca he had obeyed his commands, 
 that he had brought his band and the Spanish 
 prisoner. 
 
 " But the sleek hound who slipped his collar 
 off to join the wolves " growled Nadar. 
 
 " What of him ?" 
 
 " He is raging at the fall of the town ; says 
 all his friends are butchered. I'd sooner be the 
 dog of a murdered Gypsy and howl for him, 
 than be this Duke !" 
 
 " There ! Enough !" said the chief " Did 
 you give him my command to wait in the 
 castle till I saw him ?" 
 
 " Yes ; but he defied me, and broke away. 
 He may soon be here. I came to warn you. 
 He will surely work us harm !" 
 
 " Do not fear," said Zarca. " The road I 
 travel by has no surprises. But you were right, 
 Nadar, for here he comes." The chief pointed 
 across the crowd to Silva, who approached 
 bareheaded, carrying an unsheathed sword. 
 
 20*
 
 234 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 The Gypsy badge was still on his breast where 
 he was wont to wear the cross. He came on- 
 ward as if driven by some invisible chase, 
 straight to Zarca. 
 
 " Chief, you are treacherous, cruel !" he cried. 
 " It was a bitter wrong to conceal this from 
 me, to stand with waking eyes and see me shed 
 the blood of my kin in a dream. You never 
 warned me that you were allied with the Moor 
 to take my town, slay the heir of my house, and 
 my friend and chosen brother. You have dese- 
 crated the ver}^ church where my mother once 
 held me in her arms !" 
 
 " I warned you of the consequences of your 
 oath and you did not shrink," answered Zarca. 
 " I am no priest to keep consciences. I keep 
 my own place and my own command. Should 
 I, because of one unstable Spaniard, quit my 
 ends, renounce my daughter and the hope of 
 my people ?" 
 
 " Your daughter !" wailed the Duke. " Oh, 
 great God ! I am mad. The past will never 
 change. Chief, — this stake. Tell me who is to 
 die ! The town is yours. Let me save my " 
 
 " Peace !" cried Zarca. " Here is the prisoner." 
 
 Every one turned to see him. It was Father 
 Isidor. He was bareheaded and frocked ; but 
 a rope was around his neck. He bore a cru- 
 cifix in his hand, and gazed eai'uestly on it, his
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 235 
 
 lips moving in constant prayer. His guards 
 parted in front and paused as they approached 
 the centre where the stake was. He lifted his 
 eyes then to look around him, calmly prepared 
 to speak his last words of willingness to die. 
 But his glance met Silva's, and it drew him 
 from his holy contemplation. Silva moved for- 
 ward in penitence, and would have knelt before 
 the man who was still one with all the sacred 
 things that now came back upon him. But the 
 Father would not permit him to kneel. He 
 thrust the cross, with a deprecating gesture, 
 before the Duke, and his pale face flashed forth 
 a horror at Silva's act. 
 
 " Back from me, defile mo not !" he cried. 
 " Thou foulest murderer ! Fouler than Cain, for 
 thou hast opened the gate for wolves to come 
 through and tear the weak and strong alike. I 
 warned you of this end. Oh, most wretched 
 mortal ! whose memory shall be of oaths broken 
 for lust. I turn my eyes forever from you. The 
 stake is ready. I also am ready." 
 
 " It shall never be !" cried the Duke. He raised 
 his sword and rushed in front of the guards, who 
 were advancing. " If you are human, chief, 
 hear my demand !" 
 
 " Stand aside ! Put up your sword !" said 
 Zarca. " You vowed obedience to me as j'our 
 chief. It was your latest vow."
 
 236 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 " ]^o ! If he must burn, hew me from the 
 spot ! Fasten me among the fagots !" 
 
 " His fate is fixed !" said Zarca, with an im- 
 perious wave of the hand to the Gypsy guard. 
 They closed about the Prior and led him up to 
 the gibbet behind the chief. 
 
 Then Silva sheathed his weapon. He strode 
 up to Zarca and proudly demanded to suffer in 
 place of the priest. 
 
 " Slake your hate upon me," he cried, " and 
 I will thank you." 
 
 " I am your chief," said Zarca. " I do not 
 hate you. To me you are but a Zincala in 
 revolt." 
 
 " I am no Zincala ! I took the name in 
 madness ! I disown it ! Look ! I tear this 
 badge away. I am a Catholic knight, a Span- 
 iard who will die like a Spaniard !" 
 
 As the Duke tore off the badge and trampled 
 it under his feet, he heard a shout which ar- 
 rested his fury. He could not tell whether it 
 bore him a threat or not ; but he looked up 
 with joy, seeking a foe to wreak his rage upon. 
 His eye caught the form of Father Isidor 
 swinging aloft in convulsive throes. Then he 
 knew the shout to be the exultation of the crowd 
 over the death of a malefactor, and, in his fevered 
 mind, the white-froeked body served to accuse 
 him of murder. It was a symbol of his guilt,
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 237 
 
 and stirred tremors within him until then dor- 
 mant. 
 
 With a sudden snatch at something hidden 
 in his breast, he bore down upon the chief. 
 Zarca fell under his impetuous thrust. The 
 Duke heard neither the Gypsies shriek nor felt 
 their fierce grasp. As he staggered back, Zarca's 
 words were alone audible to him. 
 
 " Call my daughter !" he groaned as he fell. 
 
 Nadar rushed to the chief's side and held 
 him in his arms. 
 
 "Tie the Spaniard to the stake!" he cried, 
 as the Gypsies leaped upon Silva. 
 
 They swiftly did as the Lieutenant com- 
 manded, then gathered about their fallen leader, 
 hushed and eager to save the life so precious 
 to their cause. The outer circle spoke only 
 in low murmurs. Some climbed to perilous 
 places, striving to see where the colossal life lay 
 panting away. 
 
 The morning cast its blue shadows across the 
 white walls above, and with a clear-cut line 
 as relentless as the dial-hands, measured the 
 shrinking hours. All the while the silent time- 
 beat in each heart ached in deep pulsations. 
 
 Suddenly the outer crowd moved open and a 
 cry went up : 
 
 " She is coming ! She is coming !" 
 
 As swiftly as on that evening not so long
 
 238 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 ago, when she had danced there, Fedalma came 
 rapidly across the square. But now it was 
 woe that brought her. She had divined all : 
 the stake with the Duke bound upon it; her 
 father wounded on the ground. She was born 
 to this, she thought. Her father summoned her 
 a second time to her life-task. 
 
 She knelt down by Zarca. He raised him- 
 self, and his eyes flashed upon her face a light 
 as from a waning star which flames out anew 
 in dissolution. 
 
 "My daughter," he said, painfully, "you 
 have promised, — you will live only to save our 
 people ? I carry here" — he pointed to his 
 bosom — " written pledges from the Moor that 
 he will keep faith in Spain and Africa. Your 
 weakness may be stronger than my strength. 
 You will win more love. I cannot tell what 
 the end will be, I held my people's good in 
 my heart. Now I deliver it to you. Else up 
 and tell our people that I wait — in pain. I can- 
 not die until 1 hear them vow to obey you." 
 
 She pressed her lips solemnly on his brow as 
 if to seal her pledges. Then she rose firmly 
 and met her people's eyes with a gaze flashing 
 as darkly as their own. 
 
 " Your chief is dying !" she said in a clear 
 voice. " I, his daughter, live to do his will. 
 Ho asks you to promise now to obey me, your
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 239 
 
 queen, that we may gain the land he has won 
 for us." 
 
 A shout of assent arose which sharpened into 
 cries that seemed to plead with death. 
 
 " We will obey our queen ! Our chief shall 
 not die !" and they pressed about her, striving 
 to kiss the hem of her gown. She raised a hand 
 to quiet them. 
 
 " Hush ! Your chief speaks !" 
 
 Zarca grasped at Nadai-'s arm and spoke 
 loud, like one who has fought and conquered. 
 
 "Let the Spaniard loose! Give him his 
 sword. He cannot do more vengeance. His 
 soul is locked between two opposing crimes." 
 
 Having uttered this, the chief sank back 
 again, his breast heaving violently. 
 
 " My daughter," he groaned, " lay your arm 
 under my head — so ; bend and breathe on me. 
 I cannot see you. Night has come. Be strong 
 — remember — I can only — die." 
 
 His voice went out into silence, but his 
 breast continued to heave and moan. Its 
 broad strength kept a life that saw and heard 
 nothing saving what once had been and what 
 might be in days and realms far onward. She 
 bent above him unceasingly, though she knew 
 that hurrying feet had gone to do his behest. 
 In her soul she felt that he who had been its 
 lord was being jarred with loosened cords, but
 
 240 Tales from Ten Poets. 
 
 these could never relax the torture of his 
 anguish. She knelt there clinging with piety 
 and awed resolution beside this altar of her 
 father's life, seeing long travel under the solemn 
 sun stretch beyond it. She never turned her 
 eyes, yet she felt that Silva passed by her. She 
 beheld his face, vivid and pale, imploring her 
 across fathomless black waters. 
 
 As the Duke passed the Gypsies made a wide 
 pathway and shrank aloof from him, as if they 
 dreaded to touch a thing they hated. Hate, 
 growing triumphant, and mastering them, 
 might tear and crush in spite of the hindering 
 will. He walked slowly, as if reluctant to be 
 safe and bear a dishonored life, which nobody 
 assailed. The Pla^a was silent, as if it had 
 hushed itself to hear his footsteps and the 
 chiefs dying breath. And yet he could not 
 pass without pausing an instant to look at 
 her. With a glance at her averted head he 
 turned and went away, carrying with him for- 
 ever her murdered love. 
 
 END OP BOOK III.
 
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