• But Aloÿse still paused. Thereon
• Amelotte gathered voice
• In somewise from the torpid fear
• Coiled round her spirit. Low but clear
• 420 She said: ‘Speak, sister; for I hear.’

• But Aloÿse threw up her neck
• And called the name of God:—
• ‘Judge, God, 'twixt her and me to-day!
• She knows how hard this is to say,
• Yet will not have one word away.’

• Her sister was quite silent. Then
• Afresh:—‘Not she, dear Lord!
• Thou be my judge, on Thee I call!’
• She ceased,—her forehead smote the wall:
• 430 ‘Is there a God,’ she said, ‘at all?’

• Amelotte shuddered at the soul,
• But did not speak. The pause
• Was long this time. At length the bride
• Pressed her hand hard against her side,
• And trembling between shame and pride

• Said by fierce effort: ‘From that night
• Often at nights we met:
• That night, his passion could but rave:
• The next, what grace his lips did crave
• 440 I knew not, but I know I gave.’

• Where Amelotte was sitting, all
• The light and warmth of day
• Were so upon her without shade,
• That the thing seemed by sunshine made
• Most foul and wanton to be said.

• She would have questioned more, and known
• The whole truth at its worst,
• But held her silent, in mere shame
• Of day. 'Twas only these words came:—
• 450 ‘Sister, thou hast not said his name.’

• ‘Sister,’ quoth Aloÿse, ‘thou know'st
• His name. I said that he
• Was in a manner of our kin.
• Waiting the title he might win,
• They called him the Lord Urscelyn.’

• The bridegroom's name, to Amelotte
• Daily familiar,—heard
• Thus in this dreadful history,—
• Was dreadful to her; as might be
• 460 Thine own voice speaking unto thee.

• The day's mid-hour was almost full;
• Upon the dial-plate
• The angel's sword stood near at One.
• An hour's remaining yet; the sun
• Will not decrease till all be done.

• Through the bride's lattice there crept in
• At whiles (from where the train
• Of minstrels, till the marriage-call,
• Loitered at windows of the wall,)
• 470 Stray lute-notes, sweet and musical.

• They clung in the green growths and moss
• Against the outside stone;
• Low like dirge-wail or requiem
• They murmured, lost 'twixt leaf and stem:
• There was no wind to carry them.

• Amelotte gathered herself back
• Into the wide recess
• That the sun flooded: it o'erspread
• Like flame the hair upon her head
• 480 And fringed her face with burning red.

• All things seemed shaken and at change:
• A silent place o' the hills
• She knew, into her spirit came:
• Within herself she said its name
• And wondered was it still the same.

• The bride (whom silence goaded) now
• Said strongly,—her despair
• By stubborn will kept underneath:—
• ‘Sister, 'twere well thou didst not breathe
• 490 That curse of thine. Give me my wreath.’

• ‘Sister,’ said Amelotte, ‘abide
• In peace. Be God thy judge,
• As thou hast said—not I. For me,
• I merely will thank God that he
• Whom thou hast lovèd loveth thee.’

• Then Aloÿse lay back, and laughed
• With wan lips bitterly,
• Saying, ‘Nay, thank thou God for this,—
• That never any soul like his
• 500 Shall have its portion where love is.’

• Weary of wonder, Amelotte
• Sat silent: she would ask
• No more, though all was unexplained:
• She was too weak; the ache still pained
• Her eyes,—her forehead's pulse remained.

• The silence lengthened. Aloÿse
• Was fain to turn her face
• Apart, to where the arras told
• Two Testaments, the New and Old,
• 510 In shapes and meanings manifold.

• One solace that was gained, she hid.
• Her sister, from whose curse
• Her heart recoiled, had blessed instead:
• Yet would not her pride have it said
• How much the blessing comforted.

• Only, on looking round again
• After some while, the face
• Which from the arras turned away
• Was more at peace and less at bay
• 520 With shame than it had been that day.

• She spoke right on, as if no pause
• Had come between her speech:
• ‘That year from warmth grew bleak and pass'd;’
• She said; ‘the days from first to last
• How slow,—woe's me! the nights how fast!’

• ‘From first to last it was not known:
• My nurse, and of my train
• Some four or five, alone could tell
• What terror kept inscrutable:
• 530 There was good need to guard it well.

• ‘Not the guilt only made the shame,
• But he was without land
• And born amiss. He had but come
• To train his youth here at our home
• And, being man, depart therefrom.

• ‘Of the whole time each single day
• Brought fear and great unrest:
• It seemed that all would not avail
• Some once,—that my close watch would fail,
• 540 And some sign, somehow, tell the tale.

• ‘The noble maidens that I knew,
• My fellows, oftentimes
• Midway in talk or sport, would look
• A wonder which my fears mistook,
• To see how I turned faint and shook.

• ‘They had a game of cards, where each
• By painted arms might find
• What knight she should be given to.
• Ever with trembling hand I threw
• 550 Lest I should learn the thing I knew.

• ‘And once it came. And Aure d'Honvaulx
• Held up the bended shield
• And laughed: “Gramercy for our share!—
• If to our bridal we but fare
• To smutch the blazon that we bear!”

• ‘But proud Denise de Villenbois
• Kissed me, and gave her wench
• The card, and said: “If in these bowers
• You women play at paramours,
• 560 You must not mix your game with ours.”

• ‘And one upcast it from her hand:
• “Lo! see how high he'll soar!”
• But then their laugh was bitterest;
• For the wind veered at fate's behest
• And blew it back into my breast.

• ‘Oh! if I met him in the day
• Or heard his voice,—at meals
• Or at the Mass or through the hall,—
• A look turned towards me would appal
• 570 My heart by seeming to know all.

• ‘Yet I grew curious of my shame,
• And sometimes in the church,
• On hearing such a sin rebuked,
• Have held my girdle-glass unhooked
• To see how such a woman looked.

• ‘But if at night he did not come,
• I lay all deadly cold
• To think they might have smitten sore
• And slain him, and as the night wore,
• 580 His corpse be lying at my door.

• ‘And entering or going forth,
• Our proud shield o'er the gate
• Seemed to arraign my shrinking eyes.
• With tremors and unspoken lies
• The year went past me in this wise.

• ‘About the spring of the next year
• An ailing fell on me;
• (I had been stronger till the spring;)
• 'Twas mine old sickness gathering,
• 590 I thought; but 'twas another thing.

• ‘I had such yearnings as brought tears,
• And a wan dizziness:
• Motion, like feeling, grew intense;
• Sight was a haunting evidence
• And sound a pang that snatched the sense.

• ‘It now was hard on that great ill
• Which lost our wealth from us
• And all our lands. Accursed be
• The peevish fools of liberty
• 600 Who will not let themselves be free!

• ‘The Prince was fled into the west:
• A price was on his blood,
• But he was safe. To us his friends
• He left that ruin which attends
• The strife against God's secret ends.

• ‘The league dropped all asunder,—lord,
• Gentle and serf. Our house
• Was marked to fall. And a day came
• When half the wealth that propped our name
• 610 Went from us in a wind of flame.

• ‘Six hours I lay upon the wall
• And saw it burn. But when
• It clogged the day in a black bed
• Of louring vapour, I was led
• Down to the postern, and we fled.

• ‘But ere we fled, there was a voice
• Which I heard speak, and say
• That many of our friends, to shun
• Our fate, had left us and were gone,
• 620 And that Lord Urscelyn was one.

• ‘That name, as was its wont, made sight
• And hearing whirl. I gave
• No heed but only to the name
• I held my senses, dreading them,
• And was at strife to look the same.

• ‘We rode and rode. As the speed grew,
• The growth of some vague curse
• Swarmed in my brain. It seemed to me
• Numbed by the swiftness, but would be—
• 630 That still—clear knowledge certainly.

• ‘Night lapsed. At dawn the sea was there
• And the sea-wind: afar
• The ravening surge was hoarse and loud,
• And underneath the dim dawn-cloud
• Each stalking wave shook like a shroud.

• ‘From my drawn litter I looked out
• Unto the swarthy sea,
• And knew. That voice, which late had cross'd
• Mine ears, seemed with the foam uptoss'd:
• 640 I knew that Urscelyn was lost.

• ‘Then I spake all: I turned on one
• And on the other, and spake:
• My curse laughed in me to behold
• Their eyes: I sat up, stricken cold,
• Mad of my voice till all was told.

• ‘Oh! of my brothers, Hugues was mute,
• And Gilles was wild and loud,
• And Raoul strained abroad his face,
• As if his gnashing wrath could trace
• 650 Even there the prey that it must chase.

• ‘And round me murmured all our train,
• Hoarse as the hoarse-tongued sea;
• Till Hugues from silence louring woke,
• And cried: “What ails the foolish folk?
• Know ye not frenzy's lightning-stroke?”

• ‘But my stern father came to them
• And quelled them with his look,
• Silent and deadly pale. Anon
• I knew that we were hastening on,
• 660 My litter closed and the light gone.

• ‘And I remember all that day
• The barren bitter wind
• Without, and the sea's moaning there
• That I first moaned with unaware,
• And when I knew, shook down my hair.

• ‘Few followed us or faced our flight:
• Once only I could hear,
• Far in the front, loud scornful words,
• And cries I knew of hostile lords,
• 670 And crash of spears and grind of swords.

• ‘It was soon ended. On that day
• Before the light had changed
• We reached our refuge; miles of rock
• Bulwarked for war; whose strength might mock
• Sky, sea, or man, to storm or shock.

• ‘Listless and feebly conscious, I
• Lay far within the night
• Awake. The many pains incurred
• That day,—the whole, said, seen or heard,—
• 680 Stayed by in me as things deferred.

• ‘Not long. At dawn I slept. In dreams
• All was passed through afresh
• From end to end. As the morn heaved
• Towards noon, I, waking sore aggrieved,
• That I might die, cursed God, and lived.

• ‘Many days went, and I saw none
• Except my women. They
• Calmed their wan faces, loving me;
• And when they wept, lest I should see,
• 690 Would chaunt a desolate melody.

• ‘Panic unthreatened shook my blood
• Each sunset, all the slow
• Subsiding of the turbid light.
• I would rise, sister, as I might,
• And bathe my forehead through the night

• ‘To elude madness. The stark walls
• Made chill the mirk: and when
• We oped our curtains, to resume
• Sun-sickness after long sick gloom,
• 700 The withering sea-wind walked the room.

• Through the gaunt windows the great gales
• Bore in the tattered clumps
• Of waif-weed and the tamarisk-boughs;
• And sea-mews, 'mid the storm's carouse,
• Were flung, wild-clamouring, in the house.

• ‘My hounds I had not; and my hawk,
• Which they had saved for me,
• Wanting the sun and rain to beat
• His wings, soon lay with gathered feet;
• 710 And my flowers faded, lacking heat.

• ‘Such still were griefs: for grief was still
• A separate sense, untouched
• Of that despair which had become
• My life. Great anguish could benumb
• My soul,—my heart was quarrelsome.

• ‘Time crept. Upon a day at length
• My kinsfolk sat with me:
• That which they asked was bare and plain:
• I answered: the whole bitter strain
• 720 Was again said, and heard again.

• ‘Fierce Raoul snatched his sword, and turned
• The point against my breast.
• I bared it, smiling: “To the heart
• Strike home,” I said; “another dart
• Wreaks hourly there a deadlier smart.”

• ‘'Twas then my sire struck down the sword,
• And said with shaken lips:
• “She from whom all of you receive
• Your life, so smiled; and I forgive.”
• 730 Thus, for my mother's sake, I live.

• But I, a mother even as she,
• Turned shuddering to the wall:
• For I said: “Great God! and what would I do,
• When to the sword, with the thing I knew,
• I offered not one life but two!”