• ‘Sister,’ said busy Amelotte
• To listless Aloÿse;
• ‘Along your wedding-road the wheat
• Bends as to hear your horse's feet,
• And the noonday stands still for heat.’

• Amelotte laughed into the air
• With eyes that sought the sun:
• But where the walls in long brocade
• Were screened, as one who is afraid
• 10 Sat Aloÿse within the shade.

• And even in shade was gleam enough
• To shut out full repose
• From the bride's 'tiring-chamber, which
• Was like the inner altar-niche
• Whose splendour dimness worship has made rich.

• Within the window's heaped recess
• The light was counterchanged
• In blent reflexes manifold
• From perfume-caskets of wrought gold
• 20 And gems the bride's hair could not hold

• All thrust together: and with these
• A slim-curved lute, which now,
• At Amelotte's sudden passing there,
• Was swept in somewise unaware,
• And shook to music the close air.

• Against the haloed lattice warm
• The bridesmaid sunned her breast;
• Then to the glass turned tall and free,
• And braced and shifted daintly
• 30 Her loin-belt through her côte-hardie.

• The belt was silver, and the clasp
• Of lozenged arm-bearings;
• A world of mirrored tints minute
• The rippling sunshine wrought into 't,
• That flushed her hand and warmed her foot.

• At least an hour had Aloÿse,—
• Her jewels in her hair,—
• Her white gown, as became a bride,
• Quartered in silver at each side,—
• 40 Sat thus aloof, as if to hide.

• Over her bosom, that lay still,
• The vest was rich in grain,
• With close pearls wholly overset:
• Around her throat the fastenings met
• Of chevesayle and mantelet.

• Her arms were laid along her lap
• With the hands open: life
• Itself did seem at fault in her:
• Beneath the drooping brows, the stir
• 50 Of thought made noonday heavier.

• Long sat she silent; and then raised
• Her head, with such a gasp
• As while she summoned breath to speak
• Fanned high that furnace in the cheek
• But sucked the heart-pulse cold and weak.

• (Oh gather round her now, all ye
• Past seasons of her fear,—
• Sick springs, and summers deadly cold!
• To flight your hovering wings unfold,
• 60 For now your secret shall be told.

• Ye many sunlights, barbed with darts
• Of dread detecting flame,—
• Gaunt moonlights that like sentinels
• Went past with iron clank of bells,—
• Draw round and render up your spells!)

• ‘Sister,’ said Alo y ÿse,‘I had
• A thing to tell thee of
• Long since, and could not. But do thou
• Kneel first in prayer awhile, and bow
• 70 Thine heart, and I will tell thee now.

• Amelotte wondered with her eyes;
• But her heart said in her:
• Dear Alo y ÿse would have me pray
• Because the awe she feels to-day
• Must need more prayers than she can say.’

• So Amelotte put by the folds
• That covered up her feet,
• And knelt,—beyond the arras'd gloom
• And the hot window's dull perfume,—
• 80 Where day was stillest in the room.

• ‘Queen Mary, hear,’ she said, ‘and say
• To Jesus the Lord Christ,
• This bride's new joy, which He confers,
• New joy to many ministers,
• And many griefs are bound in hers.’

• The bride turned in her chair, and hid
• Her face against the back,
• And took her pearl-girt elbows in
• Her hands, and could not yet begin,
• 90 But shuddering, uttered, ‘Urscelyn!’

• Most weak she was; for as she pressed
• Her hand against her throat,
• Along the arras she let trail
• Her face, as if all heart did fail,
• And sat with shut eyes, dumb and pale.

• Amelotte still was on her knees
• As she had kneeled to pray.
• Deeming her sister swooned, she thought,
• At first, some succour to have brought , ;
• 100 But Alo y ÿse rocked, as one distraught.

• She would have pushed the lattice wide
• To gain what breeze might be;
• But marking that no leaf once beat
• The outside casement, it seemed meet
• Not to bring in more scent and heat.

• So she said only: ‘Alo y ÿse,
• Sister, when happened it
• At any time that the bride came
• To ill, or spoke in fear of shame,
• 110 When speaking first the bridegroom's name?’

• A bird had out its song and ceased
• Ere the bride spoke. At length
• She said: ‘The name is as the thing:—
• Sin hath no second christening,
• And shame is all that shame can bring.

• ‘In divers places more than once
• I would have told thee this;
• But faintness took me, or a fit
• Like fever. God would not permit
• 120 That I should change thine eyes with it.

• ‘Yet once I spoke, hadst thou but heard:—
• That time we wandered out
• All the sun's hours, but missed our way
• When evening darkened, and so lay
• The whole night covered up in hay.

• ‘At last my face was hidden: so,
• Having God's hint, I paused
• Not long; but drew myself more near
• Where thou wast laid, and shook off fear,
• 130 And whispered quick into thine ear

• ‘Something of the whole tale. At first
• I lay and bit my hair
• For the sore silence thou didst keep:
• Till, as thy breath came long and deep,
• I knew that thou hadst been asleep.

• ‘The moon was covered, but the stars
• Lasted till morning broke.
• Awake, thou told'st me that thy dream
• Had been of me ,—that all did seem
• 140 At jar,—but that it was a dream.

• ‘I knew God's hand and might not speak.
• After that night I kept
• Silence and let the record swell:
• Till now there is much more to tell
• Which must be told out ill or well.’

• She paused then, weary, with dry lips
• Apart. From the outside
• By fits there boomed a dull report
• From where i' the hanging tennis-court
• 150 The bridegroom's retinue made sport.

• The room lay still in dusty glare,
• Having no sound through it
• Except the chirp of a caged bird
• That came and ceased: and if she stirred,
• Amelotte's raiment could be heard.

• Quoth Amelotte: ‘The night this chanced
• Was a late summer night
• Last year! What secret, for Christ's love,
• Keep'st thou since then? Mary above!
• 160 What thing is this thou speakest of?

• ‘Mary and Christ! Lest when 'tis told
• I should be prone to wrath,—
• This prayer beforehand! How she errs
• Soe'er, take count of grief like hers,
• Whereof the days are turned to years!’

• She bowed her neck, and having said,
• Kept on her knees to hear;
• And then, because strained thought demands
• Quiet before it understands,
• 170 Darkened her eyesight with her hands.

• So when at last her sister spoke,
• She did not see the pain
• O' the mouth nor the ashamèd eyes,
• But marked the breath that came in sighs
• And the half-pausing for replies.

• This was the bride's sad prelude-strain:—
• ‘I'the convent where a girl
• I dwelt till near my womanhood,
• I had but preachings of the rood
• 180 And Aves told in solitude

• ‘To spend my heart on: and my hand
• Had but the weary skill
• To eke out upon silken cloth
• Christ's visage, or the long bright growth
• Of Mary's hair, or Satan wroth.

• ‘So when at last I went, and thou,
• A child not known before,
• Didst come to take the place I left,—
• My limbs, after such lifelong theft
• 190 Of life, could be but little deft

• ‘In all that ministers delight
• To noble women: I
• Had learned no word of youth's discourse,
• Nor gazed on games of warriors,
• Nor trained a hound, nor ruled a horse.

• ‘Besides, the daily life i' the sun
• Made me at first hold back.
• To thee this came at once; to me
• It crept with pauses timidly;
• 200 I am not blithe and strong like thee.

• ‘Yet my feet liked the dances well,
• The songs went to my verse voice,
• The music made me shake and weep;
• And often, all night long, my sleep
• Gave dreams I had been fain to keep.

• ‘But though I loved not holy things,
• To hear them scorned brought pain,—
• They were my childhood; and these dames
• Were merely perjured in saints' names
• 210 And fixed upon saints' days for games.

• ‘And sometimes when my father rode
• To hunt with his loud friends,
• I dared not bring him to be quaff'd,
• As my wont was, his stirrup-draught,
• Because they jested so and laugh'd.

• ‘At last one day my brothers said,
• “The girl must not grow thus,—
• Bring her a jennet,—she shall ride.”
• They helped my mounting, and I tried
• 220 To laugh with them and keep their side ; .

• ‘But brakes were rough and bents were steep
• Upon our path that day:
• My palfrey threw me; and I went
• Upon men's shoulders home, sore spent,
• While the chase followed up the scent.

• ‘Our shrift-father (and he alone
• Of all the household there
• Had skill in leechcraft,) was away
• When I reached home. I tossed, and lay
• 230 Sullen with anguish the whole day.

• ‘For the day passed ere some one brought
• To mind that in the hunt
• Rode a young lord she named, long bred
• Among the priests, whose art (she said)
• Might chance to stand me in much stead.

• ‘I bade them seek and summon him:
• But long ere this, the chase
• Had scattered, and he was not found.
• I lay in the same weary stound,
• 240 Therefore, until the night came round.

• ‘It was dead night and near on twelve
• When the horse-tramp at length
• Beat up the echoes of the court:
• By then, my feverish breath was short
• With pain the sense could scarce support.

• ‘My fond nurse sitting near my feet
• Rose softly,—her lamp's flame
• Held in her hand, lest it should make
• My heated lids, in passing, ache;
• 250 And she passed softly, for my sake.

• ‘Returning soon, she brought the youth
• They spoke of. Meek he seemed,
• But good knights held him of stout heart.
• He was akin to us in part,
• And bore our shield, but barred athwart.

• ‘I now remembered to have seen
• His face, and heard him praised
• For letter-lore and medicine,
• Seeing his youth was nurtured in
• 260 Priests' knowledge, as mine own had been.’

• The bride's voice did not weaken here,
• Yet by her sudden pause
• She seemed to look for questioning;
• Or else (small need though) 'twas to bring
• Well to her mind the bygone thing.

• Her thought, long stagnant, stirred by speech,
• Gave her a sick recoil;
• As, dip thy fingers through the green
• That masks a pool,—where they have been
• 270 The naked depth is black between.

• Amelotte kept her knees; her face
• Was shut within her hands,
• As it had been throughout the tale;
• Her forehead's whiteness might avail
• Nothing to say if she were pale.

• Although the lattice had dropped loose,
• There was no wind; the heat
• Being so at rest that Amelotte
• Heard far beneath the plunge and float
• 280 Of a hound swimming in the moat.

• Some minutes since, two rooks had toiled
• Home to the nests that crowned
• Ancestral ash-trees. Through the glare
• Beating again, they seemed to tear
• With that thick caw the woof o' the air.

• But else, 'twas at the dead of noon
• Absolute silence; all,
• From the raised bridge and guarded sconce
• To green-clad places of pleasaùnce
• 290 Where the long lake was white with swans.

• Amelotte spoke not any word
• Nor moved she once; but felt
• Between her hands in narrow space
• Her own hot breath upon her face,
• And kept in silence the same place.

• Alo y ÿse did not hear at all
• The sounds without. She heard
• The inward voice (past help obey'd)
• Which might not slacken nor be stay'd,
• 300 But urged her till the whole were said.

• Therefore she spoke again: ‘That night
• But little could be done:
• My foot, held in my nurse's hands,
• He swathed up heedfully in bands,
• And for my rest gave close commands.

• ‘I slept till noon, but an ill sleep
• Of dreams: through all that day
• My side was stiff and caught the breath;
• Next day, such pain as sickeneth
• 310 Took me, and I was nigh to death.

• ‘Life strove, Death claimed me for his own
• Through days and nights: but now
• 'Twas the good father tended me,
• Having returned. Still, I did see
• The youth I spoke of constantly.

• ‘For he would with my brothers come
• To stay beside my couch,
• And fix my eyes against his own,
• Noting my pulse; or else alone,
• 320 To sit and at gaze while I made moan.

• ‘(Some nights I knew he kept the watch,
• Because my women laid
• The rushes thick for his steel shoes.)
• Through many days this pain did use
• The life God would not let me lose.

• ‘At length, with my good nurse to aid,
• I could walk forth again:
• And still, as one who broods or grieves,
• At noons I'd meet him and at eves,
• 330 With idle feet that drove the leaves.

• ‘The day when I first walked alone
• Was thinned in grass and leaf,
• And yet a goodly day o' the year:
• The last bird's cry upon mine ear
• Left my brain weak, it was so clear.

• ‘The tears were sharp within mine eyes ;
• I sat down, being glad,
• And wept; but stayed the sudden flow
• Anon, for footsteps that fell slow;
• 340 'Twas that youth passed me, bowing low.

• ‘He passed me without speech; but when,
• At least an hour gone by,
• Rethreading the same covert, he
• Saw I was still beneath the tree,
• He spoke and sat him down with me.

• ‘Little we said; nor one heart heard
• Even what was said within;
• And, faltering some farewell, I soon
• Rose up; but then i' the autumn noon
• 350 My feeble brain whirled like a swoon.

• ‘He made me sit. “Cousin, I grieve
• Your sickness stays by you.”
• “I would,” said I, “that you did err
• So grieving. I am wearier
• Than death, of the sickening dying year.”

• ‘He answered: “If your weariness
• Accepts a remedy,
• I hold one and can give it you.”
• I gazed: “What ministers thereto,
• 360 Be sure,” I said, “that I will do.”

• ‘He went on quickly:—'Twas a cure
• He had not ever named
• Unto our kin, lest they should stint
• Their favour, for some foolish hint
• Of wizardry or magic in't:

• ‘But that if he were let to come
• Within my bower that night,
• (My women still attending me,
• He said, while he remain'd there,) he
• 370 Could teach me the cure privily.

• ‘I bade him come that night. He came;
• But little in his speech
• Was cure or sickness spoken of,
• Only a passionate fierce love
• That clamoured upon God above.

• ‘My women wondered, leaning close
• Aloof. At mine own heart
• I think great wonder was not stirr'd.
• I dared not listen, yet I heard
• 380 His tangled speech, word within word.

• ‘He craved my pardon first,—all else
• Wild tumult. In the end
• He remained silent at my feet
• Fumbling the rushes. Strange quick heat
• Made all the blood of my life meet.

• ‘ I found And lo! I loved him. I but said,
• If he would leave me then ,
• He should hear more of what had pass'd.
  Added Text His hope some future might forecast.
• His hot lips stung my hand: at last
• 390 My damsels led him forth in haste.’

• The bride took breath to pause; and turned
• Her gaze where Amelotte
• Knelt,—the gold hair upon her back
• Quite still in all its threads,—the track
• Of her still shadow sharp and black.

• That listening without sight had grown
• To stealthy dread; and now
• That the one sound she had to mark
• Left her alone too, she was stark
• 400 Afraid, as children in the dark.

• Her fingers felt her temples beat;
• Then came that brain-sickness
• Which thinks to scream, and murmureth;
• And pent between her hands, the breath
• Was damp against her face like death.

• Her arms both fell at once; but when
• She gasped upon the light,
• Her sense returned. She would have pray'd
• To change whatever words still stay'd
• 410 Behind, but felt there was no aid.

• So she rose up, and having gone
• Within the window's arch
• Once more, she sat there, all intent
• On torturing doubts, and once more bent
• To hear, in mute bewilderment.

• But Alo y ÿse 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 Alo y ÿse 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 Alo y ÿse, ‘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 Alo y ÿse 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. Alo y ÿse
• 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'Onhault
• 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 Ville u nbois
• 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.

• ‘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,
• 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,
• 660 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,
• 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
• 670 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,—
• 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,
• 680 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,
• 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,
• 690 And bathe my forehead through the night

• ‘To elude madness. The stark walls
• Made chill the night: and when
• We oped our curtains, to resume
• Sun-sickness after long sick gloom,
• 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,
• 700 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;
• 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
• 710 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
• 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
• 720 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.”
• 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,
• 730 I offered not one life but two!”

• ‘Then I fell back from them, and lay
• Outwearied. My tired sense
• Soon filmed and settled, and like stone
• I slept; till something made me moan,
• And I woke up at night alone.

• ‘I woke at midnight, cold and dazed;
• Because I found myself
• Seated upright, with bosom bare,
• Upon my bed, combing my hair,
• 740 Ready to go, I knew not where.

• It dawned light day,—the last of those
• Long months of longing days.
• That noon, the change was wrought on me
• In somewise,—nought to hear or see,—
• Only a trance and agony.’

• The bride's voice failed her, from no will
• To pause. The bridesmaid leaned,
• And where the window-panes were white,
• Looked for the day: she knew not quite
• 750 If there were either day or night.

• It seemed to Alo y ÿse that the whole
• Day's weight lay back on her
• Like lead. The hours that did remain
• Beat their dry wings upon her brain
• Once in mid-flight, and passed again.

• There hung a cage of burnt perfumes
• In the recess: but these,
• For some hours, weak against the sun,
• Had simmered in white ash. From One
• 760 The second quarter was begun.

• They had not heard the stroke. The air,
• Though altered with no wind,
• Breathed now by pauses, so to say:
• Each breath was time that went away,—
• Each pause a minute of the day.

• I' the almonry, the almoner,
• Hard by, had just dispensed
• Church-dole and march-dole. High and wide
• Now rose the shout of thanks, which cried
• 770 On God that He should bless the bride.

• Its echo thrilled within their feet,
• And in the furthest rooms
• Was heard, where maidens flushed and gay
• Wove with stooped necks the wreaths alway
• Fair for the virgin's marriage-day.

• The mother leaned along, in thought
• After her child; till tears,
• Bitter, not like a wedded girl's,
• Fell down her breast along her curls,
• 780 And ran in the close work of pearls.

• The speech ached at her heart. She said:
• ‘Sweet Mary, do thou plead
• This hour with T thy most blessed Son
• To let these shameful words atone,
• That I may die when I have done.’

• The thought ached at her soul. Yet now:—
• ‘Itself—that life’ (she said,)
• Out of my weary life—when sense
• Unclosed, was gone. What evil men's
• 790 Most evil hands had borne it thence

• ‘I knew, and cursed them. Still in sleep
• I have my child; and pray
• To know if it indeed appear
• As in my dream's perpetual sphere,
• That I—death reached—may seek it there.

• ‘Sleeping, I wept; though until dark
• A fever dried mine eyes
• Kept open; save when a tear might
• Be forced from the mere ache of sight.
• 800 And I nursed hatred day and night.

• ‘Aye, and I sought revenge by spells;
• And vainly many a time
• Have laid my face into the lap
• Of a wise woman, and heard clap
• Her thunder, the fiend's juggling trap.

• ‘At length I feared to curse them, lest
• From evil lips the curse
• Should be a blessing; and would sit
• Rocking myself and stifling it ,
• 810 With babbled jargon of no wit.

• ‘But this was not at first: the days
• And weeks made frenzied months
• Before this came. My curses, pil'd
• Then with each hour unreconcil'd,
• Still wait for those who took my child.’

• She stopped, grown fainter. ‘Amelotte,
• Surely,’ she said, ‘this S sun
• Sheds judgment-fire from the fierce south:
• It does not let me breathe: the drouth
• 820 Is like sand spread within my mouth.’

• The bridesmaid rose. I' the outer glare
• Gleamed her pale cheeks, and eyes
• Sore troubled; and her face was made aweary weigh'd
• Dizzy, Her brows just lifted out of shade;
• And the light jarred within her head.

• 'Mid flowers fair-heaped there stood a bowl
• With water. She therein
• Through eddying bubbles slid a cup,
• And offered it, being risen up,
• 830 Close to her sister's mouth, to sup.

• The freshness dwelt upon her sense,
• Yet did not the bride drink;
• But she dipped in her hand anon
• And cooled her temples; and all wan
• With lids that held their ache, went on.

• ‘Through those dark watches of my woe,
• Time, an ill plant, had waxed
• Apace. That year was finished. Dumb
• And blind, life's wheel with earth's had come
• 840 Round also: Whirled round: and we might seek our home.

• ‘Our wealth was rendered back, with wealth
• Snatched from our foes. The house
• Had more than its old strength and fame:
• But still 'neath the fair outward claim
• I rankled,—a fierce core of shame.

• ‘It chilled me from their eyes and lips
• Upon a night of those
• First days of triumph, as I gazed
• Listless and sick, or scarcely raised
• 850 My face to mark the sports they praised.

• ‘The endless changes of the dance
• Bewildered me: the tones
• Of lute and cithern struggled tow'rds
• Some sense; and still in the last chords
• The music seemed to sing wild words.

• ‘My shame possessed me in the light
• And pageant, till I swooned.
• But from that hour I put my shame
• From me, and cast it over them
• 860 By God's command and in God's name

• ‘For my child's bitter sake. O thou
• Once felt against my heart
• With longing of the eyes,—a pain
• Since to my heart for ever,—then
• Beheld not, and not felt again!’

• She scarcely paused, continuing:—
• ‘That year drooped weak in March;
• And April, finding the streams dry,
• Choked, with no rain, in dust: the sky
• 870 Shall not be fainter this July.

• ‘Men sickened; beasts lay without strength;
• The year died in the land.
• But I, already desolate,
• Said merely, sitting down to wait,—
• “The seasons change and Time wears late.”

• ‘For I had my hard secret told,
• In secret, to a priest;
• He was much with me; and he said
• The world's soul, for its sins, was sped,
• 880 And the sun's courses numberèd.

• ‘The year slid like a corpse afloat:
• None trafficked,—who had bread
• Did eat. That year our legions, come
• Thinned from the place of war, at home
• Found busier death, more burdensome.

• ‘Tidings and rumours came with them,
• The first for months. The chiefs
• Sat daily at our board, and in
• Their speech were names of friend and kin:
• 890 One day they spoke of Urscelyn.

• ‘The words were light, among the rest:
• Quick glance my brothers sent
• To sift the speech; and I, struck through,
• Sat sick and giddy in full view:
• Yet did none gaze, so many knew.

• ‘Because in the beginning, much
• Had caught abroad, through them
• That heard my clamour on the coast:
• But two were hanged; and then the most
• 900 Held silence wisdom, as thou know'st.

• ‘That year the convent yielded thee
• Back to our home; and thou
• Then knew'st not how I shuddered cold
• To kiss thee, seeming to enfold
• To my changed heart myself of old.

• ‘Then there was showing thee the house,
• So many rooms and doors;
• Thinking the while how thou would'st start
• If once I flung the doors apart
• 910 Of one dull chamber in my heart.

• And yet I longed to open it;
• And often in that year
• Of plague and want, when side by side
• We've knelt to pray with them that died,
• My prayer was, “Show her what I hide!”’

End of Part I.