to gaze again? A blinding storm
Of anguish breaks upon her. "O what doom
Is this for thee and me? Why doest thou glide
Into this silent, terror-freighted tomb?"
Pale Gascon's figure fled along the tide—
Some forms not marked for Death returned again;
But his returned not. Ever anguish-eyed,
She paused and waited—waited in the gloom.
At last the flying cloud flakes ceased to come;
And stilly night arose. "My God, to whom
May I turn now? My richest Self is rent!"
Down from the carven doorway stumbling slow,
The maiden passed, silent with languishment.
Forth from the darkness stepped a man. All dumb,
She gazed in careless stupor such as woe
Stamps on the soul.
"My Lady, may I dare—"
He paused, and gazed, bowed sweepingly and low,
Then spoke again. She stood there sad and fair,
Quivering like a heat-cloud in the air.
"Lady, a traveler asks the way to where
He may find rest and lodgement." One brief while,
She stayed herself in stupor; 'tis but meet,
A soul come slowly from behind the veil.
"Come—come," she said, upon her face a smile
Of sorrow blent with some strange joyance pale.
They passed along the quaintly cobbled street,
And then turned through a lane where high up-reared,
The gloomy oaks and hawthorne hedges greet
The eye on either hand. A cottage stood
With banks of sleepy flowers at its feet;
And all around, the giant, hoary wood
Frowned down its shadows on the garden's bloom,
Frowned down, a fateful harbinger of gloom.
Within the cottage, all was warmth and cheer.
There stayed the mother waiting the return
Of her sweet child. They entered. She did greet
Both with an all-inclusive smile, and clear,
Unchanging peace and kindliness that burn
Before a pure soul's shrine. "Whom have we here,
Marie?—Some houseless stranger gone astray?"
He doffed his feathered cap and bowed full low.
"After long twilight wanderings in despair
Of any hermitage for night, not far
From here, I prayed your daughter's guidance ere
The dark should leave me but a chance faint star
By which to fare."
Beside the oaken board,
They sat and ate the rustic dishes there,
While young Sir Guy poured forth a glittering hoard
Of warriored stories gathered far away:
How one brave knight pierced twenty paynim through;
And how another fled from the affray
To be enslaved by Sarazain corsair.
The maiden hungered for each word. How frail
Be warriors' lives! Upon the thought, she knew
A bitter memory of forecast's gloom.
Oh, she must fly. Oh, something must avail
To give her refuge from this festering sting.
She tried to turn her mind from sorrow's trail,
And gave her thoughts to the narrator's tale.
Now he was speaking of a lord who strove
To win his lady; but the Christian war
Called him to battle for his Faith. He clove
Damascus steel and clinking casques; but e'er
He could return—Sir Guy then ceased; for here
Arose a warning on the mother's brow.
She wished no bitter recollections. Fear
For Marie's plausance was her only care.
Soon all the cottage slept 'mid the garden's bloom;
And fatefully the forest frowned its gloom.
The summer blossomed, faded, and then died;
And still as if enchanted, stayed he there.
They took long walks o'er lonely hill and dale,
And went across the fields with flowers pied.
At times their voices rang upon the air;
But ever when they came upon that vale
Where, in its flowery charm, the cottage stood,
Their talk would fail within the vasty wood.
Thus bathed their souls in summer's sultry tide
Like flashing moths upon the wind that ride.
And hectic autumn came and brought its charm
Of leafy brilliance heralding its death.
Beside the evening blaze, full many a tale
He told of knights in chivalrous career;
But never raised the fluttering alarm
Of the maiden's mother by the faintest breath
Of the warrior lord and his loved one dear.
Then hoary, chilling winter shrouded pale,
Came, and passed by: thus wandered on, the year.
The spring was coldly wrapped in sullen haze;
Even the mounting sun seemed scarce as warm
As during winter. Slowly passed the days
Until the Eve of blest Saint Marcus came.
Among the misty-shadowed forest ways,
Sir Guy did bring the maiden arm in arm.
How oft the times that they had done the same—
"I've lived a life, careless and debonair,
And know nor fettering bonds nor fear;
Yet would I leave it all without a care—"
She upward glanced and then glanced down as pale
As any flowing haze-wreath in the gloom.
"Oh, what is that?" she cried. The misty veil
Parted and showed a glimpse of rock-built wall.
"'Tis but the village kirk," he said. A pall
Of haze enwrapped them like the Will of Doom.
She stood and faced him, quivering as a sail
That blows uncertain in a varying wind.
"Marie, Marie," he faltered. Then a flare
Of passion burnt his soul out in his eyes.
Downward she glances seeming unaware;
But in her heart beneath the outward guise,
Warring emotions make her spirit quail.
Gascon's loved image into vision flies;
And yet her rising love, she cannot quell
For brave Sir Guy; and then, as when the flail
Lashes the chaff, dim mist before her flies
Into the church in Gascon's image pale.
The year is out. What then, should he avail?
"Marie—" Sir Guy is breathing on the air;
She reads the rest within his flaming eyes.
"Yes—yes," she murmurs.
"O despair, despair!
I have no hope; you fell into the snare!"
His eyes dilated with mad light, he cries.
"I, I am Gascon whose memory you dare
To flout for any knight who stays a year
Within your sight! I am undone. My doom
Is set. These fateful forests be my bier!
Your lover is a wreath of shadowy air—
Go, search him in the western tempest's lair!
For me, I hasten from this mortal gloom,
Sound mine own knell, and say mine own last doom!"
She shrinks away, with inward tumult pale.
His voice is still. She hears a something fall.
With anguish in her eyes, she turns. There, all
Stretched out upon the ground, he lies. A well
Of ruby richness pulses with his frail,
Departing breath. In Merlin-magic spell
Of agony, she stares into the gloom.
Pale figures, children of the mist-waves' womb
In through the church's doorway seem to sail;
Spectral, they vanish in their destined tomb.
She moves; she starts; she cries, as one to whom
Has come the horrid messenger of doom:
"Is that my figure floating in the gloom?
Shall my life fail; is this its funeral knell?"
Pale night upon his swift, aërial loom,
Wove the soft, vaporous substance of her doom.

September and October, 1912.

THE ÆOLIAN HARP