She remember'd that; A pleasant game, she thought. She liked it more Than magic music, forfeits, all the rest. But these what kind of tales did men tell men, She wonder'd by themselves? A half-disdain Perch'd on the pouted blossom of her lips; The rest would follow, each in turn; and so Seven-headed monsters only made to kill Kill him now, The tyrant! kill him in the summer too,' Said Lilia; Why not now?' the maiden aunt. 'Why not a summer as a winter's tale? A tale for summer's as befits the time, And something it should be to suit the place, Grave, solemn !' Walter warp'd his mouth at this To something so mock-solemn, that I laugh'd, Hid in the ruins; till the maiden aunt A little sense of wrong had touch'd her face With color turn'd to me with 'As Heroic if you will, or what you will, Or be yourself your hero if you will.' you will; 'Take Lilia, then, for heroine,' clamor'd he, • And make her some great princess, six feet high, Grand, epic, homicidal; and be you The prince to win her!' 'Then follow me, the Prince,' I answer'd, each be hero in his turn! Seven and yet one, like shadows in a dream. A talk of college and of ladies' rights, A feudal knight in silken masquerade, And, yonder, shrieks and strange experiments For which the good Sir Ralph had burnt them all — So I began, And the rest follow'd; and the women sang I A Prince I was, blue-eyed, and fair in face, With lengths of yellow ringlet, like a girl, There lived an ancient legend in our house. Dying, that none of all our blood should know And, truly, waking dreams were, more or less, Now it chanced that I had been, While life was yet in bud and blade, betroth'd To one, a neighboring Princess. She to me Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf At eight years old; and still from time to time Came murmurs of her beauty from the South, And of her brethren, youths of puissance; And still I wore her picture by my heart, And one dark tress; and all around them both Sweet thoughts would swarm as bees about their queen. But when the days drew nigh that I should wed, My father sent ambassadors with furs And jewels, gifts, to fetch her. These brought back A present, a great labor of the loom; And therewithal an answer vague as wind. That morning in the presence room I stood but given to starts and bursts Of revel; and the last, my other heart, And almost my half-self, for still we moved Now, while they spake, I saw my father's face Grow long and troubled like a rising moon, Inflamed with wrath. He started on his feet, Tore the king's letter, snow'd it down, and rent The wonder of the loom thro' warp and woof From skirt to skirt; and at the last he sware That he would send a hundred thousand men, And bring her in a whirlwind; then he chew'd The thrice-turn'd cud of wrath, and cook'd his spleen, Communing with his captains of the war. At last I spoke: My father, let me go. It cannot be but some gross error lies In this report, this answer of a king Whom all men rate as kind and hospitable; Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once seen, Whate'er my grief to find her less than fame, May rue the bargain made.' And Florian said: I have a sister at the foreign court, Who moves about the Princess; she, you know, Who wedded with a nobleman from thence. He, dying lately, left her, as I hear, The lady of three castles in that land; Thro' her this matter might be sifted clean.' And Cyril whisper'd: Take me with you too.' |