V

Now, scarce three paces measured from the mound, We stumbled on a stationary voice,

And Stand, who goes?' Two from the palace,' I. The second two; they wait,' he said, 'pass on; His Highness wakes;' and one, that clash'd in

arms,

By glimmering lanes and walls of canvas led
Threading the soldier-city, till we heard
The drowsy folds of our great ensign shake
From blazon'd lions o'er the imperial tent
Whispers of war.

Dazed me half-blind.

Entering, the sudden light

I stood and seem'd to hear,

As in a poplar grove when a light wind wakes
A lisping of the innumerous leaf and dies,
Each hissing in his neighbor's ear; and then
A strangled titter, out of which there brake
On all sides, clamoring etiquette to death,
Unmeasured mirth; while now the two old kings
Began to wag their baldness up and down,

The fresh young captains flash'd their glittering teeth,

The huge bush-bearded barons heaved and blew, And slain with laughter roll'd the gilded squire.

At length my sire, his rough cheek wet with

tears,

Panted from weary sides, King, you are free!

We did but keep you surety for our son,

If this be he, or a draggled mawkin, thou,
That tends her bristled grunters in the sludge;'
For I was drench'd with ooze, and torn with briers,
More crumpled than a poppy from the sheath,
And all one rag, disprinced from head to heel.
Then some one sent beneath his vaulted palm
A whisper'd jest to some one near him, 'Look,
He has been among his shadows.'

Satan take

The old women and their shadows!'

Roar'd

king

'make yourself a man to fight with men.

Go; Cyril told us all.'

As boys that slink

From ferule and the trespass-chiding eye,
Away we stole, and transient in a trice
From what was left of faded woman-slough
To sheathing splendors and the golden scale
Of harness, issued in the sun, that now
Leapt from the dewy shoulders of the earth,
And hit the Northern hills. Here Cyril met us,
A little shy at first, but by and by

We twain, with mutual pardon ask'd and given
For stroke and song, resolder'd peace, whereon
Follow'd his tale. Amazed he fled away
Thro' the dark land, and later in the night
Had come on Psyche weeping: 'then we fell
Into your father's hand, and there she lies,
But will not speak nor stir.'

He show'd a tent

A stone-shot off; we enter'd in, and there
Among piled arms and rough accoutrements,
Pitiful sight, wrapp'd in a soldier's cloak,

Like some sweet sculpture draped from head to foot,

And push'd by rude hands from its pedestal,
All her fair length upon the ground she lay;
And at her head a follower of the camp,
A charr'd and wrinkled piece of womanhood,
Sat watching like a watcher by the dead.

Then Florian knelt, and Come,' he whisper'd

to her,

'Lift up your head, sweet sister; lie not thus. What have you done but right? you could not slay

Me, nor your prince; look up, be comforted.
Sweet is it to have done the thing one ought,
When fallen in darker ways.' And likewise I :
'Be comforted; have I not lost her too,

In whose least act abides the nameless charm
That none has else for me?' She heard, she
moved,

She moan'd, a folded voice; and up she sat,

And raised the cloak from brows as pale and

Parted from her

betray'd her cause and mine

Where shall I breathe? why kept ye not your

faith?

O base and bad! what comfort? none for me!' To whom remorseful Cyril, Yet I pray ✓ Take comfort; live, dear lady, for your child!' At which she lifted up her voice and cried :

Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah, my child, My one sweet child, whom I shall see no more! For now will cruel Ida keep her back; And either she will die from want of care, Or sicken with ill-usage, when they say

The child is hers for every little fault,

The child is hers; and they will beat my girl
Remembering her mother-O my flower!

Or they will take her, they will make her hard,

And she will pass me by in after-life

With some cold reverence worse than were she

dead.

Ill mother that I was to leave her there,

To lag behind, scared by the cry they made,
The horror of the shame among them all.
But I will go and sit beside the doors,
And make a wild petition night and day,
Until they hate to hear me like a wind
Wailing for ever, till they open to me,
And lay my little blossom at my feet,
My babe, my sweet Aglaïa, my one child;

And I will take her up and go my way,

And satisfy my soul with kissing her.

Ah! what might that man not deserve of me Who gave me back my child?' Be comforted,' Said Cyril, 'you shall have it; ' but again

She veil'd her brows, and prone she sank, and so, Like tender things that being caught feign death, Spoke not, nor stirr❜d.

By this a murmur ran

Thro' all the camp, and inward raced the scouts With rumor of Prince Arac hard at hand.

We left her by the woman, and without

Found the gray kings at parle; and 'Look you,' cried

My father, that our compact be fulfill'd.

You have spoilt this child; she laughs at you and

man;

She wrongs herself, her sex, and me, and him.
But red-faced war has rods of steel and fire;
She yields, or war.'

Then Gama turn'd to me:

'We fear, indeed, you spent a stormy time

With our strange girl; and yet they say that still You love her. Give us, then, your mind at large : How say you, war or not?'

Not war, if possible, O king,' I said, 'lest from the abuse of war,

The desecrated shrine, the trampled year,

The smouldering homestead, and the household

flower