All white, all cold; and moments thus flew by without a breath,
A company of living things where all was still—but death;
My hair rose up from roots of ice as there unnerved I stood
And watched the only thing that stirred—the rippling of the blood.
That woman's voice was heard at length, it broke the solemn spell,
And buman fear, displacing awe, upon our spirits fell-
" Ho! slayers of the sinewless! Ho! tramplers of the weak!
What! shrink ye from the ghastly meats and life-bought wine

ye seek

Feed, and begone! I wish to weep_I bring you out my store-
Devour it-waste it all and then--pass and be seen no more.
Poison! Is that your craven fear ?” She snatched a goblet up
And raised it to her queen-like head, as if to drain the cup.
But our fierce leader grasped her wrist—"No, woman! No!” he

A mother's heart of love is deep-give it your child instead.”
She only smiled a bitter smile—“Frenchmen, I do not shrink-
As pledge of my fidelity, behold the infant drink !”
He fixed on hers his broad black eye, scanning the inmost soul;
But her chill fingers trembled not as she returned the bowl.
And we with lightsome hardihood, dismissing idle care,
Sat down to eat and drink and laugh over our dainty fare.
The laugh was loud around the board, the jesting wild and light;
But I was fevered with the march, and drank no wine that night;
I just had filled a single cup, when through my very brain
Stung, sharper than a serpent's tooth, an infant's cry of pain.
Through all that heat of revelry, through all that boisterous cheer,
To every heart its feeble moan pierced, like a frozen spear.
Aye,” shrieked the woman, darting up, “I pray you trust again
A widow's hospitality in our unyielding Spain.
Helpless and hopeless, by the light of God Himself I swore
To treat you as you treated himthat body on the floor.
Yon secret place I filled, to feel, that if ye did not spare,
The treasure of a dread revenge was ready hidden there.
A mother's love is deep, no doubt; ye did not phrase it ill,
But in your hunger ye forgot that hate is deeper still.

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The Spanish woman speaks for Spain; for her butchered love, the

wife, To tell you that an hour is all my vintage leaves of life.” I cannot paint the many forms of wild despair put on, Nor count the crowded brave who sleep under a single stone; I can but tell you how, before that horrid hour went by, I saw the murderess beneath the self-avengers die. But though upon her wrenchéd limbs they leap'd like beasts of

prey, And with fierce hands like madmen tore the quivering life awayTriumphant hate and joyous scorn, without a trace of pain, Burned to the last, like sullen stars, in that haughty eye of Spain. And often now it breaks my rest, the tumult vague and wild, Drifting, like storm-tossed clouds, around the mother and her

childWhile she, distinct in raiments white, stands silently the while, And sheds through torn and bleeding hair the same unchanging



The Scottish Knight's Lesson in Good Breeding,
We were six of old Aymer's choosing,

Each heading a goodly troop;
We pounced on a border castle

As kites on a dove might swoop
(Though our dove had a beak and talons,

And could peck and claw right well,
As many a screaming cockscomb

And shattered wing could tell).
Well! we stormed the place and took it;

Yet, to give the fiend his due,
We never had turned a pebble,

Or shaken a single screw
Of the stout old walls and posterns,

With all our valor and pride,
Had not a few grim Scotsmen

Fought on the English side.

They were rough, tall fellows, and churlish,

Though many of gentle blood (But your Scot will christen a Palace

What we term a Hovel of Mud): Men without home or country,

And without a care, we thought, An it were for Edward Longshanks

Or Satan himself they fought. Still fight they did like tigers,

And the stronghold quickly fell, Chief thanks to those valiant traitors

Who knew their own land so well.
Urged, nathless, on by the fury

Of their feudal rancors hot;
For never could hungry wolf hate wolf

As can hungry Scot hate Scot.
I have said we took the strongbold,

But the bird from the nest bad flown;
He had left his mate behind him,

Brooding, but not alone. Two eaglets fair, beside her

Delicate maids, I meanOne of a blooming twenty,

One of a sweet sixteen. There was combing of beards and ringlets,

Trimming of gloves and plumes ;
Cursing for lack of mirrors,

Essences and perfumes.
But we made ourselves fine as might be,

And our chivalrous bent so proved,
That to sit at their victors' table

The ladies, at length, were moved. But the hireling Scots were sulky,

They would neither wash nor trim; They sat at the board in armor

Late stained by the carnage grim. We were vexed at one, especial,

Who in silence took his seat

And never opened his mouth at all,

Except, like a hog, to eat.
And our hatred all the stronger

May have been that in the fray
He had proved himself the champion

And the hero of the day.
A rough-bearded, chain-clad giant

With a tall and knitted brow-
I know, if I bad the limner's art,

I could paint his picture now !
We prated of England's glory,

We sang our Provençal lays,
We won bright looks from the Scottish maids

By our courtly acts of praise.
Still our gloomy Scot sat eating

And drinking enough for ten,
With never a smile for the gracious gifts

Of Lord Aymer's gentlemen.
He swallowed the wine by goblets,

He tore the meat with his teeth;
His armor was worn and rusty,

With never a shirt beneath.
His hands from the fight were crimson

Where they were not black from mud.
Said a young knight, “Lo! where a Scot eats bread,

Mixed with his native blood !" Then the Scot laid down the goblet,

Crushing it flat in his hand; I can see his blue eyes staring,

And his jaws wide open stand'Twas a frenzy fit of passion;

Which at once be overcame,
As he said, for the first time speaking low,

“My Lords, I am much to blame. I am but a Scot and a savage,

And your blame deserve, I wis, In a company of English knights

To sit in a plight like this.


But a man may mend his manners,

So I pray you let me go;
I will strive my best in more seemly guise

Before you next to show.”
He rose from his seat and bowed him

With reverence deep to all;
We, young men, laughed; but our leader said:

ot, leave not the hall;
For a madcap's jest he shall pay for;

Thou hast helped King Edward's bands Like a liegeman true” But the Scotsman smiled,

“I go but to wash my hands." None dare impede his egress;

To smile or frown none knew;
When our leader (Ralph de Warrenne,

Aymer's own kinsman true)
Exclaimed, “Run after the Scotsman-

For a paltry jest like this The help of so brave a warrior

"Twere a shame and folly to miss." We sought him down in the court-yard,

Out in the marsh below;
His steed was there in the stable,

No one bad seen him go.
We named him a fiend or warlock

Who had vanished up in the air ;
The wines were good and the ladies kind

Why for one Scotsman care ?
Till a terror-struck page came gliding

Into the banquet hall;
He had been in the chapel hiding

Behind a pillar'd wall ;
He had seen the Scotch knight enter

(With a face that made him gasp) And hug the steps of the altar

With impassioned, feverish clasp. Had heard him pray the Virgin

To cleanse his traitorous hand

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