All white, all cold; and moments thus flew by without a breath, That woman's voice was heard at length, it broke the solemn spell, Feed, and begone! I wish to weep-I bring you out my storeDevour 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 said, "A mother's heart of love is deep-give it your child instead.” She only smiled a bitter smile-"Frenchmen, I do not shrinkAs pledge of my fidelity, behold the infant drink!" He fixed on hers his broad black eye, scanning the inmost soul; The laugh was loud around the board, the jesting wild and light; Through all that heat of revelry, through all that boisterous cheer, Helpless and hopeless, by the light of God Himself I swore A mother's love is deep, no doubt; ye did not phrase it ill, 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 away— While she, distinct in raiments white, stands silently the while, And sheds through torn and bleeding hair the same unchanging smile. THE SOLDIER'S STORY. The Scottish Knight's Lesson in Good Breeding. We were six of old Aymer's choosing, We pounced on a border castle As kites on a dove might swoop (Though our dove had a beak and talons, And shattered wing could tell). Well! we stormed the place and took it; We never had turned a pebble, A. W. PINERO. 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): And the stronghold quickly fell, For never could hungry wolf hate wolf I have said we took the stronghold, One 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 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, And our hatred all the stronger We sang our Provençal lays, We won bright looks from the Scottish maids Still our gloomy Scot sat eating And drinking enough for ten, With never a smile for the gracious gifts 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 he overcame, As he said, for the first time speaking low, I am but a Scot and a savage, But a man may mend his manners, So I pray you let me go; I will strive my best in more seemly guise He rose from his seat and bowed him With reverence deep to all; We, young men, laughed; but our leader said: "Sir Scot, 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, 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- 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 And hug the steps of the altar |