I am your warrior; I and mine have fought But Ida spoke not, gazing on the ground, And reddening in the furrows of his chin, And moved beyond his custom, Gama said: 'I've heard that there is iron in the blood, And I believe it. Not one word? not one? "But see that some one with authority The Lady Blanche: much profit! Not one word No! tho' your father sues: see how you stand ; Stiff as Lot's wife, and all the good knights maim'd For your wild whim and was it then for this, Where we withdrew from summer heats and state, And had our wine and chess beneath the planes, Speak to her, I say: is this not she of whom, Now had you got a friend of your own age, Now could you share your thought; now should men see Two women faster welded in one love Than pairs of wedlock; she you walk'd with, she You talk'd with, whole nights long, up in the tower, Of sine and arc, spheroïd and azimuth, And right ascension, Heaven knows what; and now A word but one, one little kindly word, Not one to spare her out upon you, flint! You love nor her, nor me, nor any; nay, You shame your mother's judgment too. Not one? As fancies, like the vermin in a nut, Have fretted all to dust and bitterness.' So said the small king, moved beyond his wont. But Ida stood nor spoke, drain'd of her force By many a varying influence and so long: Down thro' her limbs a drooping languor wept: Her head a little bent; and on her mouth A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded moon In a still water: then brake out my sire, Because he might have wish'd it but we see The accomplice of your madness unforgiven, And think that you might mix his draught with death, When your skies change again: the rougher hand Is safer on to the tents: take up the prince.' He rose, and while each ear was prick'd to attend A tempest, thro' the cloud that dimm'd her broke 'Come hither, O Psyche,' she cried out, ' embrace me, come, Kiss and be friends like children being chid! I seem no more: I want forgiveness too : I should have had to do with none but maids, That have no links with men. Ah false but dear, Dear traitor too much loved, why? - why? - Yet see Before these kings we embrace you yet once more With all forgiveness, all oblivion, And trust not love you less. And now, O Sire, Grant me your son, to nurse, to wait upon him, Like mine own brother. For my debt to him, This nightmare weight of gratitude, I know it; Taunt me no more: yourself and yours shall have Free adit; we will scatter all our maids Till happier times each to her proper hearth: What use to keep them here, now? grant my prayer. Help, father, brother, help; speak to the king: Thaw this male nature to some touch of that Which kills me with myself, and drags me down From my fixt height to mob me up with all The soft and milky rabble of womankind, Poor weakling ev'n as they are.' Passionate tears Follow'd: the king replied not: Cyril said: 'Your brother, Lady,- Florian, — ask for him Of your great head for he is wounded too That you may tend upon him with the prince.' 'Ay so,' said Ida with a bitter smile, 'Our laws are broken: let him enter too.' |