How oft had he watch'd through the glory and gloom Of the battle, with long, longing looks, that dim plume Which now (one stray sunbeam upon it) shook, stoop'd To where the tent-curtain, dividing, was loop'd!

How that stern face had haunted and hover'd about The dreams it still scared! through what fond fear and doubt Had the boy yearn'd in heart to the hero. (What's like A boy's love for some famous man?)... Oh, to strike A wild path through the battle, down striking perchance Some rash foeman too near the great soldier of France, And so fall in his glorious regard!... Oft, how oft, Had his heart flash'd this hope out, whilst watching aloft The dim battle that plume dance and dart--never seen So near till this moment! how eager to glean Every stray word, dropp'd through the camp-babble in praise Of his hero--each tale of old venturous days In the desert! And now... could he speak out his heart Face to face with that man ere he died!

x.x.xIII.

With a start The sick soldier sprang up: the blood sprang up in him, To his throat, and o'erthrew him: he reel'd back: a dim Sanguine haze fill'd his eyes; in his ears rose the din And rush, as of cataracts loosen'd within, Through which he saw faintly, and heard, the pale nun (Looking larger than life, where she stood in the sun) Point to him and murmur, "Behold!" Then that plume Seem'd to wave like a fire, and fade off in the gloom Which momently put out the world.

x.x.xIV.

To his side Moved the man the boy dreaded yet loved... "Ah!"... he sigh'd, "The smooth brow, the fair Vargrave face! and those eyes, All the mother's! The old things again!

"Do not rise.

You suffer, young man?"

THE BOY.

Sir, I die.

THE DUKE.

Not so young!

THE BOY.

So young? yes! and yet I have tangled among The fray'd warp and woof of this brief life of mine Other lives than my own. Could my death but untwine The vext skein... but it will not. Yes, Duke, young--so young!

And I knew you not? yet I have done you a wrong Irreparable!... late, too late to repair.

If I knew any means... but I know none!... I swear, If this broken fraction of time could extend Into infinite lives of atonement, no end Would seem too remote for my grief (could that be!) To include it! Not too late, however, for me To entreat: is it too late for you to forgive?

THE DUKE.

You wrong--my forgiveness--explain.

THE BOY.

Could I live!

Such a very few hours left to life, yet I shrink, I falter... Yes, Duke, your forgiveness I think Should free my soul hence.

Ah! you could not surmise That a boy's beating heart, burning thoughts, longing eyes Were following you evermore (heeded not!) While the battle was flowing between us: nor what Eager, dubious footsteps at nightfall oft went With the wind and the rain, round and round your blind tent, Persistent and wild as the wind and the rain, Unnoticed as these, weak as these, and as vain!

Oh, how obdurate then look'd your tent! The waste air Grew stern at the gleam which said... "Off! he is there!"

I know not what merciful mystery now Brings you here, whence the man whom you see lying low Other footsteps (not those!) must soon bear to the grave.

But death is at hand, and the few words I have Yet to speak, I must speak them at once.

Duke, I swear, As I lie here, (Death's angel too close not to hear!) That I meant not this wrong to you. Duc de Luvois, I loved your niece--loved? why, I LOVE her! I saw, And, seeing, how could I but love her? I seem'd Born to love her. Alas, were that all! Had I dream'd Of this love's cruel consequence as it rests now Ever fearfully present before me, I vow That the secret, unknown, had gone down to the tomb Into which I descend... Oh why, whilst there was room In life left for warning, had no one the heart To warn me? Had any one whisper'd... "Depart!"

To the hope the whole world seem'd in league then to nurse!

Had any one hinted... "Beware of the curse Which is coming!" There was not a voice raised to tell, Not a hand moved to warn from the blow ere it fell, And then... then the blow fell on BOTH! This is why I implore you to pardon that great injury Wrought on her, and, through her, wrought on you, Heaven knows How unwittingly!

THE DUKE.

Ah!... and, young soldier, suppose That I came here to seek, not grant, pardon?--

THE BOY.

Of whom?

THE DUKE.

Of yourself.

THE BOY.

Duke, I bear in my heart to the tomb No boyish resentment; not one lonely thought That honors you not. In all this there is naught 'Tis for me to forgive.

Every glorious act Of your great life starts forward, an eloquent fact, To confirm in my boy's heart its faith in your own.

And have I not h.o.a.rded, to ponder upon, A hundred great acts from your life? Nay, all these, Were they so many lying and false witnesses, Does there rest not ONE voice which was never untrue?

I believe in Constance, Duke, as she does in you!

In this great world around us, wherever we turn, Some grief irremediable we discern; And yet--there sits G.o.d, calm in Heaven above!

Do we trust one whit less in his justice or love?

I judge not.

THE DUKE.

Enough! Hear at last, then, the truth Your father and I--foes we were in our youth.

It matters not why. Yet thus much understand: The hope of my youth was sign'd out by his hand.

I was not of those whom the buffets of fate Tame and teach; and my heart buried slain love in hate.

If your own frank young heart, yet unconscious of all Which turns the heart's blood in its springtide to gall, And unable to guess even aught that the furrow Across these gray brows hides of sin or of sorrow, Comprehends not the evil and grief of my life, 'Twill at least comprehend how intense was the strife Which is closed in this act of atonement, whereby I seek in the son of my youth's enemy The friend of my age. Let the present release Here acquitted the past! In the name of my niece, Whom for my life in yours as a hostage I give, Are you great enough, boy, to forgive me,--and live?

Whilst he spoke thus, a doubtful tumultuous joy Chased its fleeting effects o'er the face of the boy: As when some stormy moon, in a long cloud confined, Struggles outward through shadows, the varying wind Alternates, and bursts, self-surprised, from her prison, So that slow joy grew clear in his face. He had risen To answer the Duke; but strength fail'd every limb; A strange, happy feebleness trembled through him.

With a faint cry of rapturous wonder, he sank On the breast of the nun, who stood near.

"Yes, boy! thank This guardian angel," the Duke said. "I--you, We owe all to her. Crown her work. Live! be true To your young life's fair promise, and live for her sake!"

"Yes, Duke: I will live. I MUST live--live to make My whole life the answer you claim," the boy said, "For joy does not kill!"

Back again the faint head Declined on the nun's gentle bosom. She saw His lips quiver, and motion'd the Duke to withdraw And leave them a moment together.

He eyed Them both with a wistful regard; turn'd and sigh'd, And lifted the tent-door, and pa.s.s'd from the tent.

x.x.xV.

Like a furnace, the fervid, intense occident From its hot seething levels a great glare struck up On the sick metal sky. And, as out of a cup Some witch watches boiling wild portents arise, Monstrous clouds, ma.s.s'd, misshapen, and ting'd with strange dyes, Hover'd over the red fume, and changed to weird shapes As of snakes, salamanders, efts, lizards, storks, apes, Chimeras, and hydras: whilst--ever the same In the midst of all these (creatures fused by his flame, And changed by his influence!) changeless, as when, Ere he lit down to death generations of men, O'er that crude and ungainly creation, which there With wild shapes this cloud-world seem'd to mimic in air, The eye of Heaven's all-judging witness, he shone.

And shall shine on the ages we reach not--the sun!

x.x.xVI.

Nature posted her parable thus in the skies, And the man's heart bore witness. Life's vapors arise And fall, pa.s.s and change, group themselves and revolve Round the great central life, which is love: these dissolve And resume themselves, here a.s.sume beauty, there terror; And the phantasmagoria of infinite error, And endless complexity, lasts but a while; Life's self, the immortal, immutable smile Of G.o.d, on the soul in the deep heart of Heaven Lives changeless, unchanged: and our morning and even Are earth's alternations, not Heaven's.

x.x.xVII.