VIII.

Thou wilt not let her wash thy dainty feet With such salt things as tears, or with rude hair Dry them, soft Pharisee, that sit'st at meat With him who made her such, and speak'st him fair, Leaving G.o.d's wandering lamb the while to bleat Unheeded, shivering in the pitiless air: Thou hast made prisoned virtue show more wan And haggard than a vice to look upon.

IX.

Now many months flew by, and weary grew To Margaret the sight of happy things; Blight fell on all her flowers, instead of dew; Shut round her heart were now the joyous wings Wherewith it wont to soar; yet not untrue, Though tempted much, her woman's nature clings To its first pure belief, and with sad eyes Looks backward o'er the gate of Paradise.

X.

And so, though altered Mordred came less oft, And winter frowned where spring had laughed before, In his strange eyes, yet half her sadness doffed, And in her silent patience loved him more: Sorrow had made her soft heart yet more soft, And a new life within her own she bore Which made her tenderer, as she felt it move Beneath her breast, a refuge for her love.

XI.

This babe, she thought, would surely bring him back, And be a bond forever them between; Before its eyes the sullen tempest-rack Would fade, and leave the face of heaven serene; And love's return doth more than fill the lack, Which in his absence withered the heart's green; And yet a dim foreboding still would flit Between her and her hope to darken it.

XII.

She could not figure forth a happy fate, Even for this life from heaven so newly come; The earth must needs be doubly desolate To him scarce parted from a fairer home: Such boding heavier on her bosom sate One night, as, standing in the twilight gloam, She strained her eyes beyond that dizzy verge At whose foot faintly breaks the future's surge.

XIII.

Poor little spirit! naught but shame and woe Nurse the sick heart whose lifeblood nurses thine: Yet not those only; love hath triumphed so, As for thy sake makes sorrow more divine: And yet, though thou be pure, the world is foe To purity, if born in such a shrine; And, having trampled it for struggling thence, Smiles to itself, and calls it Providence.

XIV.

As thus she mused, a shadow seemed to rise From out her thought, and turn to dreariness All blissful hopes and sunny memories, And the quick blood doth curdle up and press About her heart, which seemed to shut its eyes And hush itself, as who with shuddering guess Harks through the gloom and dreads e'en now to feel Through his hot breast the icy slide of steel.

XV.

But, at the heart-beat, while in dread she was, In the low wind the honeysuckles gleam, A dewy thrill flits through the heavy gra.s.s, And, looking forth, she saw, as in a dream, Within the wood the moonlight's shadowy ma.s.s: Night's starry heart yearning to hers doth seem, And the deep sky, full-hearted with the moon, Folds round her all the happiness of June.

XVI.

What fear could face a heaven and earth like this?

What silveriest cloud could hang 'neath such a sky?

A tide of wondrous and unwonted bliss Rolls back through all her pulses suddenly, As if some seraph, who had learned to kiss From the fair daughters of the world gone by, Had wedded so his fallen light with hers, Such sweet, strange joy through soul and body stirs.

XVII.

Now seek we Mordred: He who did not fear The crime, yet fears the latent consequence: If it should reach a brother Templar's ear, It haply might be made a good pretence To cheat him of the hope he held most dear; For he had spared no thought's or deed's expense, That, by-and-by might help his wish to clip Its darling bride,--the high grand mastership.

XVIII.

The apathy, ere a crime resolved is done, Is scarce less dreadful than remorse for crime; By no allurement can the soul be won From brooding o'er the weary creep of time: Mordred stole forth into the happy sun, Striving to hum a sc.r.a.p of Breton rhyme, But the sky struck him speechless, and he tried In vain to summon up his callous pride.

XIX.

In the court-yard a fountain leaped alway, A Triton blowing jewels through his sh.e.l.l Into the sunshine; Mordred turned away, Weary because the stone face did not tell Of weariness, nor could he bear to-day, Heartsick, to hear the patient sink and swell Of winds among the leaves, or golden bees Drowsily humming in the orange-trees.

XX.

All happy sights and sounds now came to him Like a reproach: he wandered far and wide, Following the lead of his unquiet whim, But still there went a something at his side That made the cool breeze hot, the sunshine dim; It would not flee, it could not be defied, He could not see it, but he felt it there, By the damp chill that crept among his hair.

XXI.

Day wore at last; the evening star arose, And throbbing in the sky grew red and set; Then with a guilty, wavering step he goes To the hid nook where they so oft had met In happier season, for his heart well knows That he is sure to find poor Margaret Watching and waiting there with lovelorn breast Around her young dream's rudely scattered nest.

XXII.

Why follow here that grim old chronicle Which counts the dagger-strokes and drops of blood?

Enough that Margaret by his mad steel fell, Unmoved by murder from her trusting mood, Smiling on him as Heaven smiles on h.e.l.l, With a sad love, remembering when he stood Not fallen yet, the unsealer of her heart, Of all her holy dreams the holiest part.

XXIII.

His crime complete, scarce knowing what he did, (So goes the tale,) beneath the altar there In the high church the stiffening corpse he hid, And then, to 'scape that suffocating air, Like a scared ghoul out of the porch he slid; But his strained eyes saw bloodspots everywhere, And ghastly faces thrust themselves between His soul and hopes of peace with blasting mien.

XXIV.

His heart went out within him, like a spark Dropt in the sea; wherever he made bold To turn his eyes, he saw, all stiff and stark, Pale Margaret lying dead; the lavish gold Of her loose hair seemed in the cloudy dark To spread a glory, and a thousandfold More strangely pale and beautiful she grew: Her silence stabbed his conscience through and through:

XXV.

Or visions of past days,--a mother's eyes That smiled down on the fair boy at her knee, Whose happy upturned face to hers replies,-- He saw sometimes: or Margaret mournfully Gazed on him full of doubt, as one who tries To crush belief that does love injury; Then she would wring her hands, but soon again Love's patience glimmered out through cloudy pain.

XXVI.

Meanwhile he dared not go and steal away The silent, dead-cold witness of his sin; He had not feared the life, but that dull clay, Those open eyes that showed the death within, Would surely stare him mad; yet all the day A dreadful impulse, whence his will could win No refuge, made him linger in the aisle, Freezing with his wan look each greeting smile.

XXVII.