Chapter 3

In a lofty vaulted chamber, pillared, Gothic, full of gloom, But that flashes of the fire-light fitfully fell athwart the room-- Ruddy gleams of fading fire-light, lighting many a bearded face, On the fluted hangings woven--founders of her husband's race--

On a carven couch in slumber lay the Lady Gwineth Grey, Traces of a smile yet lingering on a cheek of rosy May-- On the softest velvet slumbering, in a mist of golden hair, Trembling on her heaving bosom, and along her neck as fair.

Seemed she like the Goddess Dian sleeping in some lonely wood, Or a nun on convent pallet dreaming only what was good: By her stood an outened flambeaux, from which, blue, and thin, and rare, Stole a wave of trembling vapor, slowly melting into air.

But the tapestry was lifted, and a form in steel array Suddenly entered, and his coming drove the waning mist away. Treading softly o'er the rushes Roland stept beside his bride, In the passing of a moment standing at her couch's side.

Like an angel seemed the lady, lying in her rosy rest; Like a devil seemed the knight, with passion raging in his breast: For within his bosom, gnawing all his heart with teeth of fire, Reigned Revenge, and on his forehead burned the purple hue of ire.

Slowly bending o'er his wife, but making not a sound, he gazed Upon her, while his glaring eye-balls, like twin torches, brightly blazed. --Starting, feeling one was near her, Gwineth raised her golden head, Looking round her--flashed his falchion, and she sank in silence--dead!

Roared the tempest; crashed the thunder; even the castle seemed to quail And tremble, like a living thing, before the fury of the gale; But the fierce and fearless murderer turned to where his child reclined, Asleep, amid the thunder's crash, the rushing rain and roaring wind.

As he bent above his boy, dim memories of days long back Came, like stars an instant seen amid the autumn tempest's rack; But as swiftly over his spirit flashed the ruin of his name-- Flashed the withering thought that even that child might be the child of shame.

Wildly then he raised his glaive, but wilder, sterner, still, without, Swelled the tempest, burst the thunder, yelled the winds with maniac shout; While the lightning, red and vivid, quivered through the skies in ire, Till the chamber with its flashes seemed a blazing hall of fire.

With this climax of the tempest--thunder, lightning, rain and wind-- Roland felt an awful doubt creep tremblingly athwart his mind; Slowly, slowly, it arose, and grew gigantic; slowly, slowly, Cloud-like, overshadowing him, darkening his spirit wholly.

Then, like Saul of Eld, he trembled, feeling his deed was one of guilt-- Believing heaven itself asserted it was innocent blood he spilt-- Feeling heaven was interfering, sank his heart, and fell his blade, And the superstitious murderer tottered, wailing and dismayed.

"Be she spotless," groaned the warrior, "I have done a grievous crime-- Stained the snowiest shield that ever graced the temple-walls of Time. --Thou, my noblest and my fairest! with thy mother's Saxon eye-- Shall my hand, too, strike thee lifeless? No! I cannot see thee die!"

Suddenly Roland saw the peril hanging over his guilty head-- Felt that he could never hide him from the vengeance of the dead-- Saw the heartless headsman smiling, and the axe, and heard the crowd Shouting curses on the assassin--and the chieftain groaned aloud--

Groaned, for that his deed had robbed him of a home and of a name, Hurling on his orphan son the damning heritage of shame: Life and lands by law were forfeit; he had driven his offspring forth, Rudely, ruthlessly, to wander, one of the Ishmaelites of earth.

But a sudden thought came o'er him, and his lofty eye again Flashed with resolution, stern and strong as was his spirit's pain. "Shall I rob thee of thy birthright--rob thee of thy noble name, Of our old ancestral castle, and our fathers' deeds of fame?

"Shall I fling thee forth to struggle with a never-sparing world; Knowing every eye will scorn thee, every lip at thee be curled? Know thee, budding bloom of beauty, withering in thy youth away-- Feel thy infant promise fading--see thy falcon-eye decay?

"Did I give thee life to cloud it--life to poison every breath? Better far the dreary dungeon, and the dark and iron death! Never! Let them heap upon me rock on rock Olympus high; None shall see a sinew quiver, none shall hear the slightest cry.

"'Blood for blood' is rightly written: I have slain a spotless wife, And will dree a heavy penance--yield the law my forfeit life; Come the judgment, I will meet it; and the torture shall not tear Word from me to make a beggar of my rightful, righteous heir."

As the stricken knight was speaking, in the distance died the storm; And the moonlight on the casement wandered sweetly, rested warm; Through the golden glass it floated, fluttering over the lady's hair, Till she seemed a mild Madonna, watched by angels, slumbering there.

Shaken by the storm of conscience, Roland sank upon his knee, Sudden as before a hurricane falls some famous forest tree; Sank beside pale, placid Gwineth, weeping, wailing, sorrow riven, Feeling God had spoken, praying that his crime might be forgiven.

All that long and dreary night, Sir Roland watched beside the dead, Humbly kneeling in the rushes strown around the carven bed. Slowly, quietly approaching came the gray-eyed dreamy dawn, Making every thing about him seem more desolate and wan.

One by one the stars went out, and slowly over the Orient came Streaks of rose and tints of purple, flakes of gold and rays of flame, And around the ancient castle Roland heard the hum of those That from quiet sleep were waking, as they, one by one, arose.

Slowly through the painted casement, touching first the chamber crown And the groined roof, the sunlight stole in lovely lustre down Over the tapestry, that glistened, gleaming with its golden ray, Till it kissed the russet rushes where in yellow sleep it lay.

Came the Lady Gwineth's maidens, starting at the sudden sight Of their lord, Sir Roland, standing like a warrior for the fight; But he waved them on; and, wondering, they unto the sleeper went-- Shrieking loudly, shrieking wildly as above her corpse they bent.

Startled by the sudden clamor, Roland's son in fright awoke, As from all sides, madly rushing in the room, the vassals broke; Gathering round him, gazing on him, looking on the bloody brand And the lady, who, when living, was the loveliest in the land.

Not a word the warrior uttered, though his son implored him sore, And they led him like an infant toward the oaken chamber-door; There he turned and gazed on Gwineth, looking on her face his last; Then between his guards in silence to the castle-prison passed.

There they left him; but at mid-day came, and, beckoning, bade him forth To journey, not as he was wont to, from his ancient honored hearth: To an armed guard they gave him, and amid their stern array, Haughty, lofty-souled and silent Roland sternly rode away.