Part 2

“When I came out of Spain to Sigebert The rude Franks wondered at my company, My Moorish falconers and deep-voiced hounds, My swift light-horsemen, harpers, lutanists; And prophesied my days would fly, like gold Out of the loose hands of a prodigal, With the delight of hunting and the glad Singing of minstrels in the crowded hall, Where the red torches mirror on the shields And burnished helmets their tempestuous lights: Ominous fires of slaughter, flickering, To flash out suddenly in angry flame. “But, for a while, my house was filled with smiles; And Love sate as a guest beside my hearth. Each morning heard the horns call to the chase The loud, glad music of the eager hounds, While huntsmen cheered them onward, and the rides Through woodlands, down the shadow-dappled ways, Woke, in the answering April of my youth, A pleasure that was one thing with the dawn. “So passed my days, in courtly wise, until Some whisper promised me another Spring Thrilling within my body, and I felt The first strange wakenings of motherhood, The pledge, and prophecy, of future Kings. And I went roaming through the woods no more; Intent on quiet business with my maids, Spinning new wool, or standing by the loom, Or broidering toy baldricks, with gold thread, Bright, to please baby eyes, that love bright things; Dreaming on all the promise, that I held, And all the storm and stress life held for him. “Then first I saw the doom that Nature laid On women, to be careful harvesters; To plan, and toil, and build for unborn sons, To shape the future out of their own time. These turbulent loud nobles with their feuds Carousing nightly, or in companies Changing their hunting-grounds from place to place, Vexed me with their unthrift and wantonness: I saw them as a hindrance to my son, And pitted craft against their stubborn strength, Fighting each step. They were dark, brooding days, Heavy with sullen menace of a storm; Yet found I friendly faces, in despite Of much unbodied anger, for mine eyes Held the soft light that tames the hearts of men. Yea, and I roused them up with angry words To ride with me for vengeance to the Court Of Hilperik and Fredegonde, who slew Galswith, the white-armed sister whom I loved, The slim, fair sister with deep, dreaming eyes As blue as harebells or calm waters are. “Ah! I remember that frost-silver dawn, Clouded with curtains of deep-billowing mist That rose to hide the first bright beams of day, In a white froth, out of the wooded plains— Delicate, wreathing, spiral broideries; And how the hoofs rang loud upon the road, Galloping o’er the drawbridge as if foes Pressed close behind; the trembling messenger Spent with hard riding, cold, and white with fear; The steaming flanks and withers of the horse; The soldiers pressing close to hear the news; Sigebert, with his knotted veins, and hands Fast-clenched, and anger flaming in his eyes, As Galswith’s servant cried aloud to us: ‘Galswith is slain; Galswith, the Queen, is slain!’ And then, confusedly, as of a dream Disordered, all the terror of the act He built out of his words before mine eyes: The sharp-cut shadows and the frosty light Showing each angle of my battlements And buttresses; and the light snow, that clung, Frozen, against the cloister’s slender shafts, Hanging them with light-splintering icicles: How clearly can I see it! and the gleam Of scarlet and of steel against the snow; And Galswith’s page, wild-eyed and tremulous, Telling us how, as soft as evil dreams, Hilperik and his harlot crept, by night, Into the shadowy chamber where she lay, Her sweet, frail body nestled close in sleep: Sleep, that alone drove sorrow from her soul; And he, the hairy hound, leaped on her bed, Kneeling on those twin breasts of ivory, And crushed the slender throat in his huge hands! “I think I swayed a little; and I know That something seemed to burn up all desire, Leaving me rigid, filled with winter frosts: For I remembered how, when we were young, And shared one chamber in the donjon keep, When she awoke, and felt the darkness, thick And fearful, on her sunshine-loving eyes, First she would call to me, and then, grown brave At her own tongue’s sweet music, cross the floor To creep into my bed, and cling to me, Telling me how she dreamed that she was dead. Think of that black and lustful ravening beast Spoiling the slim white body! Sigebert Would have lit up the land with war that day; But wisdom counselled patience. Bitterly I waited. But my hate was like a hound That, from afar, marks down his prey at dawn; Though the chase last till evening, he keeps His way through shadows, and the blazing noon, Following, tireless, till his throat has blood. Six years I waited, ere in armoured strength I came to reap their harvests with my sword; And hate to me was sweeter far than love. O priest, was that hate sin?” He answered not At once; but met her gaze with level eyes, Then answered: “Brunhild, thou must ask thy soul.” Perhaps she sought there, but no answer breathed Her unmoved lips, close shut with a strange smile; Then with a gesture, grave, magnificent, She spoke again: “What fools have done to me, Or enemies have planned; what shames and wounds Arnulf and Pippin keep for me, or gave: All that I do forgive. But answer, priest: I, who wrought wisely through long weary years To build a kingdom, where was turbulence, And mould a civil state out of this strife, Come at the last unto a shameful death; While Fredegonde, who wrought for her own lust, Died peacefully: has God been just to us? Bow not thy head; bear with my bitterness: Though God desert me in mine hour of need, Yet shall I carry a firm heart to death; Nor blame him, nor blame other than myself, Who never trusted other. These six years Of waiting over, Fredegonde and I Began our war; she, breaking out of bounds, And ravaging some parts of Aquitaine, Till some barbarians from Germany Came at the call of Sigebert, and slew And pillaged all the people up to Chartres, Turning aside to waste and burn the crops, Ploughing the fertile land with war, until Triumphant trumpets, through the startled night Carried our menaces, upon the wind, To Paris, safe among its flooded fields Of reeds, and purple irises, and gold Marsh-mallows, splendid in the light of noon. “Three years our storm of vengeance shook the land Ere Paris fell, and Sigebert in pomp Rode through the gateways, proudly triumphing, And bade me with our children follow him. Hilperik fled to Tournai; and his host Melted as snow in our sweet summer time. How like a bride I felt again that day! My little son beside me on his horse, Carrying high that royal head of his That the sun made more golden, smiled to see Crowding about us all my husband’s men, Who shouted as a welcome in mine ears: ‘Is Galswith now avenged? Have we done well?’ And the cry rippled on through all the ranks While I smiled gladly on them; but my heart Tormented me that Hilperik was fled, And Fredegonde in sanctuary safe, The church of God’s own mother sheltering her. “How thick the people pressed to gaze on me With sullen brows, or angry, wondering! Till suddenly a voice cried musical— _Lo, what a pearl Spain gave unto the world!_ Then, turning at the well-remembered words, I saw, above the shifting, changing crowd, The poet Fortunatus wave to me From a high window, and his maddened eyes, Before the bending street hid him again. “There is a doom on poets; their fond thought Builds an ambitious phantasy, and calls The frail thing Life; this gossamer of dreams Each strong wind shatters. Priest, perchance it was My beauty, like a wind, had wrecked his web, So that his life became quite purposeless, The whole world being alien to him, And only I seemed to him like a star, Beckoning him. Alas! his errant brain Had clothed me, too, with grace that I had not, And then misjudged me. Yea, I know the world Imputes to me adultery and lust; There is a doom on queens as well, it seems, To have each action weighed by vulgar minds, Criticized by the multitude; their names, Toys, with which fools have grown familiar: Yet who would waste denial on this mob Of idle chatterers whose souls are slime. But, riding through this crowd, there came to me A moment when I saw the hopelessness In him, the hopelessness in all the world, Whose praises are as crowns corruptible, Born, as their worthless blame, of ignorance. “I paused not long upon this wintry thought. The world that I had won, before mine eyes Broke into colour, motion, victory, With banners breaking gay, and flashing steel In serried ranks, as Sigebert rode close To kiss me on the cheek, then drew our son From the huge horse that proudly carried him, To his own saddle-bow; and so they rode Through all the army while I followed them.” The grave voice slackened from its pitch, and fell Quavering, and the silence held them both. Then Brunhild raised again her head and spoke In a deep, even voice and passionless: “The swallows of our summer soon were fled. Sigebert left me with a slender guard In Paris, and left Hildebert with me: Then pressed on Tournai, after Hilperik, Who fled before him on to Vitry, where His nobles left him, laying down their arms, Crying aloud: ‘Lo, we are spent with wars, Let Sigebert be King of all the Franks.’ So the news came to me one warm eve when, As the sun dropped behind the western hills, I watched the bright stars one by one grow clear In the green lingering of the faded light, While swans came floating to me on the tide Of the strong Seine, which royally they rode With ruffled snowy plumage and arched necks Out of the distance sailing, like a fleet, And turned their course toward a reedy isle Where each one preened its plumage till soft eve With shuttered eyelids lulled them into sleep. So, even as this isle unto the swans, Peace seemed to me a welcome harbourage; I counted now each step beyond clear gain In the slow progress from our lawless state To an imperial dominion set Over the wreck of that old Roman power; And all my thoughts were eagles carrying The thunder of mine edicts through the world. The folk of Paris, too, had heard the news And gathered by the palace gate that night To see me pass them; as I entered in I thought their frowns had faded. Then I took My way toward the room where Galswith died Suddenly, in that terror-stricken night, To tell her that her kingdom now was mine, If haply her pure spirit still might haunt That mildewed chamber, stained and sanctified By her own blood: but by the arras paused, And through my tears looked on the little room Where she had housed so meanly; and it was To me the temple of her shame and wrongs. Then that old lust for blood, unsatisfied, Dried up the gentle sources of my tears, And I turned back; nor thought to enter in While Hilperik still lived, or Fredegonde. Sleep fell upon mine eyes that night, as soft As snow in April on half-opened buds That usher in the many-coloured months, Unvext by dim anxieties and fears Of misadventures, which had troubled sleep These many nights; and Hildebert, my son, Slept the calm sleep of children by my side, His sweet, warm body nestled close to mine, Sharing the same enchanted realm of dreams. “Then seemed it as if rude and angry sounds Rippled our visions, as a pebble thrown In water blurs the cool reflections there, Till growing louder, more tumultuous, A rumour rose above the huddled roofs That clustered round the palace, shattering The crystal of our dreams, and then a voice Shouted to me: ‘Brunhild, awake and fly! For Sigebert is slain by treachery. Even as we raised him on the kingly shield, Fredegonde’s pages smote on either side With poisoned daggers: all our strength dissolves Into small companies of plunderers Laden with spoil, their horses homeward turned.’ “The harsh voice shuddered through the darkened room Ere torches came, and in their ruddy light I saw the angry eyes of Gondovald Blazing before me with their baffled hate. I trembled by the bed, but mine eyes too Mirrored the angry torches. ‘Take the boy,’ I said to him: ‘I should but hinder you; But leave me in the refuge of the church.’ There by the sleeping saints I sat and watched, Fearing the dawn. So all my work was hurled By ruinous chance to nothing in an hour.” “Brunhild, not chance it was, but punishment: The retribution followed on thy pride; And on thy lust, and hunger for revenge.” But Brunhild turned on him: “Would God destroy A nation newly wakened into life, Because of my one sin; and give the palm Of victory to Fredegonde, whose life Was sin in all its many changing forms? How poor and futile are the sophistries Of schools when one is drawing close to death, That lies before us, silent, shadowy, With veiled horizons and no guiding stars, A vast, unfathomable, empty sea, Broken by no white gleam of friendly sails, Untravelled, claiming all our company, More secret than our wisdom may explore; Into which darkness all of us must go. I go untrammelled by mere selfishness, Conscious that many hopes converged on me, Till I became a symbol in men’s eyes; And still more conscious of the silent strife In mine own spirit when two courses lay Before me, and a voice cried: ‘Choose the best!’ By what I choose now let my soul abide. “One thing I learned, which is a part of hope With me: God knows how willing is man’s soul, Yet how his life is clouded o’er with doom, And hindered by innumerable things; So he will never judge by what I did, But read my soul, and know thence what I was, As no man knows me. Yet with tears I go; For I have loved the green lap of the earth, Its snowy toppling peaks with golden plumes Of sunset, or with sullen clouds of storm; Yea, I have loved the green fields of the earth, And the gray fields of the eternal sea, And night with its wide heavens, garlanded With the innumerable stars, the moon, Who sometimes like a blown sail in the sky, Voyages, or enchants with gentle beams Woodlands, and winding rivers, and still lakes. “And I have loved the seasons in their turn: Spring with her fragile flowers, virginal, Laughing beneath her coverlet of snow; Green Summer with her flocks of singing-birds, Cuckoos, and nightingales, and shrill-voiced lark, And swallows clamorous in crowded nests; Wild Autumn with his wind-swept avenues And fluttering of tawny golden leaves, His late warm ripeness in the apple-trees, The vagueness of his mourning, purple mists; And Winter, finally, with amber lights, His black boughs bare against the azure sky, Or on a gentle, rounded slope of woods, Clouded with purple bloom, his ivied trunks From which the lone owl calls with his deep voice, And, as the rooks pass homeward, overhead The multitudinous murmuring of wings. “All this I leave, and ways wherein my feet Have grown familiar, to voyage out Upon the darkness, void of any star. But in this little moment which is mine, While all my foes are sleeping, drunkenly, Among the dying lights, the broken meats, Which the dogs tear upon the rush-strewn floor While even the moonlight sleeps upon the hills, I build again, out of my memories, The storm and splendour of my troubled life. Even the narrow frontiers of this cell May in the crystal vision of the mind Hold my remembered royalty, and keep Dim memories of old magnificence, Pomp, courtly festivals, and crowded days, Of lovers who bent yearningly to me, Of poets, who made music at my touch As Memnon at the morning’s, of old kings Grave with their wisdom, and young warriors Whose wisdom was the lightness of their hearts; These haunt my solitude, and pay me court, Nor heed misfortune: but of all this state Only one face is there which fills my soul With some strong healing effluence, a grace Of twilight reveries when all things seem Merged in the peace of God, and we become Part of the clear, intense, eternal flame Whose motion is like music, and we lose Sense of ourselves in drawing close to God. Love, that has cleansed the heart of pettiness, Shows me the face of Merow in my dreams.” And, as she spoke, the face of Brunhild lit With radiance from that old love, her face Softened, and age was as a grace to her. “Yea, I loved Sigebert; but all that love Was but my childish wonder at the ways Of men; and I clung close unto his strength. Our friendship might have ripened slow like wine, To be a cheer and comfort to our age, Mellow with wisdom, tranquil, tolerant; Yet is it but a shadow. Happiness Is not the nurture of a steadfast soul; But sorrow binds us with the bonds of love. Love is a suffering, a sacrifice; A hand put out toward all human pain; A fellowship, through danger and the dark: So was the love that Merow taught to me. “The days of my delight had passed like wind Over the water, and had died away; My lutanists and falconers were far; And I sat lonely and a prisoner, With Praetextatus, guarded carefully, When Merow came to Rouen with a troop Of young, light-hearted warriors, the close Friends of his venturous youth and confidence. How could he look on me with gentle eyes Who had pursued his people like a hawk? Yet then his mind turned back to Andovere, Whom convent walls enclosed, and Fredegonde Seemed now so hateful in his sight, he found Companionship with me in hating her. He, with his friends, all day would hunt the boar, And the wild aurochs, but at night would sit Close to the blazing logs, and there I served The warm, spiced ale to them, or ruddy wine From Macon, till I moved them, every one, So that their eyes grew bright at my approach And faded when I left them; thus it was. But I and Merow had not yet drawn close To one another; for when one advanced The other tarried, so we vexed ourselves With sudden heats, and sudden coldnesses, Making each other sensitive and quick In our resentment. Then one evening There came a messenger from Fredegonde To Merow, and he left our company, So that I saw him not again that night; And in the morning back to Fredegonde Returned the messenger, but Merow went Alone, and brooded much in solitude, Nor heeded me, nor sought to speak with me, As he was wont to on the least pretence. “One morning to my room there came a page Of Merow’s, who, when I would talk to him At our chance meetings, blushed and hung his head, But, when I heeded not his presence, gazed Long on my face and fed his dreamings there. He came to me by stealth, in secrecy, And laid his hand upon my hand, and spake: ‘Brunhild, beware of Merow, for he thinks To poison thee, and so to make his peace With Fredegonde, who thus has tempted him. And she has sent him poisons, which the art Of Lapland sorcerers distilled for her, From herbs accurséd, in the moon’s eclipse, Bidding him mix the draught into thy wine. So, if he bids thee drink, drink not, but rest Thy lips upon the rim, lest thou shouldst die.’ “Ah! how the sky seemed barren of all light When the soft voice had finished whispering; And my soul questioned me in weariness: What plan or purpose was there left in life, If my belovéd plotted death for me? But yet I thanked the page, and let him kiss My hand, and gave him a thick ring of gold, And sent him from me ere I turned to weep. “Great bitterness was mine for many days: Then one day in the cheerful, fire-lit hall, When Merow and his company had come Home from the chase, and feasted joyfully While his hounds couched beside the glowing fire, Merow, who had been sitting watching me, Called for his horn, ringed several times with gold, And filled it with the warm, spiced, foaming ale From the great bowl; and filled a golden cup Which Praetextatus out of Italy Had brought, and given him, with the red wine; Wrought all of gold this fair cup was, wherein Were Danaë in the brazen tower shown, And sweet Europa clinging to her Bull, And Leda on a pleasant river-side Crushing the lilies with her silver flank While the Swan kissed her lips and fast-shut eyes; This was the cup that Merow filled, and then He came, and put it in my hands, and spoke: “‘Thou fairest among women, whose bright eyes Have lit for us these sunless winter days, With radiant kindliness and gracious smiles Cheering our weariness, though in thy heart Sorrow for Sigebert still weeping lies: How shall we render thanks for courtesy When all our thanks would not outweigh one smile That kindles in thine eyes, and curves thy lips Upward, and lingers there deliciously, Though the deep eyes have once again turned grave With sorrow half remembered? O fair Queen, Sprung of a kingly race, and not like her Whose rule has been a curse unto this land, A bastard peasant, spawned in infamy, We pledge thee in our beakers: pledge thou us And if perchance, O Queen, thy widowed days Pass wearily and sorrow sleep with thee Ere youth has even ripened with the sun In thy clear cheeks, then choose among us men; For we are young, and hardy in the chase, And foremost in the battle, and our limbs Are straight and comely, and our eyes are bright With health, and we have riches, all of us, And all are noble, for our fathers rule Over wide tracts of land and many folk, In their strong castles; but this company Have left the Court where sin and crime are crowned To wander with me through this pleasant land, Delighting in our minstrels and the chase: Or if thou wilt not choose among us here, Then pledge us in the cup, and so shall we Depart hence, for thy beauty troubles us; Yet shall we help thee into thine own land.’ “He spoke, and they applauded; and I took Out of his hand the curious wrought cup, And looked toward the page, even he who came That day to warn me, and he dropped his eyes And shuddered; but I shuddered not. ‘O Prince,’ I answered him, ‘could all my words avail To thank thee for thy kindliness to me, Yet there would still remain within my heart Thoughts too divine to rise in utterance, Which even lovers’ tongues may never tell, Though their hearts feel them, fluttering with wings. I would some sleight of thine had filled the cup With a love-potion, such as Iseult gave To Tristram, while they journeyed to King Marc In their beaked ship across the glooming sea, And thou hadst tasted of it, ere my lips Drank of the potent venom. But, O Prince, No potion is there to increase my love: Stronger it is than death, and deeper far Than the blue depths of the untravelled sea. Love fills me utterly, and is my blood; So that, belovéd, hadst thou bade me drink Of some death-working potion Fredegonde Had learned from Lapland sorcerers to brew, Thus would I drink it!’ and I drained the cup, Then spoke once more: ‘Yea, even if one came To warn me of the snare which she had laid, And that thy heart consented to the deed, As one did come to me.’ ‘Brunhild!’ he cried; And a loud cry arose from all his friends, A sudden turmoil, suddenly to cease, Leaving them mute, amazed. Then Merow spake: “‘Queen, to thine hosts impute no treachery, For Praetextatus and myself are free From guilt in this though Fredegonde conspired: Who said my heart consented lied to thee! O Queen of the white hands and smiling eyes, My heart is not a traitor to its love To harbour evil thoughts against thy peace; And ever since mine eyes first looked on thee To see the wind lift from thy placid brows A tendril of thine aureate, sunlit hair; And ever since mine ears first heard thy voice Fall through the darkness like a gleam of light, Enchanting them with its swift wizardry; And ever since I felt the gentle touch Of thy hand laid upon my hand, which woke And troubled the deep waters of my soul,— My heart has been thy captive. O, my Queen, Life was before me like a mystery Filled with innumerable tongues of fear; But at thy touch I saw the world and life Green with the promise of delightful days, And like a harp of many twisted strings My heart was, on which your white hand did play— Or was it but the wind?—a melody Awakening strange hopes and strong desires And that old dream of beauty, triumphing Within my soul, of how the world might come, In time, to be a garden, such as was Eden upon the hills, which first the dawn Silvers, and broiders with her rosy veils: Eden, where you and I were left, alone! Ah, love, perchance our love might recreate Again that garden walled from our desire!’ “When he had ended, his strong hand was laid On my slim hand, his fingers twined with mine, His eyes fed on mine eyes; and thus we stood Silent before his friends. As first one bough Whispers unto his fellow, in the wind, Who, soft, repeats to those who neighbour him Until the wood is filled with whisperings, So they unto each other whispered there. But Merow led me silent from the hall Into the night, the company of stars Innumerable, and of fragrant winds Sweet with our secrets, murmuring delight.... How softly come these visions of the past! Softly as shadows, or as glimmering sails Upon the moonlit sea, or like shy fish Through green translucent waters, to depart In sudden swirls, while silver bubbles rise. “Next morning Praetextatus said a mass, And laid my hand in Merow’s, his in mine, Making us one.” She paused in sudden pain, Bending her eyes down to the rotten straw, While the priest watched her silent agony. Then once again raised up her head and spake: “What canst thou know of love, O loveless priest? How comfort me for all which I have lost? Nay then, bend not nor blush; my bitterness Has made my tongue a whip, I see, to score The poor weak body which is consecrate, Yet sometimes turns from heaven, desiring earth.” She ended, and the priest spake unto her, Turning on her his melancholy eyes: “Brunhild, I blame thee not for bitterness, Nor that thy words have vexed my quiet soul With passions that I thought asleep at last. Suffering is a part of my desire; It is a part of knowledge, and a part Of that great human heart which calls on God Because it is so comfortless on earth. Rather I thank thee for awakening Something within my soul that thrills with love For that sweet human love which promises The fluttering caress of children’s hands, Their flute-like voices waking with the dawn, The gaiety and laughter of their day. But all these fleeting voices of our life, The loves and sensual desires of earth, Our joy in childhood, are but memories Of innocence in sheltered Paradise, Where in one music, flowering like flames, They mix together, swelling symphonies Celestial beyond our mortal ears. So to me once there came a dream more fair Of love unhindered by mortality That veils us from each other, but which flowed, Two souls in unison, as when two flames Meet, and are one, and have a common life. Yea, my desire at last is one with God: And children are his messengers on earth.” Then Brunhild answered him: “In the frail light, I see so many children whom I bore: But there are none of Merow’s children there; Our marriage was a moment: and our sons Were dreams we saw in one another’s eyes. Yet if I speak of him my spirit feels, Through the thin veils of flesh, the gentle touch Of ghostly hands put out to comfort me: Hands that were Merow’s, tremulous with love. Ah! shall I speak to you of that calm dawn, When we two rode together toward Tours, Through woods but newly wakened into life? The spring was laughing with her April eyes, Her fingers decked each bough with tender bloom Of bud and blossom, and her feet awoke The daisies, primroses, and violets, While many birds, her swift-winged messengers, Shrilled, from each dripping bough, her hymns of love, In notes that chimed as sweet as rain on leaves; And swallows hawked for flies above each pool, That mirrored their light motion glassily. “Mile upon mile we rode, through wood and field, High pastures where the shepherds tended sheep, Counting the new-dropped lambs, and valleys green Where hamlets sheltered, smoke-wreaths from each house Curled upward slowly in the windless air, And sparrows quarrelled on the well-thatched roofs, Until at noon we found a sheltered spring, In a small hollow under aspen trees. Margined by reeds this mirror was, and gold With mallows in the reeds, and smooth grass lay About it, and the water bubbled clear Out of a fissure where grew many ferns. There, while the horses cropped the tender grass, We sate together, and no word was said. But on a sudden Merow took my hand In his, and looked at me with pleading eyes. I dropped my gaze, and silent plucked a flower. But ever closer drew that yearning face; And his hand grew more amorous, his mouth Closed upon mine; nor was I hard to win, Wearied with my desire and love for him. So the woods saw our wedlock, while the bees Went murmuring about the white-starred grass, At their sweet business, as we at ours; Till Merow spake: ‘Dear heart, the night creeps on, Hanging the distance with her silver mists, And the swift-darting swallows leave the pool Unrippled by their wings, while the quick bat Haunts their deserted ways in flickering haste: Come, let us journey onward now to Tours. Is the way weary that is urged by love, Love, who has shown us so delightful things?’ “He raised me to the saddle, kissed the foot He placed within the stirrup, and we rode, Regretting that green harbourage of joy Strown with its fragrant herbs. The moonlight played Between the branches swaying overhead, To throw fantastic shadows on the ground, And the shy horses restive grew with fright When a wolf howled, and fear pursued our feet. Quietly rode we down the dusky ways; Till Merow paused and listened, and we heard Behind us, muffled, or ringing on the stones, The beat of many hoofs. Ah! then we rode With the keen sense of danger that is joy, Galloping down the steep and stony path, Abreast, where a false step would ruin all, As if we played a game of chance with Fate; And Merow smiled at me and I at him. “Soon the woods thinned where many trees lay felled, And slopes of pasture rolled toward the Loire, Enchanted with the moonlight; and we saw, Black on the silver sky, the new-built tower Of Tours unfinished, with its beacon fire. But ever closer drew our enemies, Till, on the level road toward the ford, Merow and I gave our brave horses rein And heard grow fainter the hoarse threats of those Hired murderers, and won the goal at last, Secure for night with wise old Gregory. “Long after matins, in the carven choir, Sweet with the scent of cedar, and the breath Of incense lingering like a ghost of prayer, Came Gregory, and spoke reproving me: ‘Brunhild, I know not whether temperate The heart of woman ever is, but thine Is all too quick, too passionate, untamed, Too rash in the pursuit of its desire, Too heedless of the motion of thy friends. Fredegonde feared and hated thee, but force Constrained her unto patience for a time: Since Gondovald had threatened her with war If she should harm thee, and her forces were Disheartened, and the land weighed down with dearth, Threatening famine if the harvest fail. She saw her throne secure and ’stablished firm As a sure heritage for her own son, Contemptuous of Merow, whose light heart, Unversed in intricate state subtilty, Was pleasured most in roaming through the woods, Or in an idle courtly dalliance With lute-players and poets of his train; Yet did she not intend that he should live Longer than those ephemeral, fair things, To whom the warmth of one delightful day, And fragrance of the flowers, are all life: When the time came she would be as a hawk To rend the singing-bird she so despised. Thou shouldst have fled alone to Gondovald, And Merow, then, have followed thee by stealth; But now the way is lost: thy passions ride Full-armoured through restraint, though careful hands And cunning might have lifted up the nets. Thy flight with Merow fans into a flame Passions of fear, dynastic jealousies. Merow alone were nothing, but with thee He is a danger in her path, a sword To be encountered ere Lothair may sit Throned above France.’ I rose and answered him: “‘I have been blinded by the tears of Love, Lulled into heavy slumber with his wine, Till life slipped by me, fugitive as dreams, While I lay drowned in an excess of joy, Fed but unsated, and insatiable. Ah! this interminable stress of life Intruding on the splendid pageantry, Wherein is decked the gaudy press of dreams, That flatter love, as if another sense, Imagination, showed us the true world. I am but half a dreamer, and can shut My purpose close unto the narrow view, To seize the nearest opportunity, Weaving it into this strange web of life, As now I make the fate of Merow mine. Yet am I compact of so many moods, That a great yearning comes on me at times For an illimitable night of stars, Jewelling with their fire the purple vault Of Heaven, wherein my soul would hang, alone, Unconscious of this striving purposeless, That vexes all our being; and anon Comes, soft as flutes on an enchanted night, The murmur of Life’s magic in mine ears. The old cajoler and her henchman Love Lure me into their arms again with spells, That veil the infinite in warm desires, Cloaks and dissimulations of her aim. “‘So have I fed on dreams this month or more. But a new motive quickens in my mind, And all my old ambitions are astir; Fredegonde day and night may toil and spin, I am the fresher for that I have slept If Gondovald may threaten her from Metz With armies of my followers and friends, Sworn to my service, may not I from here Threaten as well and equally be heard? And when her fear of armies is aroused, May I not lull to sleep those other fears Born of my love for Merow, telling her That he was but a means to my escape. Love never hindered her in the pursuit Of her ambition; lovers are her dupes: So let her judge of me. Merow will stay In Tours with you, hiding his yellow hair And simulated sorrow in a cowl, Till I am firmly seated by my son. Then let him come to me, and we shall weld The kingdoms of the Franks into one crown Imperial, whose might will shake the world, And roll Mahomet back to his own place Before our banners blazoned with the Cross. Lend me thy help in this, and I shall bless Thy church and Rome with many precious gifts, Spoiled of the conquered.’ And he answered me: “‘Thou art a woman such as deserts breed: A prophetess among the elect of God, Who lays his mission on thee, with his hand, As even once on Judith, and on Jael, On Miriam, and Esther; such an one As burns with all the strength and wrath of God, Consumed with zeal, devoted unto death, A sword of hatred to the impious. Plough up this land again with bloody war; And I shall bless thy work. A Herod sits Supreme above us: reach to pluck him down, This Nero of our time, this hangman king, Who spoils our abbeys and the Church’s land: Let him be as the quarry to thy hounds. What matter if the ruin of the rain Cumber our garden-paths with fallen leaves Or ever autumn come, when nourished Earth But grows more fecund at its fertile touch, And germinates with new luxuriance? Let us not waste this night, but seek a means To freedom for thee. Merow stays with me Waiting until their vigilance be dulled, And rusted by slow time; till idleness Become a hunger after wanton sports; Till I have lured them into vain delights Of banqueting, and music, and the chase After such game, or fierce or amorous, As their lust shows them, perilously keen. But, meanwhile, I shall send to Fredegonde Two counsellors of subtile wit, to weave Light snares about her so she feel them not, Till, multiplied, they hold as fast as steel.’ “So planned we in the shadowy dim aisles, In confidence of time, as if it brought Ever expected gifts and no defeat: And ere another morn I fled, alone, By unfrequented ways: and many years Passed ere I looked on Gregory again.”