Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 2.djvu/421

From his eaves'-nest, the elm-bough swayed
Moaning;—they slumbered unafraid.

Without a creak the chamber-door
Crept open!—with a cat-like tread,
Shading his lamp with hand that bore
A dagger, came beside their bed
The Count. His hair was tinged with gray:
Gold locks brown-mixed before him lay.

A thrust,—a groan,—a fearful scream,
As from the peace of love's sweet rest
She starts!—O God! what horrid dream
Swells her bound eyeballs? From her breast
Fall off the garments of the night,—
A red hand strikes her bosom's white!

She knew no more that passed; her ear
Caught not the hurried cries,—the rush
Of the scared household,—nor could hear
The voice that broke the after-hush:—
"There with her paramour she lay!
He lies here!—carry her away!"

The evening after I was born
No roses on the bier were spread,
As when for maids or mothers mourn
Pure-hearted ones who love the dead;
They buried her, so young, so fair,
With hasty hands and scarce a prayer.

Count Bernard gained the lands, while I,
Cast forth, forgotten, thus have grown
To manhood; for I could not die—
I cannot die—till I atone
For her great shame; and so you see
I track him, and he flies from me.

And one day soon my hand I'll lay
Upon his arm, with lighter touch
Than ladies use when in their play
They tap you with their fans; yet such
A thrill will freeze his every limb
As if the dead were clutching him!

I think that it would make you smile
To see him kneel and hear him plead,—
I leaning on my sword the while,
With a half-laugh, to watch his need:—
At last my good blade finds his heart,
And then this red stain will depart.