University of Virginia Library

I.— HOW MANO AND FERGANT RETURNED TO NORMANDY.

Like to the rising of the morning ray,
Albeit arisen on ruin, waste and wreck,
When storm has happened since the last sunk day,
So can the soul herself with brightness deck,
When new-found resolution bears her on,
And bids her not of broken hopes to reck:
So can she make to shine the beam that shone
On works that perished in a night of woe,
On waste of toil, on wreck of promise gone.
Thus was it found, when we began to go
In homeward voyage our remeasured road
By river, plain, or hill, or valley low
Which we had passed before: not now they showed
Their former face, the radiance that they wore,
The light by hope and enterprise bestowed.
But when we came beyond the Italian shore
Into the Alps, the abrupt of icy cold,
Then Mano in his face new purpose bore;
As if that late distress were now of old,
Or put to distance in the deeps of heart,
And to life's eye new solace were unrolled.
But I the while grew sadder on my part,
Foreboding more the nearer home we drew
Through all the realms that Burgundy dispart.
And when to Normandy our travel grew,
That land which from old misery knew I,
But he from better memory only knew,
Then hope more fully lit his inward eye;
And there at length we rested from our way,
And fixed ourselves in a fair hostelry.
Then he bethought him of the prouder day
When he for Blanche the Fair had burned and sighed,
Who for Giroie had flung his love away:
Of her much thought he and her glorious pride,
But of Joanna more, her sister dear,
Who now in cloister's strictness did abide.
The name of her full often did I hear
Burst from his lips with groanings miserable
Of pity, of love, and of distracted cheer.
“Ah, couldst thou know, poor dove, how hard a spell
Of heart-ache in my breast is kept for thee,
Sure holiness would comfort thee not well:
“Thou, with whom once I joyed, thou who to me
Alone in life hast given that blessedness
Which but they know who love exceedingly:
“Couldst thou know all, heaven might content thee less.”
Thus would he say: or else in manner wild,
“Was thy sweet banquet spread, thou gentleness,
“Which wanted still thy guest, oh loveliest child!
Ah, now to me are many thoughts grown clear,
Which then I knew not, being but beguiled,
“Yea, fooled perchance by him whom I held dear.
But now, albeit in a day too late,
To thy still dwelling am I drawing near.”
Thus ever on the road he held debate,
Within his mind, suspicious, it might be,
Of Gerbert's counsel of unhappy fate,
Who kept Joanna's love in secrecy,
Whenas the same she did to him confess
Ere Mano took the way to Italy.
For love may kindle love, though late not less;
And kindled love, of whatso bars his way,
All secret though it be, is keen to guess.
Then in the hostelry wherein we lay,
It came into my mind that not far thence
Stood Blanche's gard, the castle high and gay,
Where with Giroie she kept her residence,
And, filled with mighty wealth, her high-towered seat
Above her manors rose in eminence.
Which thing to Mano when I gan repeat,
He answered, “Dread have I, hearing that name,
For great upon me is her power sweet:
“But not the less go we to seek the same,
As pilgrims both: and thou the words shalt speak,
But I shall keep in silence, fearing shame.”
This was agreed when the next day should break.

II.— OF A STRANGE DREAM WHICH CAME TO FERGANT.

Now that same night I dreamed a curious dream.
There were two lovers, who did envy oft
The little rabbits feeding in the beam
Of moonlit woods: if but they might have doffed
The pains of human nature: then at last
They both resolved to change into those soft
Quick-shadowed things: they did so; and there passed
A pleasant time: then he was changed again
Into a bear-like monster dark and vast,
And she into her native form was ta'en.
To her he came: but she from her away
Drave him full fast: and he in grief was fain
To climb into a tree, while down she lay
Upon a bank below: then presently
He crept again toward her: but might not stay,
So fiercely met she him: and with a sigh
He went away again: and thus once more
She met him, when the third time he drew nigh.
Then to his tree he moved, perplexed sore,
And waited midst the leaves fallen and brown,
And far off watched her on the forest floor:
Until she cried, “Sir knight, sir knight, come down.”
He ran to her, and found her covered o'er
With yellow things, as is the rabbit town
With that thick-swarming people, “Many an hour,”
Said she to him, “have I lain on my side
In endless pains: now therefore me devour.”
Whereat he wept, and would not: then she died:
And, lo, there was another monster grim
And terrible, who rose up by his side:
And him that monster slew. Such was this dream.

III.— HOW SIR MANO SAW BLANCHE THE FAIR AGAIN.

The morrow, as the day began to clear,
We took our way along the country brown,
Far as that hill where stood the castle near.
Like pilgrims were we clad in hood and gown:—
Alas, we went to gain but dule and teen
From blowing on love's torch burnt wholly down.
The castle with close windows seemed, I ween,
Refusing Blanche to us with sad aspect,
And heaved his thick wall with denying screen.
But we our steps stayed not, nor purpose checked,
Ere thither we arrived, and passed the gate.
(So they who sail to rocks must needs be wrecked.)
Then in a chamber we were bidden wait
The coming of that lady sweet and rare,
Who was to him the bitterness of fate.
She came, nor she alone: her husband there
Came with her, step by step: and round his neck
Her arm was cast: in sooth she left him ne'er,
What time she talked with us: nor sought to check
Her fondness for him, deeming us to be
Religious men, of whom no need to reck.
Slow was her gait, thus led on tenderly;
Most noble was her face: yea, fairer now
Than when her beauty drew all men to see,
And o'er bold eyes made droop their eyelids low;
But pale she was, albeit so sweet of face,
And plain it was to see by signs enow
That very soon a babe should be in place.
Pity and love pulled both our hearts, I ween,
At her behaviour and her gallant grace.
Never so fair was Blanche the Fair yet seen:
For transport and love's plenitude were shed
On her great loveliness with ray serene.
Then with pleased voice, as one who sees the thread
Of his own dream confirmed by wayside thing,
While still he walks with dreams, to us she said:
“Ye holy men, from Italy who bring
News of the Normans there, welcome are ye:
And that ye tarry in your journeying,
“And to this castle turn aside for me,
The cause is not unknown, and must be told
Before mine husband, what it seems to be.
“Ye are from that knight Mano, who of old
(For old is that which is of other day)
To that same land his armed course did hold:
“No other thing than this espy I may.”
—“No other thing is true,” I soon answered,
“By Mano bidden we have turned this way,
“To know of thee what tidings might be heard.
For thee he held for lady of his thought,
When here he stood: and thee in heart revered.”
—“Then tell him, since by right thus much is sought
And granted, that thou sawest me,” she said,
“In happiness, to which all else is nought,
“With this dear knight, with whom my days are led:
Tell him that thought of all the past is gone,
That this sweet present makes the past more dead;
“Since every living moment liveth on
In the same joy which to the next it gives:
And this dear knight, this sweet and perfect one,
“Ordains that as my joy in him, his lives
In me: in each the other's joy alone:
Joy that with life increase of joy receives.”
While thus she spoke, still round his neck was thrown
Her long and heavy arm; nor ceased she
With his large head to play, whose short curls shone:
And ever on him leaned she lovingly,
Staying on him her body's tender weight.
And Sir Giroie failed nought of courtesy,
And gave to us good looks and welcome great,
Though Mano held himself but dumb the while.
“Ye holy men,” then she, “this happy state
“Which ye be come to witness many a mile,
Report to him who sent you hitherward;
And, since ye go, heaven on your journey smile.
“But bid him of our joy think nothing hard,
For noble heart sees other's joy content;
And he one day may meet his joy prepared,
“His lover true, by God unto him sent:
Which is the only joy preserved to man.”
Then thus in parting words toward her I went.
“Lady, the man thou namest never wan
That gift of human fortune, nor may win.
But leave we him: he with fair star began,
“And so may end, e'en as he did begin,
Without the aid of love's all-moving power,
Which oftest works but sorrow, pain, and sin.”
This said, of other converse in that hour
In courteous gentleness did much ensue,
While yet we tarried in that happy bower:
And of Diantha and Joanna true
Somewhat that day we learned, which in right place
Shall be related and set forth to view.
And therewith parted we: and face to face
Mano and Blanche the Fair met never more,
And she in childbirth died in no great space:
Whom always her sad love lamented sore,
And from possession passed to vacancy:
Whom this, her lover of a day before,
Unknown beheld unknowing silently.
So love, but not of him, brought her to end,
So passeth she out of this history.
And now we took our leave, and made to wend
Out from the chamber on our backward road:
The fair white clouds above the woods did bend,
And measured out round hills and valleys broad,
And the light sunbeam travelled with the cloud.
But dark was Mano's heart with anger's goad,
And in the court he chafed in his dark shroud:
But if he had been known, full well I ween
No pity to his pain had she allowed:
For where was yet the woman ever seen
Who pitied the distempers of the mind?
He smote his hand against the iron keen
Whose heavy bar her lordly gates confined,
And from the stroke some drops of blood there flowed:
She to such wound had shown herself more kind
Than to his wounded mind she ever showed.—
Oh, ordered well, lest earthly creature steal
That highest love to creature never owed!
And here I add that which de Montreuil
Told me long after of this interview,
When kindness had no favour to conceal:—
That all the while he well Sir Mano knew,
But seeing that he kept himself unshown,
Gave never sign, neither his covert drew,
To find if Mano guessed that he was known.

IV.— OF A DREAM THAT CAME TO SIR MANO.

Now when we gained the road, a sudden pain
Shot through my breast, making me like to die;
And I perceived my sickness come again.
Upon the knight I leaned full heavily,
Whilst he with gentleness and kindly cheer
Conveyed me back into the hostelry.
No further might we then in voyage steer,
But there long time in forced harbour lay,
And still upon me grew that sickness drear.
And of that evil time I have to say
That it was bringing in our parting hour,
Which found her place in no far distant day,
When Mano was borne from me by the power
Of evil fate:—in sickness I was left,
And him did flames of destiny devour.
But ere the day that I was so bereft,
There chanced another thing, which I shall tell,
To show that destiny cannot be wefte;
And how fate sendeth her forecasting spell.—
It was a dream, wherein in changeful maze
He was with Gerbert mixed, that him befell:
This he to me related in those days;
And this it was: Appeared that they two
Were in a road beyond the city ways,
When first the ground was strewn with lighter snow;
And as their way they held, discoursing deep,
They seemed to meet with many whom they knew;
But next they were alone: then night gan creep
Upon the pathway: and the wood grew dark
On either hand; 'twas hard the path to keep.
Then past them somewhat went, it seemed a spark,
Which back returned around them dancingly;
And something drear therein did Mano mark.
It seemed to be that man of Italy,
Whom he had slain, and for that crime had left
The land of his unknown nativity.
Then Gerbert held him strongly; but he reft
The hold of Gerbert, and the form pursued,
Which went before, not looking right or left,
And vanished lastly in the ancient wood—
Then turned he back, and on the presage ill
Of that strange sign they both in thought did brood;
But neither spake, for they were pacing still
A darksome road of trouble and affright,
Till they beheld a house beside a hill,
That stood amid wild trees, and by dim light
Was spread a darksome field, in midst whereof
A strong horse stood, that seemed a dangerous sight.
But Mano said, “Lord Gerbert, long enough
We go afoot: mount thou this good horse now,
Since thou art wearied by this voyage rough.”
Then Gerbert said, “With folly avisest thou
To ride such horse: and furthermore I warn
That thou ride not, lest danger thereof grow.”
But Mano seized the horse with stubborn scorn:
And thereupon from out the wicket gate
An old man came, and said, “Of woman born
“None ride the horse without a loss full great:
For he will bear thee far; but it shall be
To thine own hurt.” But he, “Withhold debate:
For whitherso this horse will carry me,
Thither it is my mind to mount and ride,
Even to my hurt.”—“The horse will carry thee
Far thitherward,” the aged man replied.
“Farewell, Lord Gerbert,” Mano answered there;
“Tarry thou here, whatever shall betide,
For on this road I promise far to fare.”

V.— OF THE SAME.

Full long he rode amid the darksome waste,
And mightily the fierce horse bore him on:
So that like clouds, that by the wind are chased,
The dark trees overhead sailed one by one:
But the horse sped, like rage his courage high,
Till a white river in the pathway shone,
Whose chilly stream gave answer to the sky;
The which he crossed, but met again full soon,
And whitherso he turned, the stream was nigh:
Heading his course, it still lay whitely strewn,
Or brimming, murderous dark, from shore to shore,
Or dully silvered, as by clouded moon.
But last the enraged waves, his path before,
Ran broadly forth, and cast a bloody glare,
As if their breast an angry meteor bore:
And their rough-watered bulks did heave and flare
In hillocks yellow and red. The war-horse proud
Leaped onward, rushing through the fiery air;
And down the steep bank toward the surface bowed,
While his fierce feet the coltsfoot leaves trod down,
Whose mighty growth served the rough stones to shroud.
And Mano saw the waters flash and frown,
And plunge beside the image of a fire,
Which seemed the other element to crown.
Then was the river gone, with sudden ire;
And left behind a maiden standing there,
Whose coming strange in mind he gan admire:
But knowing her to be Diantha fair,
Resolved to not admire, because he found
That he thereof had always been aware:
But held her by the hand: when from the ground
She seemed with shrieks to rise: and in his hand
Only white bones remained, which dropped around,
And with their ruin littered all the land.
Herewith he started from his evil sleep,
Holding the dream within his mind's command,
But troubled at the same with trouble deep.

VI.— HOW MANO PARTED FROM FERGANT.

Oh, mind of man, whose thoughts with travel sore
Cannot arrive the ground where simple sense
In the beginning stood: thou, who the more
Thou strivest in the sum of things immense,
The less achieving, seest that centre firm,
Where thou wouldst plant thy footing, to move thence
Crumbling resolve itself from term to term,
And leave unsure the measure that remains:
Thou, taking thought, canst not thyself confirm.
Thou canst not from the incorporeal plains
Of the old atomic chaos separate
Thyself: not that contained from that contains.
Nothing canst thou by thought discriminate;
For all is one and one is all by thought,
And motion cannot be in nature's state.
But by the senses winged, thou sett'st at nought
The halting intellect: and at a bound
Reachest thy ends, which else were never raught.
Thy deeds and being thought would fain confound,
And call not possible: but thou dost live,
Nor knowest thyself by mockeries wrapped and wound.
So great a might to thee the senses give.
But when, cut off from sense, in sleep sopite,
The soul, not sensible, but sensitive,
Takes her own instruments, of finer might
Than eye or ear, though fashioned to the same
Of purpose, then she sees further than sight,
Hears more than sound: then doth her skill acclaim
O'er moveless thought her wider victories:
Then, if she sport, she maketh better game,
And boldly spreads the shows she doth devise:
Or if to heaviness her mood be bent,
Being perplexed or troubled anywise,
More swiftly then by her the cloud is rent
Which bears the thundrous store of threatening fate:
For past and last future to her present.
So to the coming evil gave the date
That dream predictive, which the noble knight
Told to my ears, and did the same debate.
The heads of things to come in wavering light
Moved up and down therein, as on the wall
Beyond my bed the arras shook in sight;
And its inwoven heads did rise and fall
Above the wood-fire's smoke invisible,
Which made them quiver and grow dim withal.
Sad grew my heart to hear what he did tell,
But sadder, when he said, “I must be gone:
Therefore, dear fellow, bid I thee farewell:
“But have no fear, I shall return anon;
For, as it seems to me, I soon shall find
Diantha, whom our quest is set upon.
“But this may be to hurt: for to my mind
The thing that I have met seems verily
To show success to us, with harm behind.”
Then bade I him to go, sith what must be
None may prevent: and from my chamber door
He passed: and soon was armed: and forth went he,
Whom living on this earth I saw no more.

VII.— HOW MANO FOUND DIANTHA WITH THE PEASANTS IN THE WOOD: AND HIMSELF WAS TAKEN PRISONER BY THE LORDS.

Oh, sweetest known of men, now must I tell
How fate captived and put thee in her cart,
And at the wheel tolled her funereal bell:
Oh thou, that wast the nearest to my heart,
My pitied one, my brave, my note of praise,
Who on that destined day from me didst part!
This destined man fared forth upon the ways,
But met no living wight the silent day:
And but whenas the night began to raise
Her black escutcheon over vesper grey,
Calling up blots that in the soft air spread,
And swept the sunlight gradually away:
Then entered he a forest dark and dread,
Of lonely passage and sad scenery,
By banks and dales where rushes grow to head:
Through little streams that bubbled secretly,
By thickening trees, which now the way denied,
For many hours with travel sore went he,
Nor sign of man in all the weald descried;
Yet held he on, as knowing well the while
That men were hidden in the covert wide.
And last he reached a place where in close file
The trees seemed wattled up with underwood:
And, slowly pushing through the rough-paled pile,
Straightway within a cleared space he stood;
And saw a fire, whose flame the trees displayed
Standing in circuit, an enclosing wood,
With openings in their boughs of darker shade:
Sad-eyed, annose, their giant arms they raised
O'er him who dared their secret haunt invade.
But there were other eyes that on him gazed,
And arms uplifted in more dangerous threat:
For in the clearing, round the fire that blazed,
The peasants in assembly wild were met:
The carlots who first raised that meteor vain
Which Robert caused in bloody mists to set:
They whom distress and poverty constrain
Against the seigneurs and their heavy dues
To meet in conjuration, and complain:
Whence war, defeat, ruin, and foul misuse
Of victory upon them overthrown;
Whom Robert, he of Rouen, did abuse.
Tortures and deaths he dealt before unknown
Even in this age of blood and dismal deed:
Of which thing all the woe cannot be shown
To hurt the eyes of those who choose to read:
And though't was deemed quenched and in blood washed out,
The bitter cure did not at once succeed,
Nor the last vestige of the fever dout:
For still with secret arms, and hearts of fire,
The peasants met, the ways and woods about.
Whence this assembly, where with wild desire
They of their wants consult. What wonder then
That cries of tumult and ferocious ire
Broke forth amid those wild and desperate men,
Whenas the knight drew up with sudden rein
Within the precinct of their hidden den,
And sat back on his horse with musing mien?
Anon with knives uplifted two of them,
Backing each other, came on him amain,
In mind the rider or the horse to maim;
Lean varlets were they both, in ragged gear.
But he with drawn sword put away their aim,
Sparing to smite them, though they hung anear:
And cried aloud, “Oh, lamentable crew,
Consider well what thing in me ye fear;
“Think, if ye take my life, what deed ye do.
I am not of the number of your sieurs,
Whose rigour wrings revenge of yours from you.
“Nothing perforce hold I from you of yours.
No land have I to levy tax or toll.
But true it is that he the worst endures,
“Whose hostile semblance blots the mind's control,
And gives him hostile, all he friendly be:
And so these arms belie my pitying soul.”
Hereat they paused, and stood at gaze to see:
And then the peasant leader drew anear,
And gan demand what person he might be.
But while he question made with look severe,
A woman came beside and curiously
Under the helmet of the knight gan peer:
Then lightly laughed. “'Tis Mano,” thus cried she,
“Thou, Elfeg, shalt not kill him for my sake:
Nor spy, nor traitor, nor hard lord is he,
“But that most silly man, who me did take
From Italy, and brought me thitherward
With trouble sore, that I for him still make.
“What, Mano, knowest thou not whom thou didst guard
So soberly, who ran from thee at last?
Truly a tender charge hadst thou in ward,
“Who might support nor heat nor chilly blast:
Though in these woods since then the bitter round
Of all the seasons four she hath o'erpassed.”
With that she bent her face toward the ground
A moment: then looked up with haughty head:
“Take him, and guard him well; but never wound.”
Then, looking long on her, Sir Mano said,
“Diantha, if thou foundest me whilere
Neither unkind, nor by thy wiles misled,
“Such find me now, when unto thee I swear
That now shall be performed what erst I swore,
The charge which from thy father yet I bear,
“To bring thee back, and to thy place restore.
And thou, the more that thou hast evil done,
Wash out the same by reparation more.”
When this she heard, much laughed that wicked one,
And circled off from him, and kept aloof:
But stedfast there he sat, and all did shun
To put his arms of knighthood to the proof,
Armed but with knives and poles, and clad in skin.
Then from his stedfast look fearing reproof
(As virtue ever hath the bet of sin)
She taketh by the hand her paramour,
Elfeg that hight, and to the knight did win;
And much she urged, that she might 'scape that hour,
And live in wood with that strong caitiff lewd
To whom she pleased to give her beauty's dower.
All which Sir Mano would not: yet he viewed
The while her beauty with full wonderment:
For never yet was seen in sted so rude
So fair a creature, nor on earth yet sent.
Clad was she in grey dress, with hodden hood
Of crimson, as his dream did her present.
Full grown was she to the wide open bud
Which beauty in her summer bears to sight:
Red were her cheeks in newest womanhood:
Her eyes were like two stars of piercing light:
Which now she strove to soften in appeal
Unto the mercy of the grave-browed knight.
But he with whom she stood was one to steel
All pity in a mind that could descry
The inward treasure through the outer seal.
He was not young, compared with her, pardy:
Nor yet with Mano: but nigh thirty years:
His hair was reddish, rusty, tossed on high;
And round his eyes were scattered loathly hairs,
Both brow and lashes: which stood thick and long;
Like to the beetle, when in rage he rears.
To his red eyeballs did of right belong
Down-glancing cunning and fierce villany.
Rough was his shape: his joints were big and strong:
And in clay-coloured camise clad was he.
Such varlet this high maiden chose for mate,
I know not by what spell of mastery.
Neither may I conjecture nor relate
What had the sequel of that business been,
If it had lain with Mano to debate.
For other thing fell out. With dagger keen
The varlet ran from her whose hand he held,
And stabbed the knight's horse, where, the reins between,
His proud neck o'er his mighty muscles swelled.
Up to the haft he plunged and left the knife,
Then ran aside: no skill such blow withheld.
Upreared the destrier proud in bloody strife,
With rolling eyeballs a wild moment's space,
Then, falling on the steel, struck out his life.
And Mano was cast down upon his face:
Yet even as rose the horse, flatling his stroke
Caught that false varlet in his middle race:
And with some force falling his wrist it broke.
Then Mano quickly rose: and was in doubt
Whether with sword that felon to avoke,
Ere the wild people closed himself about,
Or seize the maiden, and make thence his way.
But at that beat of time a dismal rout
Began upon the part from him away;
And there he saw a throng of knights in field,
Who in mid charge did cast down all and slay:
Slew all, and mercy unto none would yield.
These were the lords, who had approached unknown
The assembly of the peasants in the weald.
Them Robert sent, to whom the place was shown
By traitorous tongue, or his own industry:
And his fell mind was planted in each one.
Sworn to spare none that living there might be,
They slew the most that were upon the ground,
And all the rest they hanged upon tree:
Then beat with dogs the woods that were around,
So that there thence escaped scarce two or three.
Which when he saw begun, Mano best found
To snatch Diantha up, and thence to flee.
But little space had he accomplished,
As through the wood his burdened way made he;
When of a knight he was encountered,
Who lay in wait for those who fled thereby.
Then battle rose, and heavy strokes were sped:
Which to the opposer ended fatally:
For Mano by main force beat down the man,
And slew him there: a deadly victory:
That man alone was slain of those that wan
The field against the peasants poor and bare:
He only against iron armour ran.
But when that driving fight first dinned the air,
Diantha from the knight away was slid,
And toward the open weald did back repair,
Seeking where yet her losel love were hid.
Whom as Sir Mano missed, thither he hied,
Resolved that she of him should not be rid.
And as he searched the place from side to side,
There, to make short of long, was he waylaid
By many knights at once who him espied.
So destiny devised: at him they made,
And rode him down upon the open plain:
That in his harness sorely crushed and brayed
Captived was he, and bound with heavy chain.

VIII.— HOW DIANTHA FARED IN CAPTIVITY: AND HOW MANO.

Of all that living in that wood met late,
That conclave wild, were left but two alone,
Mano, with whom Diantha, caught by fate.
The rest from life by various deaths were gone:
The most with deadly swathes the field did deck,
Part in the underwood made their last moan,
Part on the trees were hanging by the neck
(The dearnliest sight of all were they to see,)
And this great cruelty no man did check.
Sir Mano, lying bound upon the lea,
Expected his own stroke to come anon:
For drunken seemed those lords with cruelty;
And rode about, smiting where life was none.
But presently he was conveyed from thence,
And carried to a dungeon of thick stone,
Within a lord's near dwelling of defence:
Where too Diantha, in that house of pain,
Not far from him kept forced residence.
She changed for prison strait the open plain,
Lamenting Elfeg, whom a furious knight
Upon the battlefield outright had slain:
And hating Mano with redoubled spite,
As cause of these new woes that her oppressed.
Nor long before the lords a message write
To Robert of Rouen, and his will request
Touching their captives. He in brief replies
That death by burning was for both his hest:
For him, as fautor of conspiracies,
And slayer of a knight full well renowned,
And taking part against high dignities:
For her, because she was the leman found
Of the ringleader of their enemies,
And from high birth had grovelled low to ground
(A sin above all sins to noble eyes).
Wherefore for both of them this cruel death
By next convenient hour doth he advise.
Which when Diantha heard, she veiled uneath
Her eyes from laughter at the fell intent,
Well knowing that while love in man did breathe,
So fair a form as hers should not be shent.
For she already with the castellan
Was plotting freedom from imprisonment:
And her looks fired with love that fiery man,
A lord unused to have his pleasure fail:
But what they planned, and how fell out their plan,
Shall in the sequel due be told in tale.—
Compared with beauty, in the hour of need
What merchandise has worth that may avail?
When Mano heard the doom that was decreed,
He also smiled, as if his inmost heart
Took some resolve of counsel and good heed,
Nor from himself through false fear would depart,
Albeit death so horrible might fear
A mind that never would in battle start.
Leave asked he then to write from dungeon drear
A letter to the man who did him dead:
And in the same he had a purpose clear,
Against himself all evils that were laid
First to admit, and more to add indeed
Than were in Robert's heavy sentence read:
How with the peasants he in heart agreed
Against the lords in undertakings all:
How on the lords great vengeance was decreed:
That this last slaughter, which in the wood did fall,
Was but a foul deed done: that justice great
He for himself required, with fair trial.
For 'twas his drift in this to exaggerate
Upon himself both guilt and innocence,
That he Diantha might redeem from fate
By drawing on himself all violence.
Of her he added these: That howsoe'er
It stood with him, in her was none offence,
Who was a maiden noble, rich, and fair,
The daughter of a lord in honour high,
Though she were gathered in some demon's snare,
And fell away from her high dignity:
And he demanded, as of right, therefor,
That upon her were done no felony,
But to her father they should her restore.
—Thus wrote he, weening in this way to bring
Diantha back to safety and honour.
But when in Rouen Robert read this thing,
He sent his Fool to answer it; who came
Riding upon an ass, with reins of string,
Attired in a gown of painted flame,
Wearing at heel a silly wooden prong
In lieu of knightly spur: a form of shame.
Small, and deformed was he, yet lithe and strong,
And in his face was malice infinite:
And as he rode, he sounded on a gong;
And bore a bladder halbert, as a knight.
This shameful creature rode up to the gate,
Leaving his wayward steed, there to alight.
He entered into Mano's prison straight,
Crying, “Ho, Mano, father sends thee me
For answer; other answer thou mayst wait:
“And yet right well shalt thou purveyed be.”
To call Count Robert father, to his brain
Seemed good to be repeated endlessly.
Now leave we here Sir Mano with this bane.

IX.— HOW JOANNA FARED IN THE CONVENT: AND HOW SHE DISCOVERED MANO'S PARENTAGE.

And turn we to Joanna, left behind
This long while in my writing, from the day
That she to Gerbert dared the love unbind,
Which she for Mano cherishing let prey
Upon her tender heart right wretchedly:
And then had been by Gerbert swept away
Into a secret place of nunnery,
Which hight Beyond Four Rivers: there she stayed,
Pining her tender heart in malady.
Thus Gerbert's first intention was delayed,
To cure her love: could love desert his throne
While expectation still his realm upstayed?
For of the knight though tidings heard she none,
Yet knew she not that Gerbert ne'er had ta'en
Any meet cause or fit occasion
Her trembling heart to Mano to make plain,
The which she hoped, what time she made it known,
And let her sick mind to his ear complain.
Though all was covered now like buried stone,
Yet oft she looked upon that sealèd scroll
Which holy Gerbert gave to her alone,
And at the time forbade her to unroll
Ere either from himself commandment came,
Or that she heard of his death-parted soul.
Full oft her sad eyes rested on the same,
And her hands handled it, and pressed it close
Upon her bosom and heart's aching flame.
But when no rede she heard, nor yet arose
The sun that set on Gerbert's wondrous doom,
This lingering hope within her slowly froze.
Then paleness gan her gentle youth consume,
And that small scroll was torment, sith she knew
That all that she should know therein had room.
Oh limit of strict fate! was it then heaven's due,
Gerbert, to hold that faithful love concealed,
Which maiden heart trembled to thee to show?
To bid her hold a secret ever sealed,
Which all too late to knowledge came at last,
As that may poison worst that best had healed?
For now, when Mano was in prison fast,
Sentenced to death, and waiting for his end,
Throughout all lands the wondrous rumour passed
How Gerbert from the earth with fiends did wend:
Which awful thing, by all men now averred,
I neither here affirm, nor yet defend:
But this I say, that no man better heard
Than Gerbert of those friends who knew him well,
Albeit that he in Mano greatly erred.
And here most part, methinks, 'twas Fortune's spell
Which him who elsewhere ever nobly dealt,
Evilly to deal in this man did compel.
Full often policy her sway hath felt
To single men destructive and severe;
And public care Love's waxen wings may melt.
But when Joanna heard this rumour clear,
With shaking hand the secret gan she feel,
If still it lay upon her breast of fear.
A moment, and she doth the wax unseal,
And read the writing of the more than dead,
While joy and wonder through her bosom steal.
For to this end was written what she read:
That Mano was of the old Duke Richard son
By one whom he by guile, not ring, had wed,
Hight Harleve: who did henceforth all men shun,
And thence set forth in foreign lands to fare,
Where double fruit from her beheld the sun,
A boy and girl, whom she expired to bear:
That thus much to the old Duke had been known,
Namely, the birth of them, the death of her:
Who, in his penitence, the same had shown
To Gerbert, bidding him the children seek,
That he through them the mother might atone:
That of the girl no tidings were to speak:
But that the boy in low estate was found,
And long time tossed in Fortune's tempest bleak,
Now grown a knight, noble as stood on ground,
Namely, that Mano who in Italy
With Thurold kept the Norman marches round:
That therefore to the young Duke Richard he
Half-brother was, and to the Archbishop,
Robert of Rouen, in the same degree:
Commending him to them, the scroll did stop:
And it was signed with Gerbert's hand and ring,
And to those twain Salutem gave atop.
Another writing was there, carrying
Unto Joanna further solacement:
That hitherto Gerbert had kept this thing
Hidden from all, through politic intent
That Mano might with single mind fulfil
Those ends for which his life was to be spent;
And of the sacred vow be mindful still
Whereby he mindful was to dedicate
Who reared him, and for precept did instil
To be of Holy Church a champion great:—
But that henceforth his own will might he use
(Being hence absolved from service high and strait),
What earthly lot he would to take and choose:
And, if he chose that maid who loved him well,
His master there to smile would not refuse.
Which when Joanna read, adown she fell
In a great swoon for joy and fluttered heart:
But rose anon more quicklier than I tell:
And from that house made ready to depart:
To seek the Archbishop and the Duke: and so
To Rouen was she bound, as to the mart
Where she for happiness should barter woe.

X.— CONCERNING JOANNA IN THE NUNNERY.

Dark-working Fate, who turnest with thy hand
The spherèd stars that measure human days,
How may we know thy work, or understand
(As He who set thee on the cosmic ways)
The lot that thou dost portion out to each,
The lines that thou dost spin in thy dark maze?
Day tells to day of heaven the voice and speech,
Alas! we see the star, but not the sphere,
Nor thy dark hand, which toward it thou dost reach:
Only those shining points to us appear
Which therefore we deem all: but still unkenned
The subtler fatal ether doth career.
That which befell Joanna must be penned,
Which showed thy dark contrary influence,
While she in convent her sad days did spend.
Long ere that day that she departed thence
Came those which doubled all her grief of mind,
And made more wretched her sad residence.
There was a priest who oft would entrance find
Into that house reputed most severe,
Who being to evil in his thoughts inclined,
As by his office given to holy prayer,
Some harm occasioned in that place, 'twas said,
With some who like himself in nature were—
Which were it so or not, his siege he laid
Against Joanna, when she thither came,
Leaving all else for love of that sweet maid.
With thought of her he did his mind inflame;
And presently to urge her gan presume,
Bold from his former use, with words of blame:
Bidding her in her mind for love make room,
Nor leave his solace to a day too late,
Nor still in solitude her youth consume:
Lest dreariness should penitence create,
And peace deceptive fly from her anon,
While weary years drew on to listless date.
Then quickly bade she that ill man begone:
Who, smiling, took his way: yet would renew
His former talk upon occasion.
And when unto a sister there she flew,
No comfort got she, nor direction clear
To make to cease from her this misery new.
And more I cannot tell: suffice it here
That from that hour the sad Joanna hid
This trouble in her breast: nor would appear,
Nor quit her cell, but if some duty bid;
Nor ever on that man would cast her eyes,
Nor walk with any there that companied.
Which when the man perceived, and with surprise
Found her pure soul locked up in deep offence,
Rage, hatred, filled him: now would he despise
That which with black care truly charged his sense.
But when despite could not with care contend
Then rage put off despiteous pretence,
And hatred stood confirmed: he gan to spend
Long days devising how himself to wreak
Upon that creature mild: but, to make end,
Nor further in his wretched mind to seek,
His purposed hate was turned to love again,
Whenas he saw her face, or heard her speak.
If he heard others wroth with her disdain,
Or whatso chance it were, I little trow
Which might his hate to love again constrain:
But thenceforth love, who oft the vile doth throw,
By the sight of lovely virtue, to despair,
Unto the point of madness urged his woe.
Thin grew he; wild his haggard eyes did glare,
And up and down he wandered nights and days,
Seeking some glimpse of her who was his care.
Insomuch that his altered looks and ways
To those who hitherto found better cheer
In him, wrought wonder, and mislike gan raise.
Thus went the time: and the disease more near
On his dark mind, like ravening thing, did cling.
To chapel hied he nor for mass nor prayer,
And of his functions would he not a thing:
Nor yet, again, would he his sickness own
Unto his piteous fellow's questioning.
For now he feared to be shut up alone,
And lose those haggard walks, whereby each day
The harvest of new grief for him was sown.
At length he heard Joanna gone away,
And never to return, what time the sound
Of Gerbert's end the hearts of all did fray.
Which heard, since thus his last hope fell to ground,
He took to bed, complaining sickness sore;
Where by his fellow he was warmly wound,
And with exceeding love nursed evermore,
Fed with soft meats, and watched,—his fellow there,
Who by his brother chaplain set great store.
And well indeed the other seemed to fare,
Eating whatever to his mouth was brought:
But not the lighter grew his keeper's care:
For nought the weakness lessened: and him thought
That in his face such wanness should not be,
And marvelled how the sickness with him wrought.
Till once, returning from the chapelry
Into the chamber where the sick man lay,
A darksome streak like blood he chanced to see,
Which from beneath the bed was making way.
Whereat the man a knife unto him showed,
And to him said, “Brother, I did but play
With thy great love, which has to me o'erflowed:
For other love hath shent me: I am slain
For love which I to cherish never owed.
“Her love I, who went hence, nor comes again;
Whom I essayed, and being but denied,
Great malice showed her, which I rue in vain.
“For her I slay myself, well satisfied:
The poor requital of my parting breath
I give for lust, malice, and evil pride.”
And from what else the man said in his death,
It seemed that he this knife in secret caught,
And every day the coverlet beneath
A wound therewith upon his body wrought:
So by degrees his life all flowed away,
And he into extremity was brought.
This grisly thing made noise enow that day,
Seeming to be of utter cruelty,
That one should dare himself thus cut and slay.
God's hand keep all men from God's enemy.

XI.— HOW JOANNA WENT TO ROUEN TO SAVE SIR MANO, AND HOW SHE SPED.

Meanwhile the glad Joanna took her road
Toward Rouen, bearing forth that writing rare
Which held Sir Mano's story, and him showed
Both with the Archbishop and the Duke to share
A father's heart, a brother's part to claim.
To give this to Duke Richard was her care,
Or to Lord Robert, when she thither came:
But best she hoped the Duke in place to find,
Who might with gentler grace receive the same:
(For Richard ever gentle was and kind,)
But he was absent on a hunting great,
So fell it not according to her mind.
And on that prelate proud alone to wait,
Destiny hastened her, and she full soon
By right of beauty passed his palace gate.
That cruel man, receiving her anon
With gentleness (such power had beauty tho')
Her tidings read: then in his grey eyes shone
A laughing spark of doubt: and round did go
Those puckering wrinkles which sprang instantly,
If aught misliked him, and sped to and fro.
Doubt only grew in him from testimony,
The while she heard with horrible dismay
From his hard lips, swollen and stiff to see,
How under deadly sentence Mano lay:
His insurrection with the peasants made,
The slaying of that knight he slew that day.
But at this telling, though so sick dismayed,
That hardly she her shaking breast controlled,
Yet in brave speech she strove, and sternly bade
The man to save his brother true and bold,
And give him welcome to his high estate,
As he his father's name in love would hold.
She bade him his mild brother imitate,
(His brother eke) most gentle and sincere,
As he his own renown on high did rate:
She said that he was God's high overseer:
And all she added else that best might weigh
With one who kept for honour open ear.
He, marking her more than what she might say,
Yet answered her with promise good and fair,
And bade her come again at no long day:
He said that he his purpose would declare
In that behalf whereof she made request,
And in the meantime bade her have less care.
So went the dove from out the vulture's nest,
Resolved with earliest light to come again,
And find in what design he seemed to rest.
With earliest light she came again, certain,
And was received with more joyful cheer
Than her the former day did entertain.
He said that Mano's lineage stood clear
In his belief: that messengers were gone
To set him free withouten let or fear:
And that he might those rights assume anon
Which should to him out of all doubt belong,
As he to princes brother was and son.
Which lying guile wrought joy so high and strong
In poor Joanna, that her eyes gan glow
With radiance that had been away too long:
Her cheeks in colour rose, long pined with woe,
So that he thought was never aught so fair:
And bade her not with hurry thence to go.
But never could she stay, secure of care,
Whilst all in issue hung: eager of heart
Thither, where lay Sir Mano to repair.
So from the palace gate she doth depart
Though hardly granted thence: but her intent
To go to Mano doth no thing impart.
So she her way to Mano's prison went
Leaving the bishop and his guileful mind,
Who one true thing in all ne said ne meant.
For whether he to evil were inclined
For love of it, and cruelty preferred
Of malice, and an instinct brute and blind;
Or whether that old hate within him stirred,
Which he to Thurold owed in former days:
Or whether he misdoubted Gerbert's word,
(Gerbert, whom he misliked in sundry ways)
Concerning Mano and his parentage,
Nor would from him accept Sir Mano's praise:
Uncertain is, nor need a thought engage.
But to stay Mano's death, or set him free
'Tis certain that he sent no embassage.
'Twere poor to ask what wrought with such as he,
Yet, might I judge, he acted in this wise
Mostly from simple incredulity,
Not out of hate: because that in his eyes
What Gerbert wrote appeared incredible.
For cold the heart that steeped in pleasure lies,
And unbelief and doubt the closest dwell
Within the baser mind and duller head.
These are Fate's hammers: accident her bell.—
Fate beat her bell, the death of her doomed dead.
If Robert had been forth, Richard at home,
And each had acted in the other's stead,
Then truly had another end been come
To sad Joanna's quest: Richard's true eyes
Had seen the truth, and stayed the impending doom.
Fair was Joanna ever, I avise:
But I have heard of certain that e'en now
Her day of fairest beauty seemed to rise,
When sorrow and long love had made her brow
Tenderly radiant, as the hanging skies
When the south wind moves every wingèd bough:
Such o'er the changing wood the May cloud flies,
Soft, bright, and light, was she: one lovely fold,
That seemed to gather to grave thought her eyes,
Of bygone sorrow and old anguish told,
One sweet contraction, delicate and fine:
But youth to bear love's burden still is bold:—
Her looks were strong ('tis age that has to pine)
Her eyes were quick, and lightsome as of yore,
Her rounded cheeks as perfect in their line:
Her step was like the deer on ferny floor,
Her figure tall, and like a balanced tower,
Which from his place seems stepping evermore,
So wondrously 'tis fashioned through art's power.—
She had those years which bring to perfectness:
And stood full blown, like to the lily's flower.
Ah! now consider well in her fair dress
This lily of earth's field, her lovely head
Who rears amid the waste, companionless:
Wide open stands her heart: no secret dread
Bids her enfold her petals, like the rose,
Over her golden bosom undismayed.
Oh, undefended thus to friends or foes,
Shall she endure, then, in her perfect state,
Until she ripen to a timely close,
By the kind season carried to her date;
Or must she tremble on her lofty stem
At the rough hand of sudden-working Fate,
Scattering to the winds her diadem,
Brushing the tender gold-bloom from her heart;
And die in her full hour, a perfect gem,
In whose fair essence all sweet things have part?

XII.— HOW JOANNA WENT TO MANO.

When in the wailful winds of autumn tide
This maiden sought her love in jeopardy,
What thing then met she in her hasty ride
Bodeful of evil and calamity?
Sith never yet came evil without sign,
If to the eye be given that to see,
Though love and hope but little can divine.
—Upon a thorn a corby black of blee
She saw, who turned about his curious eyne:
Full big he sat upon the little tree,
Balancing in the wind his heavy form:
But, on her coming, flew off heavily.
—Far flew he down the thickness of the storm,
And she his look no more in memory held,
But most of her long voyage did perform:
When, lo, another thing that she beheld!
Which was a stake new planted in the ground,
Or else a tree whose boughs the axe had felled:
On whose smooth top that bird a perch had found,
Which to maintain his mighty wings he waved,
Till she drew nigh, when them to flight he wound,
Losing by wings what he by wings had saved.
Then wonder rose in her, and shaking doubt,
While down the wind slow went the bird depraved.
Now she beholds the castle square and stout
Wherein Sir Mano lay—her journey's end;
And still that fowl afar the air did flout:
But when she took it in her eyelids' bend,
He vanished from her sight with darkest note:
And the strong castle gan his mass protend.
High were the walls in view, and broad the moat,
And many towers on either flank she sees
Whose flags upon the tossed sky wave and float.
The leaden roofs arose like terraces
Behind the battlements; and many knights
Were moving in those airy galleries.
And when she came more close beneath their heights,
With warning of her coming even then
The trumpet sounded in the armed sites.
But the awakened tumult ceased again,
As through the crowded gate anon she passed,
And lodge, which swarmed with idle laughing men.
She entered thus into the courtyard vast,
And for the captive Mano did require,
Whom soon she found in lonely dungeon cast,
(The way being opened at her fierce desire,)
And on her knees she flung herself beside
The enchained knight, with heart and eyes of fire;
Being all amazed, but not yet terrified
To see him in such case. “Mano,” she said,
“Why dost thou yet in prison's dark abide?
“Hath then the messenger so idly sped,
Bearing thy pardon and thy life to thee,
To raise thee from this floor to honour's head?
“Then first am I (as fitteth in love's gre)
To tell thee of the dawning happy day
That lifts thee up.”—“Joanna,” answered he,
“Nothing know I of that thou seemest to say:
But now, thy face to see, thy hand to press,
Drives questioning with misery away:
“And all my heart is filled with happiness.
For so I love thee that I seem ere now
Not to have loved before.”—“Nevertheless,”
So answered she with tears, “answer me thou
That which I ask, ere I that love shall tell
Which holds me wholly, and to thee avow:
“For dreadful fear in me begins to dwell,
Seeing thee thus, who thought to find thee free.”
—“I only know that from this darksome cell,”
He answered, “doom to-morrow carries me:
And sad it seemed, before thy lovely face
Made darkness light, and prison liberty!”
Then she in agony began to trace
Of Gerbert's actions all the history,
Since she at first in Rouen sought his grace:—
How she before him laid her misery,
In hope that he to Mano would declare
And make it known: (“No whit of this,” quoth he,
“Ere this dear moment ever reached mine ear.”)
How then he sent her into nunnery,
Where long the time she lingered in despair
Till his own death; what thence there came to be,—
The unsealed writing, the Archbishop's share,
Her journey hither made in secrecy,
To find him free from peril and from care.—
All this with gasps, and twisted hands she told:
Such pain such tender bosom ill might bear.
Then Mano said, “For what thou dost unfold,
Oh more than sister, loved and honoured more,
Concerning Gerbert, I my speech withhold;
“(For he is dead, and was my friend of yore).
But little hope I from my brother new;
He has deceived thee, or this prison door
“Would never hold me now if he were true.
Therefore in thy sweet converse let me live
Tenfold the hours that still to life are due.”
Hereat Joanna a great cry did give,
And sprang from him: in haste was she to go
And from the castellan demand reprieve,
Ere the next morning brought the instant blow.
But Mano stayed her: “Sweet Joanna, stay.
Hear yet the sequel which I shall bestow:
“Diantha, Thurold's child, shares my sad day,
Caught in the pagan weald along with me:
She who from Richard's court did whilom stray.
“Her have I yet in charge to Italy
To render back: whereto an oath I sware,
And, seeking her, fell in this jeopardy.
“If therefore thou canst aught, be it for her:
Set her in freedom, let her home retire.
But if thou canst no way to safety steer,
“Because the fire is bitter (yea, the fire,
As I must say, for both of us decreed)
Give her this poisoned ring at my desire,
“Which well shall serve her at the utmost need.
I had it from a man, a forester,
Found dying in the woods from savage deed.
“He gave it: whom being dead did I inter.
Virtuous it is to end the life at once
Without one pain, he being the answerer.”
Thereto Joanna uttered no response:
But flung herself from him, and thence she went:
And to the courtyard of the castle runs,
As frantic by the danger imminent.

XIII.— CONCERNING DIANTHA, HOW SHE ESCAPED, AND TO WHAT END SHE CAME.

Grim Fate henceforth her quarry gan to ply
In sterner sort; more earnest looking now,
Her prey she faced, whitherso it would fly:
Her eye that had but glanced began to glow:
And now her ending stroke did she prepare,
After her play, which wrought but wounds and woe.
Meanwhile Diantha in the prison where
She lay immured, expected the same end:
And yet in truth she felt but little care:
For by her beauty she had gained for friend
The ruler of the castle, that young lord,
Who mad with love vowed death from her to fend.
He now was come, obedient to his word,
To lead her forth from dreadful death to light,
What time Joanna wildly sped abroad.
In secret came he in the midst of night,
And passed by stealth toward her high-towered cell
By countless steps that reached the castle's height.
He found her soft hand in the stony well,
Drew sweetly her long arm through his own hand,
Till round her yielded form his strong arm fell.
Thus on the topmost turret stairs they stand;
Then down they steal in hush of silence deep.
Alas! in vain their care: an armed band
Awaited them below the stairway steep,
When at the bottom they arrived were,
And in the dusk abroad began to peep.
Then an old knight full stern his hand did rear
Against this lord's breast, whispering, “Madness great
Is on thee, sure, Eustace, my nephew dear.
“How many scores of knights within thy gate
Upon this grave occasion are met,
And this exemplar punishment await?
“If of to-morrow's promise they be let,
If traitor to thy order thee they find,
How will they rage, what vengeance will they whet!
“But fear not that: for here with faithful mind
Thy kinsmen only stand: none other, lo!
If but this folly be betimes resigned.”
Thus said he: and the other did forego
His promised prize, with bitter raging pain:
No other might be: many stood below.
So was Diantha back to prison ta'en.—
Who then their meditated flight betrayed?
The Fool of Robert 'twas that wrought their bane.
For he, who for the most part wait had laid
By Mano's door, keeping malignant watch,
And with shrill yells and laughter his ears brayed,
Nevertheless some moments found to snatch
To jeer Diantha with his wondrous tongue;
And thus her plot of flight in mind gan catch.
He saw Sir Eustace, that castellan young,
Nigh hand: and carried this to that old knight,
His uncle stern, to whom the song he sung.
That was the time, before the fall of night,
When he was busy in his meddling spleen,
That poor Joanna came to Mano's sight,
Nor was by that malicious antic seen:
And when she left the imprisoned knight again,
He went back thither with his gibings keen.
So chanced it that she never came in ken.
But she went forth into the sanded yard,
And heard the angry voices of those men:
And after found Sir Eustace panting hard,
And raging idly with his lossful gain:
Him in the dark her eyes with care regard.—
She knew him for the gentle lord, certain,
Who had not letted her from Mano's cell;
And hope rose in her, aid from him to gain.
Therefore her voice, softer than silver bell,
Stole to his ear, while she for pity pled,
Almost invisible, scarce audible.
The sore man thereupon being comforted,
She promised him that he his love should win
If only to her counsel he obeyed:
To which he well agreed: then, to begin,
Her in Diantha's cell she bade him place:—
And he led her up the stair the tower within.
A soldier there, whose feet they heard to pace,
Refused her not, nor would her passage stay,
For him she won by largess and mere grace,
Saying, that nought she meant him to betray,
Nor cause him scath, if but for moments few
With the condemned maid she might delay.
—But ere she went, her step she yet withdrew
Unto Sir Eustace, and into his hand
Laid Mano's ring, saying, “As thou art true
“I charge thee; yea, as thou to God shalt stand,
Bear this to Mano: bid him use it so
As he to other's use did it remand.”
Then up the narrower stairway did she go,
Leaving him there to wait her quick return:
Nor long he waited in his place below,
Where the steep windings left a shady turn,
When forth she issued on the downward way,
And in his hand he felt her touch to burn.
Full well he seemed to know, the truth to say,
That tender yielding hand, the which he pressed:
Yes, 'twas Diantha's hand in his that lay.
Then gasping joy rose in him, when he guessed:
But horror soon and pity swelled his tide
For her by whose undoing he was blessed.
But in that place not long might they abide:
He led, and set her on Joanna's beast;
And to the gate in courtesy did guide;
And saw her soon into the world released;
The warders knowing nought of all the thing,
And seeing but their master speed his guest.
And, to make short this story's wandering,
In foreign lands Sir Eustace went to her
After the day that Mano's death did bring.
He went to her, and was the messenger
Of Mano's and Joanna's tragedy;
But he had lost the love that was whilere,
For he was changed by all that misery,
And to have married her, or otherwise
Enjoyed her love, he deemed mere infamy.
And he so wrought with her, that she likewise
Was changed in heart, and all her follies old
With scorpion whip her conscience did chastise.
Wherefore their course most chastely they did hold
To Italy: where she her father met,
Whom she had left so long, the Count Thurold.
And thus Sir Mano did discharge his debt,
If not in person, yet by deputy,
Her in her father's house again to set.
And not long thence Count Thurold fell to die,
And in her arms he died: and she thereon
To convent went, and lived in sanctity,
Till eke by her the better world was won.
And Eustace, he became a hermit great,
Of blessed memory for alms deeds done:
Unto the poor he parted his estate,
Lived in the wild, and was of people sought
For his wise redes and heart compassionate.
And thus with these it ended as it ought.

XIV.— CONCERNING MANO IN PRISON.

Felicity, best gift of God to man,
Perfectest creature, who in thy fair form
Holdest so many with harmonious plan,
And art a well-trimmed ship to ride the storm,
Bear thou the things which seem to do thee wrong,
When Virtue's ark woe's deluges deform.
Oh, bear a while with me in this sad song,
Which shows thee of less might than crooked Fate:
For out of weakness still thou waxest strong.
Now is Diantha through the castle gate
Passed as Joanna, and to safety fled;
And Eustace left amazed in dolour great.
He to Sir Mano's prison quickly sped,
The ring to give, and what he knew to say,
Which little aided his forecasting head,
Not knowing who might be that stranger may,
Who took on her such dreadful penalty;
But now no further knowledge get he may:
For there the fool of Robert doth he see,
Who kept his post, nor from it budged a whit,
But welcomed him with hideous mockery,
Feigning indeed that he was come for it,
That he with him the captive might deride:
Whom Eustace neither to drive out thought fit,
Lest his loud cries should raise the hostile side,
Nor might before him any question make:
Therefore in ignorance he must abide.
The ring he gave: the which did Mano take,
Much marvelling to see it come again:
For, first, he deemed Joanna, for his sake,
Might not perform as she had underta'en,
So was departed, leaving him alone:
Nor knew he whom he saw, what man of men.
For Eustace stood like a dark-written stone,
Spake not, but looked with sorrow bursting out:
So that Joanna gone, Joanna gone,
Grew sorrowfully sure his heart about.
Also he thought again, the case might be
Diantha chose to die that aid without;
He thought his own gift sent back scornfully,
And much it grieved him that she should refuse
All that he could in their extremity.
But he resolved never the same to use,
For since a tender may to bear the fire,
Contemning poison's succour, dared to choose,
Like courage should a manly breast inspire:
“Yea, I will suffer all the worst that man
Hath ever borne, since so doth Fate require:
“And if occasion grant” (occasion can,—
So in his mind he argues) “when at stake
We burn together”—he to shortest span
Would bring her pains, and with that potion slake:
And her vowed safety to his power complete.
Thus thinking he in hand the ring doth take.
Then went Sir Eustace with unwilling feet,
And left him in the dungeon to his doom,
Whenas the morning on those bars gan beat,
Cloud bars that hold the curtains of thin gloom—
And the pale early light broke overhead
Across the window of his narrow room.
And long time after Mano had been dead,
With iron scratched upon the stony wall
Where he had been captived, these words were read:
“I, who to Destiny was ever thrall,
End by her deed my course by her begun:
And honours and desire of life let fall.
“My day, which scarcely smiled at dawn, now run
To his long West, I see the night full near,
Which shall devour the brightness of my sun.
“Now must I think that Death has strewn my bier:
Now must I part from glory that I won:
And miss achievement that I held most dear.
“Glory with shame, as life with death, foredone,
Bids me make haste, and hasteneth my way:
I go the limit whither these are gone.
“Now youth his age doth meet before his day:
My faith so true doth faith to me deny:
Love flies me now, that never was at stay,
And adds his vote that it is time to die.”

XV.— THE DEATH OF MANO AND JOANNA.

That night of Spring, which had lain mildly down,
Brought forth a morn of cold and bitter cheer:
For on the bed of Dawn gan Boreas frown,
And pelted her with many a bolt severe,
Slinging his slanted sleet to scare away
Mild Zephyrus, that had been haunting near,
Mild Zephyrus, bringer of softer day:
He on his watery-coloured pinions flew,
And into other regions took his way.
Such was the day, born out of season due,
When Mano to his like and timeless end
Was hurled forth out of his iron mew.
(Ah, woefulness which only death may mend
Bids death make haste mere deadliness to stay,
And struggling life from her poor haunt to send).
He was brought forth at dawning of the day:
(Now sorrow fills me with her waymenting,
And bids me stint the things that I should say:
He was my friend when life began to spring,
My comforter in peril, brave and sweet,
My company in weary wandering).
Led on a cart he was, bound hands and feet,
And from the castle drawn unto the stake,
Guarded by knights on horses strong and fleet.
A hundred round that sorry hearse did strake,
To execute on him their vengeance drear,
Who (as they deemed) did out of knighthood break.
There Eustace rode, a wretched cavalier,
Surrounded by his kinsmen dour and stern:
And there the Fool, in his outlandish gear;
Whose folly ceaseless as his rage did burn.
A rebeck held he, and thereon he played,
Whilst still his glare on Mano would he turn.
He bitter jests and filthy scoffing made:
His ass, that felt full oft his kicking heel,
Amid the mighty horses ran and brayed.
Of Mano it was said that stone nor steel
No firmer countenance than he could show:
Nor he from silence did his lips unseal:
Save that to himself he smiled and muttered low,
“I feel the smell of nettles in warm shade.”
This did I hear of him, and nothing mo.
And, thus unto the stake their voyage made,
There was he bound, and waiting death he stood:
And none might say they saw him aught dismayed.
Anon, as he had seen her in the wood,
He seemed to see, approaching the same way,
Diantha, covered with her scarlet hood,
And closely folded in her garments grey.
Who, being come, unto the stake was tied,
While all men made a space, and moved away.
And now the fire was to the pile applied:
Then, when it gan to blaze, and mounted high,
The scarlet hood fell from her face aside:
And lo, Joanna! It is said a cry
Came from Sir Mano; and with mighty strain
He burst the bands the which his hands did tie.
Then to himself he drew her by the chain
Until her mouth kissed his: then suddenly
Into her mouth his fingers pressed amain:
And she hung dead before the flame came nigh.
Then the flame reached: and he, standing upright,
Held down his hands, and suffered silently.
This the last stroke of destiny's fell might
To die and slay his own dear love, would seem:
And like a felon, who was truest knight.
But yet her death his promise did redeem
To bear Diantha to her father old:
And that much solace ye thereof may deem.
And his conclusion happiness did hold,
To meet at last in death with blessed love,
And faith approved by death in death to fold.
He saved from pain that tender-footed dove,
Not the wild bird of wilfulness and strife:
He died with pain, but raised all pain above,
And ending at the summit of man's life.

XVI.— HOW A FALSE TALE OF THEIR DEATH WAS TOLD, AND THEN THE TRUE: AND HOW THEY WERE BURIED.

The sudden snow, which that one day appeared,
By Boreas blown into the temperate Spring,
Ere from earth's mould it vanished and was cleared,
For miles was strown by sparks and gledes burning
Shot down the wind: far o'er the crudded white
Cinder and sooty ash span blackening;
And streams of dust and smoke, careering light
Reached even to the wood below the hill,
What time Duke Richard came thereof in sight.
Then startling horror did Duke Richard fill,
And harder galloped he the wood beside,
The while his piercing spurs his courser thrill.
Foremost was he of all who there did ride,
Who came with him to stay that deadly doom:
Alas, too late, as Fortune bade betide!
For he, whenas to Rouen he came home,
Was met by Robert with that history
Of Mano's kinship, from his father come.
And in his mind of gentle chivachie
Otherwise wrought it than in him to raise
Mere unbelief: believe it well did he.
And knowing Mano's nobleness and praise,
Forthwith from Rouen fast he gan to ride
With all his knights along the woodland ways.
But when he reached the pile, and stood beside,
He found it fallen in a smouldering heap,
And all who were around away gan glide.
They would have gone their feast in hall to keep;
But he bade all stand round, and question made,
Whereof he did a bitter vintage reap.
He heard both Mano and Diantha paid,
And how that Mano saved them both from pain
By art from Gerbert learned, and magic aid,
For nought seemed they to smart, it was certain:
But when this thing began to be so said,
Sir Eustace no more silent did remain:
But like a shadow pale, with bending head,
And weeping bitterly, the true tale told,
How for Diantha was Joanna dead,
How Mano sped her with the ring of gold,
And how himself the same from her conveyed
To him, from whom she had it first to hold.
Then, when the love of this unhappy maid
Was manifested to his princely mind,
And all their tragedy abroad displayed,
Loud wept Duke Richard: neither might he find
A way to ease the sorrow of his heart,
But saved their relics from the scattering wind.
He bade them gather all, and in good part
To bury them even where that death they died,
Ere from the fatal place he would depart.
And there a chantry fair he edified,
And his dead brother did with lands endow
Which with him living he could not divide.
There by the darksome forest stands it now,
And in it is a monument of praise,
Where Mano and Joanna lie in row.
Such sepulchre did good Duke Richard raise.

XVII.— THE END.

I Fergant, living now my latest days
Have brought to term this heavy history,
Showing how all things pass, and nothing stays:
How Fate may mar, and evil destiny.
And my last hand in age and sickness weak
Setting hereto, to God great thanks give I.
For God hath granted me so far to speak;
Yea He who showed the purpose to be sought,
Made straight the way, and gave the strength to seek
That I by serving might be served of thought,
In living might the life of others try,
And at the cost of pain to truth be brought:
That I might trace the maze of misery,
And make again dead Virtue, noble toil
Rise from the bed of low indignity:
That I from envy's weeds the wasted soil,
Which holds the memory of friends, might clear,
And Falsehood of her vaunting crown despoil:
That I that dreadful age might make appear,
As 'twas in this world's sickness, death, and birth,
Before, and in and forth the thousandth year.
Much have I overpassed in my poor dearth
Of words and memory and method true;
But let me not have failed to heaven and earth
In setting forth with order not undue
The mighty workers of this world's affairs,
Fatality, infinity, these two,
The one the only yoke the other wears.