 | The Baroness of New York |  |
XXIII.
Her great, proud, bended eyes no more
Kept sad and frightened to the floor,
Beware of those who silent bear
All things; for they all things will dare,
When at the last they feel one touch
Of wrong or tyranny too much.
Kept sad and frightened to the floor,
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All things; for they all things will dare,
When at the last they feel one touch
Of wrong or tyranny too much.
She stood up taller than before.
She looked him firmly in the face.
She did not speak, and not a trace
Of terror, rage, or aught swept o'er
Her calm, proud soul.
She only drew
Her splendid arm more firmly through
Her lover's, as she raised her head,
And hissing through her teeth, she said,
“He lies! he lies! This stranger lies!
I know him not! ... For this he dies!”
She looked him firmly in the face.
She did not speak, and not a trace
Of terror, rage, or aught swept o'er
Her calm, proud soul.
She only drew
Her splendid arm more firmly through
Her lover's, as she raised her head,
And hissing through her teeth, she said,
“He lies! he lies! This stranger lies!
I know him not! ... For this he dies!”
Sir Francis did not hesitate
He made his choice. He knew that fate
Had drawn her sword-line in the sand;
That each man now must play his part,
With earnestness so more than art,
And stepped across with tight-clutched hand.
'Twas now much more than life or death.
'Twas love, and no man drew a breath.
They did not stir, nor speak, nor yet
The lady's presence quite forget.
The two men stood, and each did stare,
And glare as rival tigers glare.
He made his choice. He knew that fate
Had drawn her sword-line in the sand;
That each man now must play his part,
With earnestness so more than art,
And stepped across with tight-clutched hand.
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'Twas love, and no man drew a breath.
They did not stir, nor speak, nor yet
The lady's presence quite forget.
The two men stood, and each did stare,
And glare as rival tigers glare.
Sir Francis looked, to look him through,
Then said, slow whisp'ring, “Who are you?”
“I am that lady's husband, sir,
And will not brook your touch of her!”
Then said, slow whisp'ring, “Who are you?”
“I am that lady's husband, sir,
And will not brook your touch of her!”
Her lover staggered back as though
The man had struck an iron blow.
But instant he recovered.
“I
Must beg that you will see my friend.
I call you liar! to the end
That we may meet, for you must die!
Pray let me pass! Come, Baroness—
Nay, no more words.
To-morrow morn,
Why, we will answer scorn for scorn.
But here are ladies, sir, and you—
Ah! nobly done! and now, adieu.”
Then Doughal bowed his face. As one
Who feels that never more the sun
Shall shine for him, he sought the night,
And, homeless, roamed in sorry plight
The narrow streets, and waited morn
And death, less dreadful than this scorn.
The man had struck an iron blow.
But instant he recovered.
“I
Must beg that you will see my friend.
I call you liar! to the end
That we may meet, for you must die!
Pray let me pass! Come, Baroness—
Nay, no more words.
To-morrow morn,
Why, we will answer scorn for scorn.
But here are ladies, sir, and you—
Ah! nobly done! and now, adieu.”
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Who feels that never more the sun
Shall shine for him, he sought the night,
And, homeless, roamed in sorry plight
The narrow streets, and waited morn
And death, less dreadful than this scorn.
“O dear Adora. I would give
The round years of my life to live
But one pure day with thee again.
To sit again in sweet retreat,
To only see thy sacred face,
Uplifting in its childish grace,
While I sat silent at thy feet!
O, I must speak—in vain, in vain!
My hands are cursed with crime, my name
Unstained till now is black with shame.
It is her curse. I feel it now,
It lies like Cain's brand on my brow.
I cannot lift my face, and I
At morn shall take my place to die.”
The round years of my life to live
But one pure day with thee again.
To sit again in sweet retreat,
To only see thy sacred face,
Uplifting in its childish grace,
While I sat silent at thy feet!
O, I must speak—in vain, in vain!
My hands are cursed with crime, my name
Unstained till now is black with shame.
It is her curse. I feel it now,
It lies like Cain's brand on my brow.
I cannot lift my face, and I
At morn shall take my place to die.”
| The Baroness of New York | |