University of Virginia Library

Sweet BERTHA, daughter of mild Conradin,
The heiress of the merry Burgundy,—
The noblest of the daughters of proud France,
The fairest of the daughters of the earth,
The purest of the children of the Lord,—
And Robert, king, and suzerain of all
The rich, broad acres of the fruitful France,—
King Robert, whose right noble blood made king,
Saint Robert, whose right noble heart made saint,
Thus crowned twice king before his God and man,—
Sweet Bertha and King Robert slowly rode
Unto the royal chapel, to be wed.
A lovely, sunny summer-day it was;
The azure sky was flecked with snow-white clouds,
The em'rald carpet of the meadows fair
Was sprinkled o'er with dandelions bright,
Like coins of gold upon a velvet robe.
Beside each winding stream that purled along,
The violets low drooped, all wet with dew,
Like sparkling amethysts set round with pearls.
The trees bent o'er the monarch and his bride,
And shed their gifts of jewels,—drops of dew,
That in the leaves and on the grass were em'ralds;
And in the blue forget-me-nots were sapphires;
And in the lily, pearls and opals pure;
And in the crimson rose-bud, rubies bright;
And in the constant sunflower, beads of gold;
And each one, in the air, a diamond.
And evermore, as forward the gay train
Wound through the curving pathways of the wood,
Above their heads the tender leaflets played,
And made them ride in sun and shadow on,
And then, again, in shadow and in sun,
So that the lovely Bertha now seemed crowned
With brightest circlet of the sun's own rays;
And now, again, she seemed all dark and sad.
Yet dark and sad she was not, for her heart
Was full of gladness and of joy and love,
And beat in answer to that royal one
That throbbed beside her, each heart-throb for her.
Oh, fair she was, as thus she rode along
Upon her snowy palfrey, by the steed
Of deepest black, of him her monarch-love.
Her long fair hair fell o'er her shoulders pure
In golden waves, e'en as the yellow grain,
When whispered to, and wooed by summer airs,
Doth thrill and tremble over all the field,
And bend and droop in luxury of joy.
Her blue eyes, darkly shadowed o'er and fringed
By lashes long, were soft and brightly gay,
And all her smiles seemed centred in their depths.
But when she looked upon her noble lord
They melted into tenderness and love,
And all their brightness sparkled fairer still
Behind a misty veil of happy tears,
Like dew upon the sunlit violet.
And fit for royal bride her garments were:
A spotless mantle of white samite fell
In folds adown from the still whiter neck,
That seemed enfettered by a chain of pearls.
And all her robe was broidered o'er with pearls;
And on her head, from out the tresses fair,
They here and there peered forth half modestly,
As though they dared not and they could not shine
Beside that wealth of waving, molten gold.
And noble and right royal seemed the king,
With darkest chestnut locks and flashing eye,
And with his stately form, all robed around
In richest purple, broidered o'er with gold;
And with the circle winding round his head,
That crowned him king of all the people's lands:
And with the halo, seen by God alone,
That crowned him king of all the people's hearts.
So thus they rode on, through the forest's paths,
The monarch and his bride, and that long train
That followed to the music of gay bells
And merry flutes and clashing cymbals loud,
That hushed the voices of the startled birds;
The winding train of nobles and of lords,
The proudest and the bravest youths of France,
All clothed in scarlet, and in blue and white,
And richest hues, in sportive dalliance with
The queenly dames of good King Robert's court.
There rode the brave Gerbert, but wedded late
To lovely Ermengarde, beside him now.
There, too, the princely Otho, proud and cold;
And there his sister, gentle Adela;
And gay Guyenne, and Poictou, and Provence;
And all the far-famed knights of noble blood,
Each with his bride or sister by his side.
And so they rode with pomp and rich display
On through the quiet greenwood to the church,
And woke the echoes with their merry sounds.
At length they reach the chapel, where they pause;
And now they enter through the sacred door
The holy temple, where the dazzling sun
Striketh the stainèd windows into flame,
And lighteth all the crimson tapestry,
And maketh all the incense, rising up
From silver vessels, like a mist of gold.
There stood the Bishops in their robes of state,
And there the great Archbishop with the cross
Before him, carried by a youthful page,
And bearing on his breast the snowy band,
The scapulary long, his order's sign.
Then, as the royal couple drew anear,
He rose and blessed them, giving to the bride
The circling crown that made them King and Queen;
While Robert gave to her the circling ring
Of ruddy gold, that made them man and wife.
And then the nobles fell upon their knee,
And swore, by all most sacred and most dear,
Life-long allegiance of their hearts and hands
To Bertha, cousin of their own good King,
To Bertha, heiress of rich Burgundy;
To Bertha, now anointed Queen of France.
And then, arising from the bended knee,
They shouted “Noël!” till the vaulted roof
Reëchoed with their cries of happiness.

And now they turned to leave the sacred walls,—
Fair Bertha leaning on the King's strong arm,
With all the stream of light full on her brow,
And with the golden crown upon her head.
Queen Bertha, now, the chosen wife of him
Her royal sovereign, and her heart's dear lord.
But ere they reached the door a dark gray cloud
Passed o'er the sun, and all the church grew dim.
And when again the sun's bright rays shone forth,
They pierced the painted window up above
The great tall altar, with its waxen lights,
And hangings, and Madonnas, and they threw
Upon the floor the altar's shadow there,
Right at Queen Bertha's feet, who, walking on
All modestly, her lovely eyes downcast,
Started and paled, and trembling felt her heart
With one great throb upheave within her breast,
While from her lips escaped a choking sob,
Like the lost murmur of the swollen wave,
When, after sudden storm, with one low moan,
It lessens, breaks, and dies upon the beach.
And Robert questioned her, his trembling queen,
And asked her what she feared when by his side.
But as he bent, his eyes fell on the ground,
And at their feet he saw the shadow dark
Of the high altar's top, all draped around
In cloth, and wreathèd for their wedding-day,
And lo! the shade was as a coffin formed.
He started and recoiled, and all the blood
Forsook his cheek and trembling lip; but then,
Recalling her his Queen, who now did lean
On him alone for comfort and support,—
As she would lean through life,—he boldly passed,
And murmured, “Bertha, O my queenly bride,
'T is nought, and we will cast such omens by,
Nor heed them, for our happy days are near.
The coffin doth but bury all the fears
And trials of our love; it is a sign
That all our sorrow's dead, and a new life
This day begins. And even though it seem
The shadow of a coffin, what of that?
We know it is the shadow of a shrine.”
Thus tenderly and loving spoke the King,
And brought the color back to Bertha's cheek;
But he, too, trembled at the omen dread.
Then each one of the train the shadow crossed,
And murmurings and whispers passed around.
“Unlucky augury,”—“our poor young Queen
Must step on this upon her wedding-day.”
And all the gentle dames sweet pity felt,
And all the youths swore to themselves again,
To stand by her, their Queen, now come what might.
Right glad was Bertha when they stood once more
Out in the cool, fresh summer-morning's air,
And when, remounting all their waiting steeds,
They rode again unto the palace gates.

Full merry, on that lovely summer-day,
Was the proud palace of the King of France.
Through spacious halls gay music sounded loud,
And flowers, wreathed and braided, spread perfume
In each wide chamber. Stately youths at once,
With graceful dames, began the waving dance.
In sooth it was a rich and gorgeous scene.
The noble courtiers, in their costly robes.
Their brilliant precious jewels flashing forth;
The dames in robes of satin and of silk,
Of samite and of velvet, broidered o'er
With traceries of flowers and of leaves,
In golden thread, or in bright sparkling gems,
That writhed and wandered o'er the floating robes.
And wove themselves in wondrous forms and shapes.
And all the walls were draped with tapestry;
And woven in were pictures of the deeds
Of Hugh Capet, the father of the King.
And there, upon the great high royal throne,
Was gentle Bertha, in her queenly robes,
With him, her noble Robert by her side.
And while they thus sat there Queen Bertha thought
No more of that strange omen in the church;
And Robert now, with her, forgot it too,
When looking in the depths of those blue eyes,
Or at the golden waves of that fair hair.
For ten long days the feasting lasted thus
Beneath the palace roof, until the Queen
Looked hopefully for ever happy days,
And saw the distant Future's heavy mist
Become a golden haze, and all its light
Streamed backward on the joyful Present, too,
Illuming it with tender radiance.
For ten long days, the land rejoicing, seemed
As though the horn of plenty had let fall
Its contents on the happy fields below.
And ruby, amethyst, and amber wines,
Were drained from foaming flagons to the King
And to his lovely Queen; and boards were spread
With juicy meats, and blushing peaches ripe,
And golden-purple grapes in clusters fair,
And all the fruits that bless the fruitful France,
All at the generous bidding of the King.
At length the feasting and the joys were o'er,
And quiet reigned throughout the land again.
And Robert ruled with gentleness and love,
And Bertha moved him unto deeds of peace,
And doubly blest was France now in her King
And in her Queen, for all was happiness.
No foreign wars, no harvests poor and scant;
No wars intestine, and no armed revolt;
No robberies, no murders fierce and wild;
But peace and plenty all throughout the land,
And gentle laws obeyed; until, at last,
The royal sceptre seemed the magic wand
Of some kind fairy working for the good
Of each and all.

Ay, those were happy days,
Those first, sweet, golden summer-days of love,
When both could pluck its full, fair-blooming flower,
Before Life's darksome blight had fallen there.
And Bertha moved about the palace, then,
All proud and joyful; proud that she should be
The kinswoman of one so good and great;
The Queen of such a happy, fertile land;
The Queen of such a great and noble heart.
And Robert was the soul of all her joy;—
Her love and hopes and dreams were twined about
His noble heart, and there would cling through sun
Or storm, e'en as the ivy round the oak
Doth cling through summer heats and wintry blasts,
And parts not till the oak itself doth fall.
He was the sun that lighted all her life,
And any cloud of fear that flitted past
Upon her azure sky, he gilded fair,
And even could transform it to a hope,
And all her tears became as rainbows bright,
When she was smiled upon by him. And she,
For Robert, was the moon, that softens all
With its pure, mystic rays; and in his life
The rugged, hard, and rocky pathways made
All soft and beautiful and silvery
With her sweet tender light. She led him on
With words of love, e'en as the queenly moon
Binds with her silver chains, so marvelous,
Old foaming Ocean, while she sheds her light
Upon his swelling and upheaving breast,
And soothes him thus to peace and quietness.
For Robert did Queen Bertha love each scene
Of Nature that with him she gazed upon.
She loved the gentle-drooping flowers fair,
Because they spread for him their perfumes sweet;
She loved the singing-birds, because she dreamed
For him alone they poured so wildly forth
The madness of their tender melody;
For him, she loved the night-skies with their gems,
The sapphire Jupiter, and ruby Mars,
And opal Venus, and the diamond Moon,
And all the pearly planets' softened gleam.
And she would say that Heaven's coronet
Of stars was fair and varied, too, as Earth's
Bright, girdling zone of flowers. So she loved
All these for him, and him above them all.
And then, from out the ladies of her train,
Did Bertha choose the gentlest for a friend.
The sweet Gisèle, a maiden pure and chaste,
With cheek as fair as is the blushing snow
Upon the mountain-top when kissed by Dawn,
And eyes as blue as the forget-me-not.
E'er faithful was Gisèle unto the Queen,
Though she was wooed by brave young Adalbert,
The noblest of the King's own gentlemen.
She would not wed him, so she loved the Queen,
Whose followers must all be maidens pure.
So, day by day, she put off Adalbert,
Who waited all impatiently, until
She promised him that after two short months,—
Upon the feast of good Saint Valery,
Then would she wed with him, her chosen love.

Ah, why are, evermore, the heavy folds
Of the dark Future's veil so dense that Man,
All blinded, tries in vain to pierce through them,
But must go groping on in darkness e'er,
And see the veil recede before his steps,
Still hiding all the morrow, till, at last,
Upon Death's dawn, it riseth up for aye,
Revealing to his dazzled sight that world
Where there are no more morrows, with their cares,
But all is one eternal, happy Now!

All joyfully and merry passed the time,
Until, one day, a Legate from the Pope—
The stern Fifth Gregory—arrived in France,
And none could guess his mission to the King,
For suddenly, and with no state he came;
And craving audience of Robert, then
He gave to him the orders of the Pope,—
To meet with all the clergy and the peers,
And high-born dames, and nobles of the realm,
In the great Hall of State, the morrow morn,
To listen there unto the Pope's commands,
That he, his Legate, would disclose to all.
This summons was proclaimed abroad to each
In Robert's noble court, and he, the King,
And Bertha, too, prepared themselves at once
The council to attend, yet not without
Some fear and trembling in his pious heart,
The King thought o'er the summons all the day,
Repeating, “I have done naught to offend
The Holy Father of the Church, and should
He wish now to enrich the Holy See,
A castle or a province e'en of mine,
In due obedience I shall comply.”
And then he searched the records of his deeds,
And all of them in memory reviewed,
And read again the tablet of each day;
And though he naught could find of sinful there
Yet did this strange and sudden order now,
Disturb him all that anxious day and night.
And Bertha trembled at this message strange
From Gregory, the all-puissant Pope,
And dreaded that some great mishap would chance.
So all day long she pondered it, but spoke
No word unto King Robert of her fears.
And in the gloomy darkness of the night
Strange troublous dreams did flit about her couch,
And wake her often with a sudden start;
Till late, near dawn, she fell asleep once more
In an unquiet slumber, and she dreamed
That she and Robert stood again, as on
Their marriage-day, within the royal church,
As though they were to wed. But in the place
Of bishops, and of knights, and peers, and dames,
Were strange-robed creatures seated all around,
Of which she naught could see save mantles black
About their shapes. The crown was on her head,
And in her hand the ring King Robert gave;
But stern, cold Leon, the Pope's Legate, stood
In the Archbishop's place, and tried to tear
The ring and crown away; and suddenly
The mantles fell from off the creatures' forms,
Revealing each a skeleton, while she
Stood there alone with them upon that ground,
That seemed all covered o'er with coffins now.
Then looking down the church-aisle, which appeared
So long she scarce could follow it, she saw,
Far, far away, the King, who fled from her.
And then she cried aloud, and, waking, found
The golden light of day full on her face,
And Robert bending over her with love.
“My Queen, awake!” cried he; “thou hast been vexed
With dreary visions, such as haunted me.
For, in the night, I thought I saw the Pope,
Who tried to part us. Thrice I dreamt that dream,
And then I woke, and would not sleep again.
But come, arise. To-day we must go forth
Into the Chamber, there to hearken to
The Pope's commands. What care I should he take
My castles or my provinces away?
Thou art the brightest and most precious gem
I own, my Queen, and thee he cannot take,
My noble and my lawful-wedded wife.”
Queen Bertha trembled, but she did not tell
Her dream, and soothed the King with loving words;
And he calmed her with tenderness, until
They parted to prepare them for the day.

All now was ready in the Hall of State.
The King and Queen, in royal purple, sat
Upon the throne within the Hall. The King
Seemed cold, but gentle as he ever was,
And calm and full of dignity he sat.
But Bertha looked all weak and drooping yet,
As though she suffered from her weary night.
Her blue eyes shone more darkly, and her cheek
Had even lost the delicate, pale rose,
That there was wont to blush. The mantle long,
Of gorgeous purple, with its heavy folds,
And with its ermine edge, but made more fair
The spotless whiteness of her swanlike neck,
Where from her snowy shoulders low it drooped,
Disclosing the pure robe of white beneath.
With all its winding traceries of pearls.
Around the Hall were grouped King Robert's court,
And all the Bishops with their sable robes.
And at the end of that long Chamber, there,
Upon his seat upraised, the Legate sat,
Robed in his long and flowing purple stole,
While on his bosom shone the silver cross,
The token of his rank and mission there;
And in his hand he held the long white scroll,
Wherefrom to read the orders of the Pope.
Then all was hushed in the assembly vast,
And Robert waved his royal sceptre twice,
As sign to Leon that he should begin;
And Leon read the Bull of Gregory,
And each word, calm and clear, fell on the air,
In the forced silence of a multitude,
With solemn, dread significance to all,
And sank within the hearts of those who heard,
Like a sharp stone that ruffles all a pool,
And sinks forever low within its bed.

“I, Gregory the Fifth, the Pope of Rome,
Invested, by a Providence divine,
With this most holy and most sacred charge,
Proclaim through Leon, Legate unto France,
My orders, in the interests of the Church,
The blessed mother of mankind on earth.
Unholy is it for all those to wed
Who are already in the blood allied,
And those who at the font of baptism have
E'er stood as sponsors for the self-same child;
And, as King Robert, sovereign of all France,
Is thus allied with Bertha, now his Queen,
I here proclaim the marriage of these two
Unlawful and unholy, and command
Them now to separate before all men,
As they are separate in the sight of God.”

He ceased, and o'er the whole assembly ran
A shudder, e'en as when the wintry wind
Doth touch one little swelling ocean-wave,
Which flows and passes it along the breast
Of the whole sea, and all is wild unrest.
Queen Bertha, though the mantling blood first rushed
In dark'ning current to her cheeks, then fled
Back to her heart, and left her paler still,
Yet looked she stately, proud, and resolute,
Nor spoke, but moved more near unto the King.
And when he saw that form beside his own,
And that warm, golden hair so near his cheek,
And that small lily hand upon his robe,
He felt her weakness give him strength anew,
And list'ning to the dictates of his heart,
He answered thus the Pope's ambassador:—
“To Gregory the Fifth, the Pope of Rome,
Bear thou this answer back, from me, the King,
The second Robert, suzerain of France.
Upon me hath no earthly power bestowed
The treasure that he asks me. God alone
Gave me my Queen; from Him I hold her now,
In His name will I keep her evermore,
In His name will I guard her from all ill,
In His name is she mine, and mine alone,
And I will yield her only unto Death,
The messenger divine from Him to me,
When she will go where I can follow her.”
Thus spake the King, and Leon stood aghast,
That he, the Monarch-Saint, should dare the Pope,
And thus defy his solemn, stern commands.
But not a word he uttered. Then arose
Queen Bertha, who addressed him from the throne:—
“Go, tell thy Holy Master Gregory,
That in submission I acknowledge him
Our sacred Father, wedded to the Church;
But with his mighty power bid him, first,
Unbind the surging Ocean's silver chains,
That coil around him from the moon on high.
Or bid him part the rainbow from the air,
Or from the mighty thunder-cloud in heaven
Tear the gold bolt that dwells within its folds,
Ere he essays to part two tender hearts,
When once they 're bound with subtle chains of love,
When once they 're joined by Joy's bright rainbow arch,
When once the golden shaft of Love lies deep
In the dark chambers, making all their light.
O nobles, and ye gentle knights of France,
Ye who have sworn to aid us with the strength
Of your strong hands, and your still stronger hearts,
Desert us not, in this our darkest hour,
But make around your sovereign and his queen
A bulwark for their love, with all your might.
And, Leon, may the sad tears of a wife
Now move and touch your heart despite yourself,
And bring sweet flowers of tender pity forth,
As falling rain-drops soften the hard earth.
Oh, go fall down low at your master's feet,
And pray to him for us as you would pray
For your own heart's dear mistress. Then, if you
Have ever felt the gentle thrall of love
Binding your life, oh, bid him part us not!
If you have whispered, in the summer night,
Sweet loving words unto a loving heart,
Recall such words, and let them prompt you, then,
To soften him, and bid him part us not!
But no! I need not to a mortal pray,
For we are joined forever by our God;
Let no man sunder what is joined by Him.”
She stood upon the throne all pale and proud,
A Queen indeed before her subjects there;
But looking round upon the multitude,
A crimson blush suffused her pallid cheek,
And low she sank again beside the King,
A Woman all unqueened. And then arose
The cry of many voices in the hall,—
“Long live King Robert and his noble Queen!
All hail to royal Bertha, Queen of France!”
The cry arose, and swelled anon, until
A mighty shout, but died away again
As sudden as it rose, and all was still
As the wild blasts of moaning winds die out,
And all is silent in the wintry air.
Then, when the hush had fallen on the Hall,
Again the Legate, Leon, calm and cold,
Drew forth a scroll, and, rising, spoke once more,
And slow and solemn were the chilling words:

“I, Gregory the Fifth, the Pope of Rome
Invested by a Providence divine
With this most holy and most sacred charge,
Proclaim, through Leon, Legate unto France,
My orders, in the interest of the Church,
The blessed Mother of mankind on earth.
From intercourse with all good Christian souls,
Who worship faithfully their God above,
And here on earth the holy Church of Rome,
I excommunicate the King of France,
This Robert and his most unlawful Queen;
And blessed are all those who disobey
His orders from this day, for I absolve
His subjects from allegiance unto him,
And under interdict his kingdom lies,
A forfeit to the holy See of Rome.
No bells shall sound, no burial take place,
No rites now of religion be performed,
But mourning will be over all the land,
And it shall lie beneath the curse of God.”

Then all was hushed again at these dread words,
And then the King: “We will not part in life,
And after death a Mightier will judge.”
Then Bertha, too, essayed to answer him;—
But suddenly her falt'ring voice did break,
And die away in one long anguished sob,
Though not a tear fell from the proud blue eyes.
Then Leon, once again: “All in this hall
Who honor and obey the Holy Pope,
Will leave at once, before their souls be lost,
The presence of these two who brave him thus.”

Then, at the words, the bishops first arose,
And then the dames, and then the noble knights,
Who would have given up their lives for her,
Their royal Queen, but dared not give their souls.
Then Leon followed them with solemn pace,
And left King Robert and his Queen alone.
All mournfully did Bertha watch each form
That passed from out the hall, as though she hoped
That some at least would stay beside the throne;
And thus she saw evanish from her sight
Her joy, her hope, her glory, and her pride,
And naught was left with her but grief and love.
Then turning toward the King, all pale and sad,
She burst forth in a flow of bitter tears,
That all the morn had welled up in her eyes,
And choked her throat, and that she had till then,
With queenly dignity repressed. But now,
When looking round on the deserted hall,
She saw not one leal follower remain,
She let them start forth from her aching eyes,
And, passionately weeping, mourned aloud.
“What! are none left to comfort their sad King?
O Robert, Robert, curse me where I stand,
Thou, who erewhile, wast lord of blooming France,
And who hast lost a kingdom now for me!
Thou who to me, thy happy bride, gave all,—
A seat upon thy throne, thy palace proud,
For my own home, and, more than all, thy heart.
How have I now repaid thee, O my King!
I've torn the golden crown from off thy head,
Where it was wont to rest so royally;
I've seized the sceptre from thy kingly hands,
That swayed it to the noble impulses
Of thy great heart! And now thou standest there
Unkinged, with but the shadow of a crown;
Unkinged, with but the ghost of thy dead power,
And I have done it all! Ay, more than this,
For me thou forfeitest thy place in heaven.
I've brought thee fitting dowry for a bride!
All misery and sorrow on the earth,
And after death perdition! Curse me now!
What words are these? Nay, nay, oh, curse me not,
For, Robert. I have loved thee all my days,
And even now I love thee more than life,
And I will love thee, O my King, till death.
My past and present, ay, and future too,
Are glorified and bright with love of thee.
So curse and hate me not, but pardon me;
And thou who know'st so well sweet Mercy's art,
Forgive her now who ruined thee with love!”
And saying this, she knelt at Robert's feet,
And all her golden wealth of flowing hair
Swept o'er his kingly robe and brightened it,
Like sunshine on a bed of purple flowers.
And then the King raised up, all tenderly,
Her prostrate form, and soothingly caressed,
And spake unto her words of love and hope.
“Weep not for me,” said he, “my noble Queen,
For I am happy in thy love, and hold
'T is more to be the monarch of thy heart
Than sovereign of the lands of all the world.
What matters it that all my courtiers now
Should thus desert me, and should leave me here?
I care not so they leave me but with thee.
And weep not, Bertha, for my soul, for heaven,
Without thee, were a hell, and hell itself,
With thee, were heaven,—no, we ne'er shall part:
But I shall bless thee for thy constant love.
And thank all those who leave me thus with thee,
To prove thy heart as faithful and as true
As theirs are fickle, worldly, false, and vain.”
Then Bertha rose and blessed her noble King,
But, sighing, looked around the hall once more,
And said, “Oh, is there not one faithful soul
Who loves us and would ne'er abandon us,
Recalling all thy generous deeds, my King,
And all our happy days of peace and love?”
“Ay, there are two such souls,” a voice then cried
And from behind the waving tapestry
There stepped a goodly knight and gentle maid,
And Bertha knew Gisèle and Adalbert.
“Pardon!” cried they, and fell upon the ground
Before the King and Queen. Then Adalbert:
“We offer at your feet two constant hearts,
That love and reverence, through gloom and night,
As they have loved through sunlight and through joy.”
“Arise,” cried Robert; “'t is a happy night
That bringeth stars of such pure brightness forth.”
And Bertha fell upon her fond Gisèle
And wept, and thanked her for her noble love,
And called her gentle sister and sweet friend.
“Now am I rich indeed!” then cried the King,
The sovereign proud of two such generous hearts,
Who thus will serve me in my darkest hour,
And blest and glorified with such a love
As queenly Bertha, my true wife, bestows.”
Then Bertha rose, and walking with Gisèle,
And followed by the King and Adalbert,
She traversed all the lone deserted hall,
And went into her vacant palace home.

O Constancy, thou precious jewel fair!
Thou art a pearl, born low beneath the waves,
That shrinketh modestly from human eyes,
As doth the violet on earth. Unknown
Thou bloomest there till chance revealeth thee.
And when all other gems corrupt and fade,
Thou only changest to become more bright,
Transformed into the brilliant opal fair,
That gleams more beautiful in each new light.

A deathlike silence reigned within the halls
Of Robert, King of France. No busy feet
Crossed the long corridors' deserted floors;
Within the chambers was no sound e'er heard,
And none were ever seen beneath the roof,
Save Robert and Queen Bertha, and those two
Who still were faithful to their King and Queen.
Then all the land was hushed and deathlike, too,
And none approached the monarch and his Queen;
And if, perchance, in their full lonely walks,
They met some passenger belated there,
He quickly crossed himself and turned away,
And fled, as though there were pollution in
The very sight of such accursed souls.
No bells tolled forth the requiem for the dead,
No bells pealed forth the merry marriage sound,
And no religious rites were e'er performed,
Save christening of little new-born babes,
All innocent of Robert's crime, and prayers
For dying ones at death-beds offered up;
While every church and every crucifix
Were draped around in deepest folds of black.
And Bertha and King Robert found no face
Of friendly man or woman round them now,
But naught could see save their own shadows dark,
That now did follow, now precede their steps;
And naught could hear, save that full mournful sound,
The echo of their voices in the halls.
Then truly and with all their hearts they loved,—
A love made chaste and pure afar from men,
A love all sanctified by Sorrow's breath,
A love that filled up all their hearts and souls,
And took the place of every earthly joy.
And Robert, thus, did e'en more royal seem,
For now he wore an air of dignity,
All proud and natural, with no outward sign
Of sceptre or of golden coronet,
But born of native dignity of heart,
That proved him kingly in his soul. But she,
His Queen, grew day by day more pale and weak,
And on her pallid cheek the blood, at times,
Would flush and burn, then quickly fade away,
Like to the dying flashes of a lamp,
And leave her as though each gleam were the last.
And then, despite of Robert's tender love,
Despite of all his anxious cares for her,
She drooped and paled, and grew each day more weak;
And in her eyes appeared a strange new light,
As though the soul gleamed through before it fled.
One day, while Robert gently spoke with her,
She sighed and suddenly she swooned away,
All white and deathlike, in King Robert's arms.
And he bent over her, and wooed her, then,
With sweet caresses and with gentle love,
And chafed the little lily hand again,
And burned with ardent kisses cheek and mouth,
And rained his tears upon the golden hair,
As though he would impart his own young life
Unto that frail and drooping, soulless frame.
But naught availed, and loud he cried for aid,
And then Gisèle came in, with Adalbert,
And to her chamber did they bear the Queen,
Who lay there in a long and quiet trance,
Nor once raised up the fringèd curtains white
Of those blue eyes, nor once essayed to ope
The two pale lips, so fast enlocked in sleep;
But all the while she lay there, cold and still,
Forgetful of the Present's misery,
Forgetful of the Past's glad happy hours,
Forgetful of the Future's joyous hopes,
Now dead to grief and joy alike. It seemed
As though, within the volume of her life,
The hand that wrote the passions and the woes
For each day, had forgotten all these hours,
And left them blank. Then, in those days, the King
Did wander sadly through his palace-halls,
Now doubly desolate, for sweet Gisèle,
Through Adalbert, had warned him not to come
Anear the Queen as in her trance she lay,
For fear lest he might wake her suddenly,
And make her pass into the deeper sleep
Of death. So all the time he wept alone;
And then he mourned, and then fell down and prayed,
In agony of grief and penitence.
He saw the shadow of her death arise
And darken all his days, and in the gloom
He felt the hand of God upon his head,
That did not bless him with a soothing love,
Nor press his brow in sorrow for his sin,
But bore him down, then, with the dire weight
Of chastisement and anger. Then he moaned,
And with a bitter, vain regret, too late
He wept that he had brought such blooming youth.
And such a wealth of love, such rich young life,
And such bright, dazzling beauty, ere their time,
Unto the dark and gloomy night of death.
It was as if a softly flowing stream,
That purled along its course of happiness,
And wound its way through groves and flowery meads,
Toward that great Ocean where all streams are lost,
Should suddenly, in happy, peaceful flow,
Be stopped forever by a frowning rock;
And, further on, the field should nevermore
By rippling stream be freshened, and no more
The air be gladdened with its joyful song,
But over all the rock its shadow cast.
Then Robert felt that all his heaven had erst
Smiled forth from out the depths of those blue eyes,
And when their light was clouded all was blank.
And only once he caught a passing glimpse,
Through the oped curtains of the chamber-door,
Of the pale, sleeping face of her he loved.
With all its golden frame of sunny hair,
That made it seem the portrait of some saint,
And not the once-glad Bertha lying thus;—
A saint, indeed, all heavenly and cold,
But wanting that rich earthly tint, that proved
Her all his own, and not a spirit pure,
Too chaste and too serene for mortal love.
All motionless and cold she slumbered now,
Like the Greek artist's statue, that he loved
For its proud beauty, ere the gods endued
Its form, in answer to his prayers, with life.
And when the King beheld his lovely bride,
So pale and still and deathlike lying there,
Half maddened with its cold and sweet repose,
He rushed back to his chamber once again,
And cursed himself, and wept and prayed for her.
Then, while Queen Bertha all unconscious lay,
She bore the King a child, a little Prince;
And when she woke again she found it there,
Beside her on her couch, and then she asked
Gisèle what this fair child did there, and whose
It was; for she remembered naught of all
The pangs that wracked, erewhile, her tortured frame.
And when Gisèle replied, “It is your own,”
Then suddenly she felt the mother-love
Arise and swell within her gentle heart,
E'en as the precious water swelled and burst
From Meribah, when Moses smote the rock;
And with a tender, happy smile, that gleamed
Through a glad flow of sudden, grateful tears,—
A sun-bow through the rain,—she seized the child,
And pressed it close unto her bosom fair,
And fondled it, and bent above its form,
And kissed it with such passionate delight,
That sweet Gisèle did tremble lest this joy
Should prove too much for her faint, drooping frame,
And half essayed to take from her the child;
But Bertha pressed it closer to her breast,
Nor would entrust it unto other hands.
“Oh, now,” cried she, “I can repay my lord,
My noble King, for all his love to me;
And now these little hands will smooth for him
The paths of life. This rose will make amends
For all the thorns, and this sweet angel-face
Will brighten up once more the dreary road
That I have made so dark. Oh, when the tones,
All full of music, of this feeble voice,
Can speak to France with simple, touching words,
They'll plead for us, and win the people's love.
And now, come robe me in my richest robe,
For I will go unto my lord the King,
To bear myself this little infant prince
Unto his arms, and bid him love my child
For my sake and its own.” “Nay,” cried Gisèle;
“You yet are far too weak and faint to rise;
Myself will bear your child unto the King.”
And then the Queen essayed to rise, and prove
That she was strong and well, but, fainting, fell
Upon her couch once more. “I cannot go,”
She sighed, all sadly smiling through her tears;
“But since I cannot, go thou, bid a priest
Come bless my child, and he can bear for me,
Unto its royal father, my sweet babe.”

Anear the palace of the King of France
Arose the monastery's gloomy walls,
That grimly frowned upon the passers-by.
Without could naught be seen save windows barred,
And drawbridge and deep mote, like castle strong
Of some great baron; but within the walls
Was the fair chapel with its altar tall,
All covered with Madonnas, strangely carved
In precious wood or cut in marble white,
And hung with costly jewels and bright gold,
The gifts of pious nobles to the Church.
Unto the preacher's desk was firm attached,
By a short silver chain, the Book of God,
With velvet cover, broidered o'er in gold,
And written on rich vellum of all tints;
While on the margin wide of every page
Were pictures of the saints and holy men.
The chapel walls around were tapestried
With heavy hangings, all embroidered rich
With deeds of saints, of martyrs, and of Popes,
And costly ornaments were strewed around.
Here lay a silver vase with incense filled,
And there a golden, holding precious drops
Of brackish water from the Holy Land,
By some good pious pilgrim brought to France.
Beside the chapel was the Council Room,
Where met the Brothers, to decide upon
Some weighty question on occasions grave.
Of flowered damask was the Abbot's chair,
All framed in ebony, carved curious,
And raised upon broad steps of marble pure.
Here, too, appeared the gifts of pious men,
And sacred relics from far distant shrines;
For at his death, to expiate his sins,
Each noble deemed he should endow the Church,
And of all orders there was none so dear
As this, “The Monks of good Saint Augustine.”
Helgaut, the Abbot, was a frowning man,
With fierce, cold, gleaming eyes, e'er glitt'ring forth
From out the shadow of his darksome cowl.
Stern, grasping, and severe, 't was said of him,
He had himself outlived his icy heart,
And all the monks did tremble 'neath his rule.
Yet some of these were jolly-humored souls,
Who, faring well from out the vessels rich
Of the old monastery, bore its ills
Right patiently, and all the laws obeyed.
While others, still, in all, their abbot grave
Did imitate, and worship as a saint.
Such was the monastery near the King,
When, in the black and stormy night in which
Queen Bertha to her infant Prince gave birth,
Above the thunder's roar and beating rain
Was heard a knock upon the outer gate,
Prolonged and loud; and when the doors were oped
And drawbridge raised, within the gloomy night
No sign of man or woman could be seen:
But, looking down, the monks espied a child
Upon the threshold of the portal tall.
Then hastily they bore the infant in
Unto the light, and found it all deformed,
A monster hateful to the eye of man,
That stared around unmeaningly and strange.
The priests recoiled before the horrid sight,
And, with one voice, proposed to throw the child
Into the mote around the outer wall.
But here a tender-hearted monk advanced,
And said, “Alas! the child's deserted now
By all of human kind. 'T is sadly cursed,
And monstrously malformed, but what of that?
O brethren, in the bitter hour of death
Our sinning souls may seem deformed and dark
And hateful to the eye of God, as now
This child doth seem to us. Forget ye not
The Leper, touched by a far greater hand,
But prove that this poor child, although by man
Abandoned, shall be saved in God's own house.
Then let us bear it to the Abbot good,
And pray that he will keep it in these walls,
And try to guard it from all further ill.”
Thus spoke the good old Brother Innocent,
With such a tender pleading in his tones,
And such kind pity for the loathsome thing,
That all the monks were touched and bowed their heads.
So Innocent then raised the hateful babe
And bore it to the Abbot, stern Helgaut,
Who, when he saw the infant horror there,
And heard the good monk, Brother Innocent,
Thus beg him for its life with tender words,
Cried forth, as though his heart were softened too.
“Although I cannot bear to have this child
Within these sacred walls, yet still, for thee
I'll shelter it this night, and in the morn
We all will meet within the Council Room,
And there decide upon its future fate.”
The good old Innocent, with grateful heart,
Low to the Abbot bowed, and bore the child
Again within his arms unto his cell,
His own small chamber, and he left it there.
And though his sight with loathing turned from it.
Yet, as a sacred duty, did he guard
The malformed infant, close anear his couch,
And with his prayers he blended prayers for it.
Gay morn arose, all fair and smiling bright,
As though unconscious of the night's wild storm.
She came, and breathed forth light and hope anew,
And with her glowing touch the curtains black
Of the dark night did part, and wove for them
A rich, bright-orange fringe. Then, while the wheels
Of her gold chariot rolled o'er the sky,
All changed to glory and to light, and soon
A cloudless azure heaven smiled on France.
Then, too, the little droplets of the rain
Had in their heart a tiny golden sun,—
Reflection of the mighty one on high,—
And so they twinkled like a thousand eyes,
And peered from every bush and leafy shrub
And tree and flower, smiling merrily
To the great eye of day, the sun on high.

From early dawn, within the holy walls
Of the old monastery all was life;
And after the long worship of the morn
And early meal were o'er, the monks repaired
Unto the Council with the babe deformed.
The walls were now hung round in deepest black,
That hid the gorgeous arras underneath;
The crucifix in mourning, too, was veiled
At every hour, to remind the monks
Of Robert's sin, and Gregory's dread curse
Upon fair France, their wicked King's estate.
Then, when Helgaut God's blessing had invoked
Upon th' assembled monks, and prayed for light
Within their souls, to see the better path,
And do His will upon the cursèd child,
The horrid thing deformed was brought before
The Council of the Priests, and all around
In silence waited for the Abbot's words.
But ere he spoke the hangings of the door
Were waved aside, and there appeared without
A menial, a lay-brother, who then craved
Admission of the Abbot for a maid
Coming with some grave message from the Queen.
Helgaut, with haste, a mantle black threw o'er
The child beside him, and then bade the monk
Bring forth the maiden to his presence there.
The monk obeyed, and entered with Gisèle,
Still pale from nights of anxious watching late,
With delicate slight form, and white arms crossed
Upon her bosom, o'er her robe of black,
With step all firm, but eyes upon the ground,
A pale-pink blush suffusing the pure cheek.
Up the long aisle, between the gazing priests,
Gisèle advanced; then, meekly bowing low,
She stood before the Abbot, nor dared speak
Until he bade her tell her mission there;
And then, with womanly, low, thrilling voice:
“I come,” she said, “to ask you, in the name
Of Bertha, Queen of France, some holy priest
To bless her little new-born infant prince,
A lovely babe all innocent of sin.”
“A lovely babe,” the cruel Abbot thought;
And then compared it with the child deformed
That lay concealed beside his chair of state.
And, suddenly, a thought flashed through his brain,—
A fiendish thought,—and then he said aloud,
“'T is well, fair maid! Myself will follow you
Unto the Queen, her little prince to bless,
And try to turn her from her sinful ways.”
Then did he bid Gesèle await without,
And called a few most trusty priests to him,
And, whispering with them, he left the hall;
Then, with Gisèle, he went unto the Queen.

Right glad was Bertha when she saw again
Another human face beneath her roof.
“Welcome!” she cried, “O reverend father here;
I pray thee bless this little new-born babe,
And bear it to King Robert in thy arms,
And bid him bless it with a father's love.”
But to her words the Abbot answered not,
And only murmured “Benedicite”
Over the innocent doomed babe, and took
Its passive form within his arms; and then
Did Bertha bid farewell unto her child,
With one long kiss upon its angel brow,
The seal of all her new-born mother-love.

All solemnly Helgaut withdrew, and left
The chamber of the Queen, and then the hall,
And then essayed he not to find the King,
But stealthily he issued from the door,
And, bearing in his arms the infant prince,
Unseen he passed into the open air,
And wound his way unto the forest paths.

Right by the entrance of the wood there flowed
A little streamlet, narrow, and yet deep,
And over it the drooping grasses long
Made a green fringe, that hid it from the eye
Of the indifferent passer-by. But those
Who lived anear well knew the stream, and so
Helgaut crept slowly on until he reached
The deep blue waters of the little brook,
That looked as though a sapphire from heaven
Had fallen 'mid the emeralds of earth.
And there, all suddenly, the priest sank down
On one knee in the smooth, green, velvet turf
That carpeted the borders of the stream,
And, looking in the babe's soft, azure eyes,
He smiled a cruel smile and dropped the child,
Like a pale rose-leaf, on the flowing waves.
But God's great gift of life already had
Grown dear, and so one feeble cry awoke
The sleeping echoes, but they died away,
And all was still. And then the babe arose
And floated dead upon the river's breast,
Like a white lily calmly on a lake.
Then hastily the Abbot seized again
The little body floating out of reach,
And, binding round its form a heavy stone,
He let it drop once more, and down it sank,
Stirring the ripples for its requiem.
The happy birds sang on their loving songs,
The azure sky smiled down upon the land,
The green leaves of the trees, far overhead,
Still seemed to weave a delicate, fine lace,
With mingling of their trembling branches fair
Against the blue of heaven, and still the stream
Flowed on all gurgling low beneath the rocks,
And soft between the grass-enlinèd banks,
In ripple, wave, and eddy flowed along,
And told not of that fragile burden small
That lay so far below, or, if it did,
It sang in such a tender, gentle tone,
That none could understand the words it spoke.

When all was quiet once again Helgaut
Arose and turned unto the old retreat,
The frowning monastery. Then, when he
Had passed the portal, with a mocking grace,
A “blessing on the inmates and the roof,”
He entered the great Council Hall again,
Where all the monks were still awaiting him,
And took his seat upon the chair of state.
“Most worthy, reverend brethren,” said he then,
“Ye know that by the sinful Queen, erewhile,
I was besought to bless her new-born babe,
And that, in answer to her call, I went.
I went, my brothers, and she gave to me
Her child to bear unto the wicked King;
Then knowing our Father Gregory,
The holy Pope's commands, and holding more
The welfare of the soul than life, I bore
The babe from out that atmosphere of sin,
And then I drowned it in the passing stream
And prayed to God it might not be too late
To save its soul. And now we all can take
This monster to the King, and say it is
The fruit of sinning Bertha; then will he
Believe this is a judgment on his head,
And part from her at last; and Gregory,
The Father of us all, will then, perchance,
Reward our little service, and enrich
Our Order with some monastery new.
Then, too, we each will feel within our souls
That we have done what 's pleasing unto God,
And cleared from all pollution our vile King.
What say ye, O my brethren, unto this?”
He ceased, and suddenly the cry burst forth,
“God bless our holy Abbot, good Helgaut,
And give him after death rich recompense
For all his pious deeds!” But Innocent
Alone, of all the monks, sighed low, and groaned
And cursed himself that he had saved the child,
While down his cheeks there coursed two silent tears.
Alas, poor little prince of one short night,
Whose death has caused such bitter tears to flow,
Thy life has been more blessed than some more long!

Then rose Helgaut and took the child deformed
Within his arms, and, with four other priests,
He bore it to the palace of the King,
And through the halls unto his chamber-door.
And then they entered all King Robert's room,
And found him praying, low upon his knees,
With fervor of devotion; but he rose
With mingled looks of gladness and surprise,
At seeing once again, within his court,
New faces strange, and bid them welcome there,
And asked them what their mission was with him.
Then first advanced the stern Helgaut, and held
Within his arms the loathsome child deformed,
And said, “O King, we come to clear you now
Of all pollution, for we bring to you
A sign and proof that you offend your God
By living with your most unlawful Queen.
For while she lay unconscious in her trance
She bore a babe, and this child is her fruit!
Oh, pause awhile, and think upon your fate!
The awful Thousandth Year doth now approach
When all the world shall die, and Earth resolve
Once more into that chaos whence she sprang.
The Lord will now judge every secret thing,
And every secret work, howe'er concealed,
If good or evil. Oh, beware, beware!
Soon shall the silver cord, O King, be loosed,
The golden bowl be broken at the fount,
Man's flesh return to dust that erst it was,
Man's spirit to the God who gave it life.
For now the dreaded Thousandth Year is nigh,
And woe, O King, if thou dost disregard
This proof of God's just anger at thy deeds.”
And, saying this, he offered to the King
The hateful infant; but the King drew back
And groaned, and hid his face to see it not.
“Away!” cried he; “oh, torture me not thus!
I see, I see my own sin and my Queen's,
But still I cannot think this thing is hers.
Oh, see ye not the agony of mind
That I have suffered, and that wracks me now?
Oh, tell me, tell me that this is not hers!”
“Nay, nay,” replied Helgaut, “it is, in sooth,
The offspring of your Queen, and we will swear,
By all most sacred in this life or heaven,
That it is hers.” “Then swear,” replied the King,
“For my crazed mind refuseth to believe.”
Then first Helgaut, the Abbot, bowed, and made
The sign upon his bosom of the cross,
And murmured, “By the blessed blood of Christ
I swear this child is Bertha's and your own.”
And then another came and swore by Heaven;
And, lastly, did they all appeal to God,
And swear 't was Bertha's and King Robert's child,
Then Robert groaned and wept and tore his hair,
And cried, “Alas! God's anger smiteth me,
And I will part from her.” Then said Helgaut,
“Swear by the Church!” And then the King, “I swear.”
And then another cried, “Oh, swear by Christ.”
And, in a low and broken voice, the King,
“I swear.” And then the others said, “Oh, swear
By God.” And, broken by an anguished sob,
“I swear by God in heaven to part with her,
And never to behold her face again!”
Then did the Brothers go from out the hall,
And leave King Robert with his mighty grief.
And when he found himself alone once more
He burst forth with a passionate despair,—
“Oh, must I part with thee, at last, my Queen,
And never see thy lovely face again,
And never hear thy low and thrilling voice,
Nor even bid thee now a last farewell?
Oh, must the tender light of those blue eyes
Forever vanish from my yearning sight,
And leave me dark and lonely? Must that form
Which was to me the precious casket fair
That held all gems that made life bright for me,
Forever disappear, now, like a dream
Of beauty and of joy? Despite the sin,
Despite God's judgment on us both, my Queen,
My noble Bertha, oh, I love thee still.
I love thee with a love more passionate,
More deep, more rich than e'er I loved before;
It swells up in my heart as though 't would burst
That feeble prison, small to hold so much.
O Bertha, Bertha, yes, I love thee still,
Despite that hideous deformity,—
Thy fruit, thy gift to me. And even thou
Wilt deem my heart is faithless unto thee,
And thou wilt curse and hate me, O my Queen.
Ay, sooner that, still sooner would I have
My harshness turn the love that burns within
Thy noble heart for me, to deepest hate,
Than have thee feel such pangs of fruitless love
As I feel now.” He ceased, and, rising slow,
He opened wide his arms, and then he gave
A long, despairing, piercing cry that held
His soul, his passion, and his love, and cried,
“Farewell, farewell forever!” Then he fell
Exhausted, fainting, and unconscious, low
Upon his face, as though all life had fled.

Into the chamber of King Robert's queen
There entered, all alone, the Abbot grave,
Helgaut, who, walking on with solemn pace,
Stopped at her bedside, bending low to her.
Queen Bertha looked an instant at the priest,
Then cried, “Where is my child? What harm has come?”
“What child?” exclaimed the monk with feigned surprise;
“That hateful monster that you gave to me,
To show unto the King? Oh, call you that
Your child and do not blush?” “No, no,” cried she,
“My little cherub, my sweet, rosy child,
That you erewhile did take from out my arms.
Come, come, oh, mock me not with these vain fears,
But give to me once more my lovely babe.”
Then solemnly and slowly spoke the monk,—
“I know not of a lovely little babe;
I know no more than that you gave to me
A child malformed and hateful. Unto you,
I well can fancy, it seemed beautiful,
But to all others 't was a monster dread,
And e'en the King did find it horrible.”
“Nay, nay,” then cried the terror-stricken Queen,
“It was no monster, cruel-hearted monk;
And if it were, I'll love it still the same,
And cherish it, and think it beautiful,
If you will but restore it unto me.”
Then went the monk from out the chamber-door,
And, entering again, he brought with him
The child deformed, and gave it to the Queen.
She looked at it a moment, then recoiled,
All wildly shrieking, “Give me back my babe,
For this is none of mine! Where is my boy?”
“Well knew I,” said the monk, “that none could be
E'er blinded unto such deformities.
This is the awful judgment of the Lord;
For this, Queen Bertha, this child is your own.”
And then Queen Bertha rose upon her couch,
As though she had not heard his words, and cried,—
“Where have you left my babe, oh, cruel monk?
If in your hard and rocky heart there be
One tender spot, oh, give me back my child!
I see, I see, you would but raise my fears,
And make me doubly happy when you bring,
Once more, my little blooming child to me.
But mock no more, for see, I will go mad!
Oh, say no longer that this thing is mine!
Then will I pardon you the agony
You cause me now. Fear not, I'll pardon all.”
“Alas!” replied Helgaut, with artful sigh,
“All gladly would I bring some little child,
With merry, laughing, pretty infant face,
And swear it was your own, if Truth were not
Above all else with me. But this child is
The same one that you gave me as your own.
And, as a proof that this is so, the King
Saw only God's just chastisement and wrath
And bade me tell you, you must part from him,
And leave at once his palace and his home,
And nevermore behold his face again.”
A moment since, all flushed and warm, she stood
Beside her couch, while weeping bitter tears,
And with both arms outstretched, as though in prayer;
But now each tear rushed backward to its source,
And froze upon her brain; her arms dropped down
Beside her form, the rosy color fled
From cheek and lip, and left no sign of life,
Save the quick gasp, the choking, painful breath,
And one long shudder that ran o'er her frame.
Helgaut had looked for violence and tears,
And cursings and loud cries, but none such came,
While one great tear coursed down her pallid cheek.
With dry, wide-opened eyes she looked at him,
Nor spoke nor moved. Then a long sigh upheaved
Her snowy breast, and thus she spoke to him,
Not madly, but with low and saddened tone,
And slow as though all life and strength had gone.
“Since Robert, since my noble lord, believes
That this thing is the child I bore to him,
I, also, now believe that it is mine,
For in all things I ever think with him.”
And meekly did she bow her queenly head,
And all again was silent. Then the monk:
“What parting message shall I give the King?”
Again, in low, soft tones, she answered him.—
“Tell Robert that his loyal Queen obeys
His least commands, and leaves his home to-day.”
She spoke so low and painfully, Helgaut
Feared each word was her last, but still essayed
One question more. “This child, your child?” said he.
Again, in soft and choking tones she spoke:
“Go, take it with you, tend and try to love,
And God will bless you; but, oh, show it not
Unto my tearless eyes again. Now go,
Put all your heart and passion and past youth
Into one word, and say it to the King,
And be that word ‘Farewell.’” The monk withdrew,
And slowly went from out the royal halls.
Then, sinking down upon her couch again,
The Queen lay there all calm and pale and still,
And wept not, nor could pray, but only said,
“‘To leave at once his palace and his home,
And nevermore behold his face again.’”
And o'er and o'er repeated this, until
The words had lost all meaning in her ears.

Low in the Western sky the full round sun
Was piercing with his darts of fire the clouds,
Of purple and of gold around his throne,
And sinking all in glory to his rest;
While in the East there hung the pale-faced moon,
Like a round silver mirror, burnished bright,
For the great sun, who saw his image there
Reflected palely in its polished disk.
Then twilight fell upon the busy earth,
And clothed with mystery each tree and bush;
And, sparkling in the darkness, twinkled forth,
From out the azure mantle of the skies,
The diamond stars, erst hid within its folds.
All sounds died out upon the plain and hill,
Save the low cricket chirp, or the soft burr
Of grasshopper concealed beneath the leaves.
No more was heard upon the twilight air,
While France lay 'neath the Pope's dread interdict,
The pealing of the mellow vesper-bell,
But all around was hushed in still repose.
Then, when the quiet of that peaceful hour,
On each and all had fallen, slowly forth,
From out the palace of the King of France,
There came a stately woman robed in black,
With such a pallid, calm, and saddened face,
With such great, yearning, tearless azure eyes,
With such a fixed and vacant gaze, she seemed
The Angel of Despair upon this earth.
Her steps were slow, and often did she pause
For strength and breath before she could pursue
Her short, but wearisome and painful path,
That led unto the convent's gloomy walls,
Arising near the palace of the King.
And now she seemed so sad and faint and ill,
That scarcely could she reach the gate alone.
At length she came before the portal tall,
And, knocking there, a white-robed nun appeared,
And asked her what she would in those old walls.
Then answered she, “I crave admission here
To wipe away my sin with prayers and tears,
For I am Bertha, once the Queen of France.”
And when the gentle-hearted sisters heard
That she had been their good and noble Queen,
And found her thus in grief and misery,
They welcomed her within the convent walls,
And prayed for her, and spoke not of her sin,
But promised, on the morrow, she could take
The black veil of the nun, nor wait the time
That should expire in novitiate.
The little chapel of the convent old
Was lighted up with slender tapers bright,
The incense rose from waving censers full,
The great high altar was with flowers decked.
When Bertha entered, robed right regally
In fairest white, with all her golden hair
Upon her snowy shoulders waving down,
And crowned now with a wreath of lilies pure,
That could not pierce her brain and wound her heart,
As the rich crown of gold she erst had worn.
No color lighted up the marble cheek,
No tears had yet relieved the aching eyes,
But beautiful, surpassing earthly grace,
She looked, as slowly up the chapel-aisle,
And followed by the white-robed chanting nuns,
She walked unto the altar. There she fell
Before it prostrate on her face, and then
The sisters o'er her flung the great black veil
That covered all her form; and half the nuns,
In low and tender voices, chanted slow,
With musical soft tones, “Our sister's dead.”
And all the rest, in rich and thrilling voice,
That seemed to pierce the high and vaulted roof,
Then chanted loud, “Alive in Jesus Christ!”
And after this they went to raise the veil,
And lo! the chants were true, for she was dead.