Thou knowest I love thy noble Hildegard:
And rather would I give my soul to burn
Than wrong in thought her flawless maidenhood.
And now she hath told me what I dare not think
Truth. And I dare not think her lips may lie.
ROSAMUND.
I have heard. And what is this to me? She hath not
Said—hath not told thee, nor wouldst thou believe—
That I have breathed a lie upon her lips
Or taught them shamelessness by lesson?
ALMACHILDES.
No.
But she came forth from thee to me—from thee—
And spake with quivering mouth and quailing eyes
And face whose fire turned ashen, and again
Rekindling from that ashen agony
Flamed, what no heart could think to hear her speak,
Mine least of all, who love her.
ROSAMUND.
Ay?
ALMACHILDES.
Not she,
I know it as sure as night is known from day
And surelier than I know mine own soul’s truth,
Spake what she spake in broken bursts of breath
Out of her own heart and its love for me.
ROSAMUND.