The Maiden.
Were it three years, ’twould be the same. The troth
We plighted, freely, lovingly, from both
Our true hearts came.
The Lady (thinking).
And may as freely go—
Such things have happened! But I will not show
One glimpse of doubt to mar the simple trust
She cherishes; as soon my hand could thrust
A knife in the dove’s breast.
(Speaks.) You’ll find him, dear;
All will go well; take courage. Not severe
His wound?
The Maiden.
Not unto death; but fever bound
His senses. When the troops moved on, they found
A kindly woman near by Benton’s Mill;
And there he lies, poor Willie, up above
In her small loft, calling, in tones that thrill:
“Oh, come to me, my love, my love, my love!”—
Here is his picture.
The Lady.
What! ’tis Meredith!
The girl is mad!—Give it me forthwith!
How came you by it?
The Maiden.
Madam, you will break
The chain. I beg—