In that room in the inn they parted. They were borne off to separate cells of the same ignoble prison, and, separate, thence to Rome.
"Pompilia's face, then and thus, looked on me
The last time in this life: not one sight more,
Never another sight to be! And yet
I thought I had saved her . . .
It seems I simply sent her to her death.
You tell me she is dying now, or dead."
But then it flashes to his mind that this may be a trick to make him confess—it would be worthy of them; and the great cry breaks forth:
"No, Sirs, I cannot have the lady dead!
That erect form, flashing brow, fulgurant eye,
That voice immortal (oh, that voice of hers!)
That vision in the blood-red daybreak—that
Leap to life of the pale electric sword
Angels go armed with—that was not the last
O' the lady! Come, I see through it, you find—
Know the manœuvre! . . .
Let me see for myself if it be so!"
* * * * *
But it is true. Twenty-two dagger-thrusts—
"Two days ago, when Guido, with the right,
Hacked her to pieces" . . .
Oh, should they not have seen at first? That very flight proved the innocence of the pair who thus fled: these judges should have recognised the accepted man, the exceptional conduct that rightly claims to be judged by exceptional rules. . . . But it is all over. She is dying—dead perhaps. He has done with being judged—he is guiltless in thought, word, and deed; and she . . .
". . . For Pompilia—be advised,
Build churches, go pray! You will find me there,
I know, if you come—and you will come, I know.
Why, there's a judge weeping! Did not I say
You were good and true at bottom? You see the truth—
I am glad I helped you: she helped me just so."
Once more he flashes forth in her defence, in rage against Guido—but the image of her, "so sweet and true and pure and beautiful," comes back to him: