Once more on his breast a fair head lies,

Once more round his neck are white arms thrown,

And sweet lips murmur, “Mon brave! mon brave!

Let my poor love for the past atone!”

The play is ended—the guests depart—

La Comtesse was none so fair after all!

But many an eye looks back with regret

On the broad domain, and the princely hall,

That Enguerrande’s child with her hand bestows

On the scarred and sun-burned Capitaine Paul.