And St. Michael, poised so grandly on his lofty, airy height, Seemed transfigured in the glory of the full moon’s tender light,
When, a fair and saintly maiden crowned with locks of palest gold, Rena stood beside her lover, son of Hildebrand the Bold.
She with grief and tears was pallid; but his face was hard and stern: All the passion of his being in his dark eyes seemed to burn.
“Never dream that I will give thee back thy plighted faith,” he cried, “By St. Michael’s sword I swear it, thou, my love, shalt be my bride!”
“Nay, but hear me,” she responded; “hear the words that I must speak; I must speak, and thou must hearken, though my heart is like to break.
Yestermorn, as I sat spinning blithely at my cottage door, Straightway fell a stately shadow in the sunshine on the floor;
And a figure stood before me, so majestic and so grand, That I knew it in a moment for the mighty Hildebrand—
Stood and gazed on me till downward at my feet the distaff dropped, And in all my veins the pulsing of the swift life-current stopped.
‘Thou art Rena,’ then he uttered, and he swore a dreadful oath, And the tempest of his anger beat on me and on us both.
‘She who thinks to wed with Volmar must have lands and gold,’ said he, ‘Or must come of noble lineage, fit to mate with mine and me!