Whose the fault, then? Hers—the maiden standing meekly at his side! Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him—his bride.
Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth; On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth.
Far he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his name. For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and shame.
Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by night and day Of the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray—
Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good; Thought of his relentless anger that had cursed her womanhood;
Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all complete, And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet.
Ah! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night, Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow alight!
Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread; There he met a long procession—mourners following the dead.