XIII.
But months passed by and still I had not found:
Yet here and there, as wearily I sought,
I caught some news: how he had held his ground
Against the Roundhead troops; or how he'd fought
Then fled, returned and conquered. Like a hound,
Questing a boar, I followed; but was brought
Never to see my quarry. Day by day
It seemed that Satan kept him from my way.
XIV.
A woman rode beside him, so they said,
A fair-faced wanton, mounted like a man—
Isolda!—my Isolda!—better dead,
Yea, dead and damned! than thus the courtesan,
Bold, unreluctant, of such men! A dread,
That such should be, unmanned me. Doubt began
To whisper at my heart.—But I was mad,
To insult her with such thoughts, whose love I had.
XV.
At last one day I rested in a glade
Near that same woodland which I lay in when
Sore wounded; and, while sitting in the shade
Of an old beech—what! did I dream, or men
Like Rupert's own ride near me? and a maid—
Isolda or her spirit!—Wildly then
I rose and, shouting, leapt upon my horse;
Unsheathed my sword and rode across their course.
XVI.
Mainly I looked for Rupert, and by name
Challenged him forth:—"Dog! dost thou hide behind?—
Insulter of women! Coward! save where shame
And rapine call thee! God at last is kind,
And my sword waits!"—Like an upbeating flame,
My voice rose to a windy shout; and blind
I seemed to sit, till, with an outstretched hand,
Isolda rode before me from that band.
XVII.
"Gerald!" she cried; not as a heart surprised
With gladness that the loved, deemed dead, still lives;
But like the heart that long hath realized
Only misfortune and to fortune gives
No confidence, though it be recognized
As good. She spoke: "Lo, we are fugitives.
Rupert is slain. And I am going home."
Then like a child asked simply, "Wilt thou come?...