"Yea, run me through! for meet and well,
And a jest for laughter of fiends in hell,
"It is that I, who have done no wrong,
Should die by the hand of Hugh the Strong,
"He splintered my lance, and my blade he broke—
Now finish me thou 'neath the trysting oak!" ...
The crest of his foeman,—a heart of white
In a bath of fire,—stooped i' the night;
Stooped and laughed as his sword he swung,
Then galloped away with a laugh on his tongue....
But who is she in the gray, wet dawn,
'Mid the autumn shades like a shadow wan?
Who kneels, one hand on her straining breast,
One hand on the dead man's bosom pressed?
Her face is dim as the dead's; as cold
As his tarnished harness of steel and gold.
O Lady Maurine! O Lady Maurine!
What boots it now that regret is keen?