And from the crowd, like some sweet dove herself,
A fluttering whiteness, rushed our Ilsabe—
Too late! the rifle cracked.... The unhurt dove
Rose, beating frightened wings—but Ilsabe!...
My God! the sight!... fell smitten; sudden red,
Sullying the whiteness of her bridal bodice,
Showed where the ball had pierced her innocent heart.
And Rudolf?—Ah, of him you still would know?
—When he beheld this thing which he had done,
Why, he went mad—I say—but others not.