Changed not the lovely rose-tint of her cheek.
Then to her bower she rushed, fell on the bed,
And there, O there she wept....
And the babes clinging to their mother’s robes
Were weeping: and she clasped them in her arms,
Fondling now this, now that, as one death-doomed.
And all the servants ‘neath the roof were weeping,
Pitying their lady. But to each she stretched
Her right hand forth; and none there was so mean
To whom she spake not and received reply.[[29]]