My father used to sit in carelessly
After his soldier-fashion, while I stood
Between his knees to question him: and here
Gerard our gray retainer,—as he says,
Fed with our food, from sire to son, an age—
Has told a story—I am to believe!
That Mildred ... oh, no, no! both tales are true,
Her pure cheek's story and the forester's!
Would she, or could she, err—much less, confound
All guilts of treachery, of craft, of ... Heaven