Come, the stars are bright above! All the world is in our scope. We have horses—joy and love! We have riches—youth and hope!
Mount with me, and ride away,
Through the greenness and the dew; Through the shining gates of day, To the land where dreams come true!
"Look!" cried Mahaud, as she came in the hall
With the two minstrels. "It is terrible!
Sooner would I have lost my crown than come
Alone at midnight to this dreadful place."
"Does this old iron," said the troubadour,
Striking the armour of Eviradnus,
"Frighten you?" "Leave my ancestors in peace!"
Exclaimed Mahaud. "A little man like you
Must not lay hands on them." The troubadour
Grew pale with anger, but the tall lute-player
Laughed, and his blue eyes flamed upon Mahaud.
"Now I must sleep," she said, "the priest's strange wine
Begins to make me drowsy. Stay with me!
Stay and watch over me all night, my friends."
"Far have we travelled," said the troubadour,
"In hopes to be alone with you to-night."
And his dark face lightened with a grim smile,
When, as he spoke, Mahaud fell fast asleep.
"I'll take the girl," he cried to the lute-player,
"And you can have the land! Are you content?"
"Yes," said the lute-player, "but love is sweet."
"Revenge is sweeter!" cried the troubadour.
"'A little man like me!' Those were her words.
Neither as queen nor empress shall she reign!
I swore it when she flouted me. She dies!"
"I cannot kill her," said the lute-player,
"I love her." "So do I!" the other said.
"I love her and hate her. If she lived,
There would be war between us two. She dies!
We love her; we must kill her." As he spoke
The troubadour pulled at a ring, and raised
A flagstone in the floor. "I know this place,"
He said. "A lord of Lusace had this trap
Made for his enemies. 'Twill serve our need!
Help me to lift her. All the land is yours."
"Look!" screamed the lute-player. "Oh, God! Oh, God!"
The troubadour turned round, and his knees shook.
One of the iron images had leapt
Down from its lifeless horse, and with drawn sword
And clank of armour, it now drove at them.
"King Ladislas and Emperor Sigismund!"
It shouted in a terrible voice that fell
Upon them like a judgment from on high.
They grovelled at its iron feet, and shrieked,
"Mercy! Oh, mercy!" And Eviradnus,
Doffing his helmet and cuirass, exclaimed,
"I am a man and not an iron ghost!
It sickens me to see such cowardice
In the two greatest conquerors of the age.
Look! I have taken all my armour off;
Meet me like men, and use what arms you will."
"'Tis only an old man," said Ladislas.
"Hold him in front, while I strike from behind."
Eviradnus laid down his sword, to loose
The last piece of his armour, and the Pole
Ran at him with a dagger; with one hand
The old man gripped the little king, and shook
The life out of him. Then, as Sigismund
Snatched up his sword, and left him still unarmed,
Eviradnus stooped, and, seizing the dead king,
He whirled him by the feet, like a huge club.
Stricken with terror, Sigismund recoiled
Into the open trap. Eviradnus
Flung his strange weapon after him, and they fell,
The living emperor, and the lifeless king,
Into the dark abyss. Closing the stone,
Eviradnus put on his mail, and set
The hall in order. And when he had placed
The iron image on its horse, the dawn
Gleamed through the windows, and the noise
And murmur of the people of Lusace
Coming with branches of green broom to greet
Their lady, filled the air. Mahaud awoke.
"Where is my troubadour and lute-player?"
She said. Eviradnus bent over her,
His old grey eyes shining with tenderness.
"Lady," he said, "I hope that you slept well?"
The Temple of the Captives
The high-priest said unto the King of Kings:
"We need a temple to commemorate
Your glorious victories." The King of Kings
Called unto him the captives he had made,
And bade them build the temple, and he asked:
"Is there a man among you who can plan
And raise this monument unto my fame?"
"No," said they. "Kill a hundred of these slaves!"
The King of Kings exclaimed. And this was done.
One of the captives promised then to build
A temple on the mountain looking down
Upon the city of the King of Kings.
Loaded with chains, the prisoners were dragged
Along the streets and up the mountain track,
And there they toiled with grim and angry eyes,
Cutting a building in the solid rock.
"'Tis but a cavern!" said the King of Kings.
"We found a lion's lair," the captive said,
"And fashioned it into your monument.
Enter, O King of Kings, and see the work
Your slaves have built for you!" The conqueror
And captive entered. To a royal throne
The King of Kings was led, that he might view
The temple; and the builder flung himself
Face downwards at his feet. Then, suddenly,
The throne began to sink below the floor.
"Where are we going?" said the King of Kings.
"Down the deep pit into the inner hall!"
The captive said. A sound like thunder rang
Above them, and the King of Kings exclaimed:
"What noise was that?" "The block of stone
That covers in this pit," the captive said,
"Has fallen in its place!" The King of Kings
Groped in the darkness, and with trembling voice
He asked: "Is there no way out of this pit?"
"Surely," the captive said, "the King of Kings,
Whose hands are swift like lightning, and whose feet
Tread down all nations, can find out a way?"
"There is no light, no sound, no breath of air!"
Cried out the King of Kings. "Why is it dark
And cold within the temple to my fame?"
"Because," the captive said, "it is your tomb!"
Jean Chouan
The work of pacifying Brittany
Was going on; and children, women, men,
Fled from the revolutionary troops
In wild disorder. Over a bare plain
And up a hill, swept by the guns of France,
They ran, and reached the shelter of a wood.
There they re-formed—the peasant royalists.
And then Jean Chouan, who was leading them,
Cried: "Is there any missing?" "No," they said,
Counting their numbers. "Scatter along the wood!"
Jean Chouan cried again. The women caught
Their babies to their breasts, and the old men
Tottered beside the children. Panic, fear
Possessed the broken, flying peasantry.
Only Jean Chouan stayed behind to watch
The movements of the enemy. He stood
Silent in prayer below the sheltering hill;
A tall, wild figure, with his long, loose hair
Streaming upon the wind. And suddenly,
A cry rang shrill and keen above the roar
Of the French guns. A woman's cry it was;
And, looking from the hill, Jean Chouan saw
A woman labouring, with bare, torn feet,
And haggard, terror-stricken face, to reach
A refuge in the forest. Up the hill,
Swep by the French artillery, she toiled,
And the shells burst around her. "She is lost!"
Jean Chouan murmured. "She will be destroyed
Before she reaches shelter. Oh, the brutes,
To mass their fire upon a woman's head!"
Then on the height that overlooked the plain,
Jean Chouan sprang, and stood against the sky,
Fearless and proud, superb and motionless,
And cried, "I am Jean Chouan!" The French troops
Gazed for a moment in astonishment
At his tall figure. "Yes, it is the chief!"
They said to one another, as they turned
Their guns upon him. "Save yourself!" he cried,
"My sister, save yourself!" as, mad with fright,
The woman stumbled onward. Like a pine
Too strongly rooted in the rock to bend
Or break beneath the fury of the storm,
He towered amid the hurricane of death
That roared and flamed around him. "I will wait
Until you gain the forest!" he exclaimed.
The woman hastened. Over the hill she crept,
And staggered down the valley. "Is she safe?"
Jean Chouan shouted, as a bullet passed
Right through his body. Standing still erect,
He waited, with a smile upon his lips,
The answer. When some voices in the wood
Cried, "Jeanne is safe. Return!" Jean Chouan said,
"Ave Maria!" and then fell down dead.