"You might have heard, through that thought's fearful shock,
The beating of his heart, like some huge clock;
And then the strong pulse falter and stand still
When lifted from that fear with sudden thrill
He bent to catch faint murmurs of his name,
Which from those blanched lips low and trembling came:
'O Claud!' She said: no more—
But never yet,
Through all the loving days since first they met,
Leaped his heart's blood with such a yearning vow
That she was all in all to him, as now."
Some passing herdsmen came to their relief, and the bruised and corpse-like form of the lady is borne back to the castle on a rude litter of branches. It is impossible for us to refrain giving the strongly drawn contrast in the following description:
"The starry lights shine forth from tower and fall,
Stream through the gateway, glimmer on the wall,
And the loud pleasant stir of busy men
In courtyard and in stables sounds again.
And through the windows, as that death-bier passes,
They see the shining of the ruby glasses
Set at brief intervals for many a guest
Prepared to share the laugh, the song, the jest;
Prepared to drink, with many a courtly phrase,
Their host and hostess—' Health to the Garayes!'
Health to the slender, lithe, yet stalwart frame
Of Claud Marot—count of that noble name;
Health to the lovely countess: health—to her!
Scarce seems she now with faintest breath to stir."
And thus the first part of this exquisite poem ends. The second part is the "Convalescence" of the wounded lady. Her life returns, but she learns that she is an incurable invalid, that while life lasts she must remain maimed and sick, and, most cruel thought of all,
"Never could she, at close or some long day
Of pain that strove with hope, exulting lay
A tiny new-born infant on her breast."
She draws her fate from the unwilling lips of the physician, in whose friendly eyes the tears are glimmering as he pronounces
"The doom that sounds to her like funeral bells."
And now she hurriedly glances in her mind at all the dreaded consequences, among which arises the jealous fear lest she should lose the love of her beloved Claud. His wife, indeed, but no longer his companion; only to have the hours his pity spared. Heart-broken and crushed, she murmurs against the holy will of God and prays for death.
The poetess here introduces a thought which shows her deep acquaintance with the human heart. We shrink from sympathy for our wounded pride, and strive to smile when our hearts are aching: