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COUNTESS LAURA.
Poor beggars, have no legacy to showThat love she bore us? That were shame to love,And shame to you, my masters." Carlo stalkedForth from his easel, stiffly as a thingMoved by mechanic impulse. His thin lips,And sharpened nostrils, and wan, sunken cheeks,And the cold glimmer in his dusky eyes,Made him a ghastly sight. The throng drew back,As though they let a spectre through. Then he,Fronting the Count, and speaking in a voiceSounding remote and hollow, made reply:"Count, I shall paint the Countess. 'Tis my fate,—Not pleasure,—no, nor duty." But the Count,Astray in woe, but understood assent,Not the strange words that bore it; and he flungHis arm round Carlo, drew him to his breast,And kissed his forehead. At which Carlo shrank:Perhaps 'twas at the honor. Then the Count,A little reddening at his public state,—Unseemly to his near and recent loss,—Withdrew in haste between the downcast eyesThat did him reverence as he rustled by.Night fell on Padua. In the chapel layThe Countess Laura at the altar's foot.Her coronet glittered on her pallid brows;A crimson pall, weighed down with golden work,Sawn thick with pearls, and heaped with early flowers.Draped her still body almost to the chin;And over all a thousand candles flamedAgainst the winking jewels, or streamed downThe marble aisle, and flashed along the guard
