Behind the oak she hides—to rest;
Advances—stops—springs forth again—
At length to fall upon his chest—
"But who is this?" The moon's bright spell
Illumines someone she knows well:
Her blood stream pauses and she shrieks
"Where's William?"
"List," the man implores,
And whispering he further speaks:
"Near yonder lake, a tower soars
High o'er the trees . . . its shadows cap
The restless waters' sleeping lap;
But deeper yet beneath the waves,
A casement lamp its light engraves;
Your William there now vainly seeks
To still his thoughts of Death's cold cheeks . . .
He learned his shame, learned of your guilt . . .
He slew the man you'll not bemoan,
His father . . . whom he had not known.
Revenge demands more blood be spilt . . .
Hence he must die . . . His peace be near.
When cheeks that now bloom as a rose
Shall fade and o'er the wheel appear,
And limbs shall feel the wheel's dread throes,
Thus he will die, who knew no fear.
For his disgrace and for your vice
Have world's disgrace . . . Be cursed thrice!"
He turns away . . . Then all is still;
At length, he clambers down the hill
Along the path, and finds his boat;
Swiftly he sails . . . as a stork in flight,
17
