IX.
But like most cunning and audacious quean,
Although she quakes from head to foot with fear,
Her voice so strengthens, and so shapes her mien,
That in her face no signs of dread appear.
Having already made her leman ween
The trick devised, she feigns a joyous cheer,
Towards Sir Gryphon goes, and for long space
Hangs on his neck, fast-locked in her embrace.
X.
She, after suiting with much suavity
The action to the word, sore-weeping, cried:
“Dear lord, is this the guerdon due to me,
“For love and worship? that I should abide
“Alone, one live-long year, deprived of thee,
“—A second near—and, yet upon thy side
“No grief?—and had I borne for thee to stay,
“I know not if I should have seen that day.
XI.
“When I from Nicosià thee expected
“(When thou wast journeying to the plenar court)[1]
“To cheer me,—left with fever sore infected,
“And in the dread of death,—I heard report
“That thou wast gone to Syria; and dejected
“By that ill tiding, suffered in such sort,
“I, all unable to pursue thy quest,
“Had nigh with this right-hand transfixt my breast.
