Lucile [34]
anguish of losing the woman was join'd The terror of missing his life's destination, Which in her had its mystical representation.
III.
And truly, the thought of it, scaring him, pass'd O'er his heart, while he now through the twilight rode fast As a shade from the wing of some great bird obscene In a wide silent land may be suddenly seen, Darkening over the sands, where it startles and scares Some traveller stray'd in the waste unawares, So that thought more than once darken'd over his heart For a moment, and rapidly seem'd to depart. Fast and furious he rode through the thickets which rose Up the shaggy hillside: and the quarrelling crows Clang'd above him, and clustering down the dim air Dropp'd into the dark woods. By fits here and there Shepherd fires faintly gleam'd from the valleys. Oh, how He envied the wings of each wild bird, as now He urged the steed over the dizzy ascent Of the mountain! Behind him a murmur was sent From the torrent--before him a sound from the tracts Of the woodlands that waved o'er the wild cataracts, And the loose earth and loose stones roll'd momently down From the hoofs of his steed to abysses unknown. The red day had fallen beneath the black woods, And the Powers of the night through the vast solitudes Walk'd abroad and conversed with each other. The trees Were in sound and in motion, and mutter'd like seas In Elfland. The road through the forest was hollow'd. On he sped through the darkness, as though he were follow'd Fast, fast by the Erl King! The wild wizard-work Of the forest at last open'd sharp, o'er the fork Of a savage ravine, and behind the black stems Of the last trees, whose leaves in the light gleam'd like gems, Broke the broad moon above the voluminous Rock-chaos,--the Hecate of that Tartarus! With his horse reeking white, he at last reach'd the door Of a small mountain inn, on the brow of a hoar Craggy promontory, o'er a fissure as grim, Through which, ever roaring, there leap'd o'er the limb Of the rent rock a torrent of water, from sight, Into pools that were feeding the roots of the night. A balcony hung o'er the water. Above In a glimmering casement a shade seem'd to move. At the door the old negress was nodding her head As he reach'd it. "My mistress awaits you," she said. And up the rude stairway of creeking pine rafter He follow'd her silent. A few moments after, His heart almost stunned him, his head seem'd to reel, For a door closed--Luvois was alone with Lucile.
IV.
In a gray travelling dress, her dark hair unconfined Streaming o'er it, and tossed now and then by the wind From the lattice, that waved the dull flame in a spire From a brass lamp before her--a faint hectic fire On her cheek, to her eyes lent the lustre of fever: They seem'd to have wept themselves wider than ever, Those dark eyes--so dark and so deep! "You relent? And your plans have been changed by the letter I sent?" There his voice sank, borne down by a strong inward strife.
LUCILE.
Your letter! yes, Duke. For it threaten'd man's life-- Woman's honor.
Luvois.
The last, madam, NOT?
LUCILE.
Both. I glance At your own words; blush, son of the knighthood of France, As I read them! You say, in this letter . . . "I know Why now you refuse me: 'tis (is it not so?) For the man who has trifled before, wantonly, And now trifles again with the heart you deny To myself. But he shall not! By man's last wild law, I will seize on the right (the right, Duc de Luvois!) To avenge for you, woman, the past, and to give To the future its freedom. That man shalt not live To make you as wretched as you have made me!"
LUVOIS.
Well, madam, in those words what words do you see That threatens the honor of woman?
LUCILE.
See! . . . what, What word, do you ask? Every word! would you not, Had I taken your hand thus, have felt that your name Was soil'd and dishonor'd
III.
And truly, the thought of it, scaring him, pass'd O'er his heart, while he now through the twilight rode fast As a shade from the wing of some great bird obscene In a wide silent land may be suddenly seen, Darkening over the sands, where it startles and scares Some traveller stray'd in the waste unawares, So that thought more than once darken'd over his heart For a moment, and rapidly seem'd to depart. Fast and furious he rode through the thickets which rose Up the shaggy hillside: and the quarrelling crows Clang'd above him, and clustering down the dim air Dropp'd into the dark woods. By fits here and there Shepherd fires faintly gleam'd from the valleys. Oh, how He envied the wings of each wild bird, as now He urged the steed over the dizzy ascent Of the mountain! Behind him a murmur was sent From the torrent--before him a sound from the tracts Of the woodlands that waved o'er the wild cataracts, And the loose earth and loose stones roll'd momently down From the hoofs of his steed to abysses unknown. The red day had fallen beneath the black woods, And the Powers of the night through the vast solitudes Walk'd abroad and conversed with each other. The trees Were in sound and in motion, and mutter'd like seas In Elfland. The road through the forest was hollow'd. On he sped through the darkness, as though he were follow'd Fast, fast by the Erl King! The wild wizard-work Of the forest at last open'd sharp, o'er the fork Of a savage ravine, and behind the black stems Of the last trees, whose leaves in the light gleam'd like gems, Broke the broad moon above the voluminous Rock-chaos,--the Hecate of that Tartarus! With his horse reeking white, he at last reach'd the door Of a small mountain inn, on the brow of a hoar Craggy promontory, o'er a fissure as grim, Through which, ever roaring, there leap'd o'er the limb Of the rent rock a torrent of water, from sight, Into pools that were feeding the roots of the night. A balcony hung o'er the water. Above In a glimmering casement a shade seem'd to move. At the door the old negress was nodding her head As he reach'd it. "My mistress awaits you," she said. And up the rude stairway of creeking pine rafter He follow'd her silent. A few moments after, His heart almost stunned him, his head seem'd to reel, For a door closed--Luvois was alone with Lucile.
IV.
In a gray travelling dress, her dark hair unconfined Streaming o'er it, and tossed now and then by the wind From the lattice, that waved the dull flame in a spire From a brass lamp before her--a faint hectic fire On her cheek, to her eyes lent the lustre of fever: They seem'd to have wept themselves wider than ever, Those dark eyes--so dark and so deep! "You relent? And your plans have been changed by the letter I sent?" There his voice sank, borne down by a strong inward strife.
LUCILE.
Your letter! yes, Duke. For it threaten'd man's life-- Woman's honor.
Luvois.
The last, madam, NOT?
LUCILE.
Both. I glance At your own words; blush, son of the knighthood of France, As I read them! You say, in this letter . . . "I know Why now you refuse me: 'tis (is it not so?) For the man who has trifled before, wantonly, And now trifles again with the heart you deny To myself. But he shall not! By man's last wild law, I will seize on the right (the right, Duc de Luvois!) To avenge for you, woman, the past, and to give To the future its freedom. That man shalt not live To make you as wretched as you have made me!"
LUVOIS.
Well, madam, in those words what words do you see That threatens the honor of woman?
LUCILE.
See! . . . what, What word, do you ask? Every word! would you not, Had I taken your hand thus, have felt that your name Was soil'd and dishonor'd