Each hissing in his neighbour's ear; and then

A strangled titter, out of which there brake

On all sides, clamouring etiquette to death

Unmeasured mirth; while now the two old kings
Began to wag their baldness up and down,

The fresh young captains flash'd their glittering teeth,
The huge bush-bearded Barons heaved and blew,

And slain with laughter roll'd the gilded Squire.

At length my Sire, his rough cheek wet with tears, Panted from weary sides' King, you are free!

We did but keep you surety for our son,

If this be he,—or a draggled mawkin, thou,

That tends her bristled grunters in the sludge :
For I was drench'd with ooze, and torn with briers,
More crumpled than a poppy from the sheath,
And all one rag, disprinced from head to heel:

'But hence' he said 'indue yourselves like men.
Your Cyril told us all.'

As boys that slink

From ferule and the trespass-chiding eye,

Away we stole, and transient in a trice
From what was left of faded woman-slough
To sheathing splendours and the golden scale
Of harness, issued in the sun that now

Leapt from the dewy shoulders of the Earth,
And hit the northern hills. Here Cyril met us
A little shy at first, but by and by

We twain, with mutual pardon ask'd and given For stroke and song, resolder'd peace, whereon Followed his tale. Amazed he fled away

Thro' the dark land, and later in the night

Had come on Psyche weeping: ' then we fell Into

your father's hand, and there she lies,

But will not speak, nor stir.'

He show'd a tent

A stone-shot off: we entered in, and there

Among piled arms and rough accoutrements,

Pitiful sight, wrapt in a soldier's cloak,

Like some sweet sculpture draped from head to foot,

And push'd by rude hands from its pedestal,

All her fair length upon the ground she lay :

And at her head a follower of the camp,

A charr'd and wrinkled piece of womanhood,
Sat watching like a watcher by the dead.

༦

Then Florian knelt, and Come' he whisper'd to her

'Lift up your head, sweet sister: lie not thus.

What have you done but right? you could not slay

Me, nor your prince: look up: be comforted :

Sweet is it to have done the thing one ought, When fall'n in darker ways.' And likewise I : 'Be comforted: have I not lost her too,

In whose least act abides the nameless charm

That none has else for me.' She heard, she moved, She moan'd, a folded voice; and up she sat,

And raised the cloak from brows as pale and smooth, As those that mourn half-shrouded over death

In deathless marble. 'Her' she said ' 'my friend

Parted from her-betray'd her cause and mine—

Where shall I breathe? why kept ye not your faith?

O base and bad! what comfort? none for me!'

At which she lifted up her voice and cried.

Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah my child, My one sweet child, whom I shall see no more! For now will cruel Ida keep her back;

And either she will die from want of care,

Or sicken with ill usage, when they say

The child is hers-for every little fault,

The child is hers; and they will beat my girl
Remembering her mother: O my flower!

Or they will take her, they will make her hard,

And she will pass me by in after-life

With some cold reverence worse than were she dead.

Ill mother that I was to leave her there,

To lag behind, scared by the cry they made,

The horror of the shame among them all:
But I will go and sit beside the doors,
And make a wild petition night and day,

Until they hate to hear me like a wind
Wailing for ever, till they open to me,
And lay my little blossom at my feet,
My babe, my sweet Aglaïa, my one child :
And I will take her up and go my way,

And satisfy my soul with kissing her:

Ah! what might that man not deserve of me,

Said Cyril you shall have it :' but again

She veil'd her brows, and prone she sank, and so

Like tender things that being caught feign death, Spoke not, nor stirr'd.

By this a murmur ran

Thro' all the camp and inward raced the scouts

With rumour of Prince Arac hard at hand.

We left her by the woman, and without