Eviradnus

What was it Sigismond and Ladisläus said?

I know not if the rock, or tree o'erhead,Had heard their speech;--but when the two spoke low,Among the trees, a shudder seemed to goThrough all their branches, just as if that wayA beast had passed to trouble and dismay.More dark the shadow of the rock was seen,And then a morsel of the shade, betweenThe sombre trees, took shape as it would seemLike spectre walking in the sunset's gleam.

It is not monster rising from its lair,Nor phantom of the foliage and the air,It is not morsel of the granite's shadeThat walks in deepest hollows of the glade.'Tis not a vampire nor a spectre paleBut living man in rugged coat of mail.It is Alsatia's noble Chevalier,Eviradnus the brave, that now is here.

The men who spoke he recognized the whileHe rested in the thicket; words of guileMost horrible were theirs as they passed on,And to the ears of Eviradnus one--One word had come which roused him. Well he knewThe land which lately he had journeyed through.

He down the valley went into the innWhere he had left his horse and page, Gasclin.The horse had wanted drink, and lost a shoe;And now, "Be quick!" he said, "with what you do,For business calls me, I must not delay."He strides the saddle and he rides away.

Eviradnus was growing old apace,The weight of years had left its hoary trace,But still of knights the most renowned was he,Model of bravery and purity.His blood he spared not; ready day or nightTo punish crime, his dauntless sword shone brightIn his unblemished hand; holy and whiteAnd loyal all his noble life had been,A Christian Samson coming on the scene.With fist alone the gate he battered downOf Sickingen in flames, and saved the town.'Twas he, indignant at the honor paidTo crime, who with his heel an onslaught madeUpon Duke Lupus' shameful monument,Tore down, the statue he to fragments rent;Then column of the Strasburg monster boreTo bridge of Wasselonne, and threw it o'erInto the waters deep. The people roundBlazon the noble deeds that so aboundFrom Altorf unto Chaux-de-Fonds, and say,When he rests musing in a dreamy way,"Behold, 'tis Charlemagne!" Tawny to seeAnd hairy, and seven feet high was he,Like John of Bourbon. Roaming hill or woodHe looked a wolf was striving to do good.Bound up in duty, he of naught complained,The cry for help his aid at once obtained.Only he mourned the baseness of mankind,And--that the beds too short he still doth find.When people suffer under cruel kings,With pity moved, he to them succor brings.'Twas he defended Alix from her foesAs sword of Urraca--he ever showsHis strength is for the feeble and oppressed;Father of orphans he, and all distressed!Kings of the Rhine in strongholds were by himBoldly attacked, and tyrant barons grim.He freed the towns--confronting in his lairHugo the Eagle; boldly did he dareTo break the collar of Saverne, the ringOf Colmar, and the iron torture thingOf Schlestadt, and the chain that Haguenau bore.Such Eviradnus was a wrong before,Good but most terrible. In the dread scaleWhich princes weighted with their horrid taleOf craft and violence, and blood and ill,And fire and shocking deeds, his sword was stillGod's counterpoise displayed. Ever alertMore evil from the wretched to avert,Those hapless ones who 'neath Heaven's vault at nightRaise suppliant hands. His lance loved not the plightOf mouldering in the rack, of no avail,His battle-axe slipped from supporting nailQuite easily; 'twas ill for action baseTo come so near that he the thing could trace.The steel-clad champion death drops all aroundAs glaciers water. Hero ever foundEviradnus is kinsman of the raceOf Amadys of Gaul, and knights of Thrace,He smiles at age. For he who never askedFor quarter from mankind--shall he be taskedTo beg of Time for mercy? Rather heWould girdle up his loins, like Baldwin be.Aged he is, but of a lineage rare;The least intrepid of the birds that dareIs not the eagle barbed. What matters age,The years but fire him with a holy rage.Though late from Palestine, he is not spent,--With age he wrestles, firm in his intent.

If in the woodland traveller there had beenThat eve, who lost himself, strange sight he'd seen.Quite in the forest's heart a lighted spaceArose to view; in that deserted placeA lone, abandoned hall with light aglowThe long neglect of centuries did show.The castle-towers of Corbus in decayWere girt by weeds and growths that had their way.Couch-grass and ivy, and wild eglantineIn subtle scaling warfare all combine.Subject to such attacks three hundred years,The donjon yields, and ruin now appears,E'en as by leprosy the wild boars die,In moat the crumbled battlements now lie;Around the snake-like bramble twists its rings;Freebooter sparrows come on daring wingsTo perch upon the swivel-gun, nor heedIts murmuring growl when pecking in their greedThe mulberries ripe. With insolence the thornThrives on the desolation so forlorn.But winter brings revenges; then the KeepWakes all vindictive from its seeming sleep,Hurls down the heavy rain, night after night,Thanking the season's all-resistless might;And, when the gutters choke, its gargoyles fourFrom granite mouths in anger spit and pourUpon the hated ivy hour by hour.

As to the sword rust is, so lichens areTo towering citadel with which they war.Alas! for Corbus--dreary, desolate,And yet its woes the winters mitigate.It rears itself among convulsive throesThat shake its ruins when the tempest blows.Winter, the savage warrior, pleases well,With its storm clouds, the mighty citadel,--Restoring it to life. The lightning flashStrikes like a thief and flies; the winds that crashSound like a clarion, for the Tempest bluffIs Battle's sister. And when wild and rough,The north wind blows, the tower exultant cries"Behold me!" When hail-hurling gales ariseOf blustering Equinox, to fan the strife,It stands erect, with martial ardor rife,A joyous soldier! When like yelping houndPursued by wolves, November comes to boundIn joy from rock to rock, like answering cheerTo howling January now so near--"Come on!" the Donjon cries to blasts o'erhead--It has seen Attila, and knows not dread.Oh, dismal nights of contest in the rainAnd mist, that furious would the battle gain,'The tower braves all, though angry skies pour fastThe flowing torrents, river-like and vast.From their eight pinnacles the gorgons bay,And scattered monsters, in their stony way,Are growling heard; the rampart lions gnawThe misty air and slush with granite maw,The sleet upon the griffins spits, and allThe Saurian monsters, answering to the squall,Flap wings; while through the broken ceiling fallTorrents of rain upon the forms beneath,Dragons and snak'd Medusas gnashing teethIn the dismantled rooms. Like armored knightThe granite Castle fights with all its might,Resisting through the winter. All in vain,The heaven's bluster, January's rain,And those dread elemental powers we callThe Infinite--the whirlwinds that appall--Thunder and waterspouts; and winds that shakeAs 'twere a tree its ripened fruit to take.The winds grow wearied, warring with the tower,The noisy North is out of breath, nor powerHas any blast old Corbus to defeat,It still has strength their onslaughts worst to meet.Thus, spite of briers and thistles, the old towerRemains triumphant through the darkest hour;Superb as pontiff, in the forest shown,Its rows of battlements make triple crown;At eve, its silhouette is finely tracedImmense and black--showing the Keep is placedOn rocky throne, sublime and high; east, west,And north and south, at corners four, there restFour mounts; Aptar, where flourishes the pine,And Toxis, where the elms grow green and fine;Crobius and Bleyda, giants in their might,Against the stormy winds to stand and fight,And these above its diadem upholdNight's living canopy of clouds unrolled.

The herdsman fears, and thinks its shadow creepsTo follow him; and superstition keepsSuch hold that Corbus as a terror reigns;Folks say the Fort a target still remainsFor the Black Archer--and that it containsThe cave where the Great Sleeper still sleeps sound.The country people all the castle roundAre frightened easily, for legends growAnd mix with phantoms of the mind; we knowThe hearth is cradle of such fantasies,And in the smoke the cotter sees ariseFrom low-thatched but he traces cause of dread.Thus rendering thanks that he is lowly bred,Because from such none look for valorous deeds.The peasant flies the Tower, although it leadsA noble knight to seek adventure there,And, from his point of honor, dangers dare.

Thus very rarely passer-by is seen;But--it might be with twenty years between,Or haply less--at unfixed intervalThere would a semblance be of festival.A Seneschal and usher would appear,And troops of servants many baskets bear.Then were, in mystery, preparations made,And they departed--for till night none stayed.But 'twixt the branches gazers could descryThe blackened hall lit up most brilliantly.None dared approach--and this the reason why.

When died a noble Marquis of Lusace'Twas custom for the heir who filled his placeBefore assuming princely pomp and powerTo sup one night in Corbus' olden tower.From this weird meal he passed to the degreeOf Prince and Margrave; nor could ever heBe thought brave knight, or she--if woman claimThe rank--be reckoned of unblemished fameTill they had breathed the air of ages gone,The funeral odors, in the nest aloneOf its dead masters. Ancient was the race;To trace the upward stem of proud LusaceGives one a vertigo; descended theyFrom ancestor of Attila, men say;Their race to him--through Pagans--they hark back;Becoming Christians, race they thought to trackThrough Lechus, Plato, Otho to combineWith Ursus, Stephen, in a lordly line.Of all those masters of the country roundThat were on Northern Europe's boundary found--At first were waves and then the dykes were reared--Corbus in double majesty appeared,Castle on hill and town upon the plain;And one who mounted on the tower could gainA view beyond the pines and rocks, of spiresThat pierce the shade the distant scene acquires;A walled town is it, but 'tis not allyOf the old citadel's proud majesty;Unto itself belonging this remained.Often a castle was thus self-sustainedAnd equalled towns; witness in LombardyCrama, and Plato too in Tuscany,And in Apulia Barletta;--each oneWas powerful as a town, and dreaded none.Corbus ranked thus; its precincts seemed to holdThe reflex of its mighty kings of old;Their great events had witness in these walls,Their marriages were here and funerals,And mostly here it was that they were born;And here crowned Barons ruled with pride and scorn;Cradle of Scythian majesty this place.Now each new master of this ancient raceA duty owed to ancestors which heWas bound to carry on. The law's decreeIt was that he should pass alone the nightWhich made him king, as in their solemn sight.Just at the forest's edge a clerk was metWith wine in sacred cup and purpose set,A wine mysterious, which the heir must drinkTo cause deep slumber till next day's soft brink.Then to the castle tower he wends his way,And finds a supper laid with rich display.He sups and sleeps: then to his slumbering eyesThe shades of kings from Bela all arise.None dare the tower to enter on this night,But when the morning dawns, crowds are in sightThe dreamer to deliver,--whom half dazed,And with the visions of the night amazed,They to the old church take, where rests the dustOf Borivorus; then the bishop must,With fervent blessings on his eyes and mouth,Put in his hands the stony hatchets both,With which--even like death impartially--Struck Attila, with one arm dexterouslyThe south, and with the other arm the north.

This day the town the threatening flag set forthOf Marquis Swantibore, the monster heWho in the wood tied up his wife, to beDevoured by wolves, together with the bullOf which with jealousy his heart was full.

Even when woman took the place of heirThe tower of Corbus claimed the supper there;'Twas law--the woman trembled, but must dare.

Niece of the Marquis--John the Striker named--Mahaud to-day the marquisate has claimed.A noble dame--the crown is hers by right:As woman she has graces that delight.A queen devoid of beauty is not queen,She needs the royalty of beauty's mien;God in His harmony has equal endsFor cedar that resists, and reed that bends,And good it is a woman sometimes rules,Holds in her hand the power, and manners schools,And laws and mind;--succeeding master proud,With gentle voice and smile she leads the crowd,The sombre human troop. But sweet MahaudOn evil days had fallen; gentle, good,Alas! she held the sceptre like a flower;Timid yet gay, imprudent for the hour,And careless too. With Europe all in throes,Though twenty years she now already knows,She has refused to marry, although oftEntreated. It is time an arm less softThan hers--a manly arm--supported her;Like to the rainbow she, one might aver,Shining on high between the cloud and rain,Or like the ewe that gambols on the plainBetween the bear and tiger; innocent,She has two neighbors of most foul intent:For foes the Beauty has, in life's pure spring,The German Emp'ror and the Polish King.

The difference this betwixt the evil pair,Faithless to God--for laws without a care--One was the claw, the other one the willControlling. Yet to mass they both went still,And on the rosary told their beads each day.But none the less the world believed that theyUnto the powers of hell their souls had sold.Even in whispers men each other toldThe details of the pact which they had signedWith that dark power, the foe of human kind;In whispers, for the crowd had mortal dreadOf them so high, and woes that they had spread.One might be vengeance and the other hate,Yet lived they side by side, in powerful stateAnd close alliance. All the people nearFrom red horizon dwelt in abject fear,Mastered by them; their figures darkly grandHad ruddy reflex from the wasted land,And fires, and towns they sacked. Besides the one,Like David, poet was, the other shoneAs fine musician--rumor spread their fame,Declaring them divine, until each nameIn Italy's fine sonnets met with praise.The ancient hierarch in those old daysHad custom strange, a now forgotten thing,It was a European plan that KingOf France was marquis, and th' imperial headOf Germany was duke; there was no needTo class the other kings, but barons they,Obedient vassals unto Rome, their stay.The King of Poland was but simple knight,Yet now, for once, had strange unwonted right,And, as exception to the common state,This one Sarmatian King was held as greatAs German Emperor; and each knew howHis evil part to play, nor mercy show.The German had one aim, it was to takeAll land he could, and it his own to make.The Pole already having Baltic shore,Seized Celtic ports, still needing more and more.On all the Northern Sea his crafts roused fear:Iceland beheld his demon navy near.Antwerp the German burnt; and Prussias twainBowed to the yoke. The Polish King was fainTo help the Russian Spotocus--his aidWas like the help that in their common tradeA sturdy butcher gives a weaker one.The King it is who seizes, and this done,The Emp'ror pillages, usurping rightIn war Teutonic, settled but by might.The King in Jutland cynic footing gains,The weak coerced, the while with cunning painsThe strong are duped. But 'tis a law they makeThat their accord themselves should never break.From Arctic seas to cities Transalpine,Their hideous talons, curved for sure rapine,Scrape o'er and o'er the mournful continent,Their plans succeed, and each is well content.Thus under Satan's all paternal careThey brothers are, this royal bandit pair.Oh, noxious conquerors! with transient ruleChimera heads--ambition can but fool.Their misty minds but harbor rottennessLoathsome and fetid, and all barrenness--Their deeds to ashes turn, and, hydra-bred,The mystic skeleton is theirs to dread.The daring German and the cunning PoleNoted to-day a woman had controlOf lands, and watched Mahaud like evil spies;And from the Emp'ror's cruel mouth--with dyesOf wrath empurpled--came these words of late:"The empire wearies of the wallet weightHung at its back--this High and Low Lusace,Whose hateful load grows heavier apace,That now a woman holds its ruler's place."Threatening, and blood suggesting, every word;The watchful Pole was silent--but he heard.

Two monstrous dangers; but the heedless oneBabbles and smiles, and bids all care begone--Likes lively speech--while all the poor she makesTo love her, and the taxes off she takes.A life of dance and pleasure she has known--A woman always; in her jewelled crownIt is the pearl she loves--not cutting gems,For these can wound, and mark men's diadems.She pays the hire of Homer's copyists,And in the Courts of Love presiding, lists.

Quite recently unto her Court have comeTwo men--unknown their names or native home,Their rank or race; but one plays well the lute,The other is a troubadour; both suitThe taste of Mahaud, when on summer eve,'Neath opened windows, they obtain her leaveTo sing upon the terrace, and relateThe charming tales that do with music mate.In August the Moravians have their fête,But it is radiant June in which LusaceMust consecrate her noble Margrave race.Thus in the weird and old ancestral towerFor Mahaud now has come the fateful hour,The lonely supper which her state decrees.What matters this to flowers, and birds, and trees,And clouds and fountains? That the people mayStill bear their yoke--have kings to rule alway?The water flows, the wind in passing byIn murmuring tones takes up the questioning cry.

The old stupendous hall has but one door,And in the dusk it seems that more and moreThe walls recede in space unlimited.At the far end there is a table spreadThat in the dreary void with splendor shines;For ceiling we behold but rafter lines.The table is arranged for one sole guest,A solitary chair doth near it rest,Throne-like, 'neath canopy that droopeth downFrom the black beams; upon the walls are shownThe painted histories of the olden might,The King of the Wends Thassilo's stern fightOn land with Nimrod, and on ocean wideWith Neptune. Rivers too personifiedAppear--the Rhine as by the Meuse betrayed,And fading groups of Odin in the shade,And the wolf Fenrir and the Asgard snake.One might the place for dragons' stable take.The only lights that in the shed appearSpring from the table's giant chandelierWith seven iron branches--brought from hellBy Attila Archangel, people tell,When he had conquered Mammon--and they sayThat seven souls were the first flames that day.This banquet hall looks an abyss outlinedWith shadowy vagueness, though indeed we findIn the far depth upon the table spreadA sudden, strong, and glaring light is shed,Striking upon the goldsmith's burnished works,And on the pheasants killed by traitor hawks.Loaded the table is with viands cold,Ewers and flagons, all enough of oldTo make a love feast. All the naperyWas Friesland's famous make; and fair to seeThe dishes, silver-gilt and bordered roundWith flowers; for fruit, here strawberries were foundAnd citrons, apples too, and nectarines.The wooden bowls were carved in cunning linesBy peasants of the Murg, whose skilful handsWith patient toil reclaim the barren landsAnd make their gardens flourish on a rock,Or mountain where we see the hunters flock.Gold fountain-cup, with handles Florentine,Shows Acteons horned, though armed and booted fine,Who fight with sword in hand against the hounds.Roses and gladioles make up bright moundsOf flowers, with juniper and aniseed;While sage, all newly cut for this great need,Covers the Persian carpet that is spreadBeneath the table, and so helps to shedAround a perfume of the balmy spring.Beyond is desolation withering.One hears within the hollow dreary spaceAcross the grove, made fresh by summer's grace,The wind that ever is with mystic mightA spirit ripple of the Infinite.The glass restored to frames to creak is madeBy blustering wind that comes from neighboring glade.Strange in this dream-like place, so drear and lone,The guest expected should be living one!The seven lights from seven arms make glowAlmost with life the staring eyes that showOn the dim frescoes--and along the wallsIs here and there a stool, or the light fallsO'er some long chest, with likeness to a tomb.Yet was displayed amid the mournful gloomSome copper vessels, and some crockery ware.The door--as if it must, yet scarcely dare--Had opened widely to the night's fresh air.

No voice is heard, for man has fled the place;But Terror crouches in the corners' space,And waits the coming guest. This banquet hallOf Titans is so high, that he who shallWith wandering eye look up from beam to beamOf the confused wild roof will haply seemTo wonder that the stars he sees not there.Giants the spiders are, that weave with careTheir hideous webs, which float the joists amid,Joists whose dark ends in griffins' jaws are hid.The light is lurid, and the air like death,And dark and foul. Even Night holds its breathAwhile. One might suppose the door had fearTo move its double leaves--their noise to hear.

But the great hall of generations deadHas something more sepulchral and more dreadThan lurid glare from seven-branched chandelierOr table lone with stately daïs near--Two rows of arches o'er a colonnadeWith knights on horseback all in mail arrayed,Each one disposed with pillar at his backAnd to another vis-à-vis. Nor lackThe fittings all complete; in each right handA lance is seen; the armored horses standWith chamfrons laced, and harness buckled sure;The cuissarts' studs are by their clamps secure;The dirks stand out upon the saddle-bow;Even unto the horses' feet do flowCaparisons,--the leather all well clasped,The gorget and the spurs with bronze tongues hasped,The shining long sword from the saddle hung,The battle-axe across the back was flung.Under the arm a trusty dagger rests,Each spiked knee-piece its murderous power attests.Feet press the stirrups--hands on bridle shownProclaim all ready, with the visors down,And yet they stir not, nor is audibleA sound to make the sight less terrible.

Each monstrous horse a frontal horn doth bear,If e'er the Prince of Darkness herdsman were,These cattle black were his by surest right,Like things but seen in horrid dreams of night.The steeds are swathed in trappings manifold,The armed knights are grave, and stern, and cold,Terrific too; the clench'd fists seem to holdSome frightful missive, which the phantom handsWould show, if opened out at hell's commands.The dusk exaggerates their giant size,The shade is awed--the pillars coldly rise.Oh, Night! why are these awful warriors here?

Horses and horsemen that make gazers fearAre only empty armor. But erectAnd haughty mien they all affectAnd threatening air--though shades of iron still.Are they strange larvae--these their statues ill?No. They are dreams of horror clothed in brass,Which from profoundest depths of evil passWith futile aim to dare the Infinite!Souls tremble at the silent spectre sight,As if in this mysterious cavalcadeThey saw the weird and mystic halt was madeOf them who at the coming dawn of dayWould fade, and from their vision pass away.A stranger looking in, these masks to see,Might deem from Death some mandate there might beAt times to burst the tombs--the dead to wearA human shape, and mustering ranks appearOf phantoms, each confronting other shade.

Grave-clothes are not more grim and sombre madeThan are these helms; the deaf and sealed-up gravesAre not more icy than these arms; the stavesOf hideous biers have not their joints more strongThan are the joinings of these legs; the longScaled gauntlet fingers look like worms that shine,And battle robes to shroud-like folds incline.The heads are skull-like, and the stony feetSeem for the charnel house but only meet.The pikes have death's-heads carved, and seem to beToo heavy; but the shapes defiantlySit proudly in the saddle--and perforceThe rider looks united to the horse!The network of their mail doth clearly cross.The Marquis' mortar beams near Ducal wreath,And on the helm and gleaming shield beneathAlternate triple pearls with leaves displayedOf parsley, and the royal robes are madeSo large that with the knightly harness theySeem to o'ermaster palfreys every way.To Rome the oldest armor might be traced,And men and horses' armor interlacedBlent horribly; the man and steed we feelMade but one hydra with its scales of steel.Yet is there history here. Each coat of mailIs representant of some stirring tale.Each delta-shaped escutcheon shines to showA vision of the chief by it we know.Here are the blood-stained Dukes' and Marquis' line,Barbaric lords, who amid war's rapineBore gilded saints upon their banners stillPainted on fishes' skin with cunning skill.Here Geth, who to the Slaves cried "Onward go,"And Mundiaque and Ottocar--PlatoAnd Ladisläus Kunne; and Welf who boreThese words upon his shield his foes before;"Nothing there is I fear." Otho blear-eyed,Zultan and Nazamustus, and besideThe later Spignus, e'en to SpartiborOf triple vision, and yet more and moreAs if a pause at every age were made,And Antaeus' fearful dynasty portrayed.

What do they here so rigid and erect?What wait they for--and what do they expect?Blindness fills up the helm 'neath iron brows;Like sapless tree no soul the hero knows.Darkness is now where eyes with flame were fraught,And thrice-bored visor serves for mask of naught.Of empty void is spectral giant made,And each of these all-powerful knights displayedIs only rind of pride and murderous sin;Themselves are held the icy grave within.Rust eats the casques enamoured once so muchOf death and daring--which knew kiss-like touchOf banner--mistress so august and dear--But not an arm can stir its hinges here;Behold how mute are they whose threats were heardLike savage roar--whose gnashing teeth and wordDeadened the clarion's tones; the helmets dreadHave not a sound, and all the armor spread,The hauberks, that strong breathing seemed to sway,Are stranded now in helplessness alwayTo see the shadows, still prolonged, that seemTo take at night the image of a dream.

These two great files reach from the door afarTo where the table and the daïs are,Leaving between their fronts a narrow lane.On the left side the Marquises maintainTheir place, but the right side the Dukes retain,And till the roof, embattled by Spignus,But worn by time that even that subdues,Shall fall upon their heads, these forms will standThe grades confronting--one on either hand.While in advance beyond, with haughty head--As if commander of this squadron dread--All waiting signal of the Judgment Day,In stone was seen in olden sculptors' wayCharlemagne the King, who on the earth had foundOnly twelve knights to grace his Table Round.

The crests were an assembly of strange things,Of horrors such as nightmare only brings.Asps, and spread eagles without beak or feet,Sirens and mermaids here and dragons meet,And antlered stags and fabled unicorn,And fearful things of monstrous fancy born.Upon the rigid form of morion's sheenWinged lions and the Cerberus are seen,And serpents winged and finned; things made to frightThe timid foe, alone by sense of sight.Some leaning forward and the others back,They looked a growing forest that did lackNo form of terror; but these things of dreadThat once on barons' helms the battle ledBeneath the giant banners, now are still,

As if they gaped and found the time but ill,Wearied the ages passed so slowly by,And that the gory dead no more did lieBeneath their feet--pined for the battle-cry,The trumpet's clash, the carnage and the strife,Yawning to taste again their dreadful life.Like tears upon the palfreys' muzzles wereThe hard reflections of the metal there;From out these spectres, ages past exhumed,And as their shadows on the roof-beams loomed,Cast by the trembling light, each figure wanSeemed growing, and a monstrous shape to don,So that the double range of horrors madeThe darkened zenith clouds of blackest shade,That shaped themselves to profiles terrible.

All motionless the coursers horrible,That formed a legion lured by Death to war,These men and horses masked, how dread they are!Absorbed in shadows of the eternal shore,Among the living all their tasks are o'er.Silent, they seem all mystery to brave,These sphinxes whom no beacon light can saveUpon the threshold of the gulf so near,As if they faced the great enigma here;Ready with hoofs, between the pillars blueTo strike out sparks, and combats to renew,Choosing for battle-field the shades below,Which they provoked by deeds we cannot know,In that dark realm thought dares not to expoundFalse masks from heaven lowered to depths profound.

This is the scene on which now enters inEviradnus; and follows page Gasclin.

The outer walls were almost all decayed,The door, for ancient Marquises once made--Raised many steps above the courtyard near--Commanded view of the horizon clear.The forest looked a great gulf all around,And on the rock of Corbus there were foundSecret and blood-stained precipices tall.Duke Plato built the tower and banquet hallOver great pits,--so was it Rumor said.The flooring sounds 'neath Eviradnus' treadAbove abysses many."Page," said he,"Come here, your eyes than mine can better see,For sight is woman-like and shuns the old;Ah! he can see enough, when years are told,Who backwards looks. But, boy, turn towards the gladeAnd tell me what you see."The boy obeyed,And leaned across the threshold, while the bright,Full moon shed o'er the glade its white, pure light.

"I see a horse and woman on it now,"Said Gasclin, "and companions also show.""Who are they?" asked the seeker of sublimeAdventures. "Sir, I now can hear like chimeThe sound of voices, and men's voices too,Laughter and talk; two men there are in view,Across the road the shadows clear I markOf horses three.""Enough. Now, Gasclin, hark!"Exclaimed the knight, "you must at once returnBy other path than that which you discern,So that you be not seen. At break of dayBring back our horses fresh, and every wayCaparisoned; now leave me, boy, I say."The page looked at his master like a son,And said, "Oh! if I might stay on,For they are two."

"Go--I suffice alone!"

And lone the hero is within the hall,And nears the table where the glasses allShow in profusion; all the vessels there,Goblets and glasses gilt, or painted fair,Are ranged for different wines with practised care.He thirsts; the flagons tempt; but there must stayOne drop in emptied glass, and 'twould betrayThe fact that some one living had been here.Straight to the horses goes he, pauses nearThat which is next the table shining bright,Seizes the rider--plucks the phantom knightTo pieces--all in vain its panoplyAnd pallid shining to his practised eye;Then he conveys the severed iron remainsTo corner of the hall where darkness reigns;Against the wall he lays the armor lowIn dust and gloom like hero vanquished now--But keeping pond'rous lance and shield so old,Mounts to the empty saddle, and behold!A statue Eviradnus has become,Like to the others in their frigid home.With visor down scarce breathing seemed maintainedThroughout the hall a death-like silence reigned.

Listen! like hum froth unseen nests we hearA mirthful buzz of voices coming near,Of footsteps--laughter--from the trembling trees.And now the thick-set forest all receivesA flood of moonlight--and there gently floatsThe sound of a guitar of Inspruck; notesWhich blend with chimes--vibrating to the hand--Of tiny bell--where sounds a grain of sand.A man's voice mixes with the melody,And vaguely melts to song in harmony.

"If you like we'll dream a dream.Let us mount on palfreys two;Birds are singing,--let it seemYou lure me--and I take you.

"Let us start--'tis eve, you see,I'm thy master and thy prey.My bright steed shall pleasure be;Yours, it shall be love, I say.

"Journeying leisurely we go,We will make our steeds touch heads,Kiss for fodder,--and we soSatisfy our horses' needs.

"Come! the two delusive thingsStamp impatiently it seems,Yours has heavenward soaring wings,Mine is of the land of dreams.

"What's our baggage? only vows,Happiness, and all our care,And the flower that sweetly showsNestling lightly in your hair.

"Come, the oaks all dark appear,Twilight now will soon depart,Railing sparrows laugh to hearChains thou puttest round my heart.

"Not my fault 'twill surely beIf the hills should vocal prove,And the trees when us they see,All should murmur--let us love!

"Oh, be gentle!--I am dazed,See the dew is on the grass,Wakened butterflies amazedFollow thee as on we pass.

"Envious night-birds open wideTheir round eyes to gaze awhile,Nymphs that lean their urns besideFrom their grottoes softly smile,

"And exclaim, by fancy stirred,'Hero and Leander they;We in listening for a wordLet our water fall away.'

"Let us journey Austrian way,With the daybreak on our brow;I be great, and you I sayRich, because we love shall know.

"Let us over countries rove,On our charming steeds content,In the azure light of love,And its sweet bewilderment.

"For the charges at our inn,You with maiden smiles shall pay;I the landlord's heart will winIn a scholar's pleasant way.

"You, great lady--and I, Count--Come, my heart has opened quite,We this tale will still recount,To the stars that shine at night."

The melody went on some moments moreAmong the trees the calm moon glistened o'er,Then trembled and was hushed; the voice's thrillStopped like alighting birds, and all was still.

Quite suddenly there showed across the door,Three heads which all a festive aspect wore.Two men were there; and, dressed in cloth of gold,A woman. Of the men one might have toldSome thirty years, the other younger seemed,Was tall and fair, and from his shoulder gleamedA gay guitar with ivy leaves enlaced.The other man was dark, but pallid-facedAnd small. At the first glance they seemed to beBut made of perfume and frivolity.Handsome they were, but through their comely mienA grinning demon might be clearly seen.April has flowers where lurk the slugs between.

"Big Joss and little Zeno, pray come here;Look now--how dreadful! can I help but fear!"Madame Mahaud was speaker. Moonlight thereCaressingly enhanced her beauty rare,Making it shine and tremble, as if sheSo soft and gentle were of things that beOf air created, and are brought and ta'enBy heavenly flashes. Now, she spoke again"Certes, 'tis heavy purchase of a throne,To pass the night here utterly alone.Had you not slyly come to guard me now,I should have died of fright outright I know."The moonbeams through the open door did fall,And shine upon the figure next the wall.

Said Zeno, "If I played the Marquis part,I'd send this rubbish to the auction mart;Out of the heap should come the finest wine,Pleasure and gala-fêtes, were it all mine."And then with scornful hand he touched the thing,And made the metal like a soul's cry ring.He laughed--the gauntlet trembled at his stroke."Let rest my ancestors"--'twas Mahaud spoke;Then murmuring added she, "For you are muchToo small their noble armor here to touch."

And Zeno paled, but Joss with laugh exclaimed,"Why, all these good black men so grandly namedAre only nests for mice. By Jove, althoughThey lifelike look and terrible, we knowWhat is within; just listen, and you'll hearThe vermins' gnawing teeth, yet 'twould appearThese figures once were proudly named Otho,And Ottocar, and Bela, and Plato.Alas! the end's not pleasant--puts one out;To have been kings and dukes--made mighty rout--Colossal heroes filling tombs with slain,And, Madame, this to only now remain;A peaceful nibbling rat to calmly pierceA prince's noble armor proud and fierce."

"Sing, if you will--but do not speak so loud;Besides, such things as these," said fair Mahaud,"In your condition are not understood.""Well said," made answer Zeno, "'tis a placeOf wonders--I see serpents, and can traceVampires, and monsters swarming, that ariseIn mist, through chinks, to meet the gazer's eyes."

Then Mahaud shuddered, and she said: "The wineThe Abbé made me drink as task of mine,Will soon enwrap me in the soundest sleep--Swear not to leave me--that you here will keep.""I swear," cried Joss, and Zeno, "I also;But now at once to supper let us go."

With laugh and song they to the table went.Said Mahaud gayly: "It is my intentTo make Joss chamberlain. Zeno shall beA constable supreme of high degree."All three were joyous, and were fair to see.Joss ate--and Zeno drank; on stools the pair,With Mahaud musing in the regal chair.The sound of separate leaf we do not note--And so their babble seemed to idly float,And leave no thought behind. Now and againJoss his guitar made trill with plaintive strainOr Tyrolean air; and lively tales they toldMingled with mirth all free, and frank, and bold.Said Mahaud: "Do you know how fortunateYou are?" "Yes, we are young at any rate--Lovers half crazy--this is truth at least.""And more, for you know Latin like a priest,And Joss sings well.""Ah, yes, our master true,Yields us these gifts beyond the measure due.""Your master!--who is he?" Mahaud exclaimed."Satan, we say--but Sin you'd think him named,"Said Zeno, veiling words in raillery."Do not laugh thus," she said with dignity;"Peace, Zeno. Joss, you speak, my chamberlain.""Madame, Viridis, Countess of Milan,Was deemed superb; Diana on the mountDazzled the shepherd boy; ever we countThe Isabel of Saxony so fair,And Cleopatra's beauty all so rare--Aspasia's, too, that must with theirs compare--That praise of them no fitting language hath.Divine was Rhodope--and Venus' wrathWas such at Erylesis' perfect throat,She dragged her to the forge where Vulcan smoteHer beauty on his anvil. Well, as muchAs star transcends a sequin, and just suchAs temple is to rubbish-heap, I say,You do eclipse their beauty every way.Those airy sprites that from the azure smile,Peris and elfs the while they men beguile,Have brows less youthful pure than yours; besidesDishevelled they whose shaded beauty hidesIn clouds.""Flatt'rer," said Mahaud, "you but singToo well."Then Joss more homage sought to bring;"If I were angel under heav'n," said he,"Or girl or demon, I would seek to beBy you instructed in all art and grace,And as in school but take a scholar's place.Highness, you are a fairy bright, whose handFor sceptre vile gave up your proper wand."Fair Mahaud mused--then said, "Be silent now;You seem to watch me; little 'tis I know,Only that from Bohemia Joss doth come,And that in Poland Zeno hath his home.But you amuse me; I am rich, you poor--What boon shall I confer and make secure?What gift? ask of me, poets, what you willAnd I will grant it--promise to fulfil.""A kiss," said Joss."A kiss!" and anger fraughtAmazed at minstrel having such a thought--While flush of indignation warmed her cheek."You do forget to whom it is you speak,"She cried."Had I not known your high degree,Should I have asked this royal boon," said he,"Obtained or given, a kiss must ever be.No gift like king's--no kiss like that of queen!"Queen! And on Mahaud's face a smile was seen.

But now the potion proved its subtle power,And Mahaud's heavy eyelids 'gan to lower.Zeno, with finger on his lip, looked on--Her head next drooped, and consciousness was gone.Smiling she slept, serene and very fair,He took her hand, which fell all unaware.

"She sleeps," said Zeno, "now let chance or fateDecide for us which has the marquisate,And which the girl."

Upon their faces nowA hungry tiger's look began to show."My brother, let us speak like men of sense,"Said Joss; "while Mahaud dreams in innocence,We grasp all here--and hold the foolish thing--Our Friend below to us success will bring.He keeps his word; 'tis thanks to him I say,No awkward chance has marred our plans to-day.All has succeeded--now no human powerCan take from us this woman and her dower.Let us conclude. To wrangle and to fightFor just a yes or no, or to prove rightThe Arian doctrines, all the time the PopeLaughs in his sleeve at you--or with the hopeSome blue-eyed damsel with a tender skinAnd milkwhite dainty hands by force to win--This might be well in days when men bore lossAnd fought for Latin or Byzantine Cross;When Jack and Rudolf did like fools contend,And for a simple wench their valor spend--When Pepin held a synod at Leptine,And times than now were much less wise and fine.We do no longer heap up quarrels thus,But better know how projects to discuss.Have you the needful dice?"

"Yes, here they waitFor us."

"Who wins shall have the Marquisate;Loser, the girl."

"Agreed."

"A noise I hear?""Only the wind that sounds like some one near--Are you afraid?" said Zeno.

"Naught I fearSave fasting--and that solid earth should gape.Let's throw and fate decide--ere time escape."Then rolled the dice.

"'Tis four."

'Twas Joss to throw."Six!--and I neatly win, you see; and lo!At bottom of this box I've found Lusace,And henceforth my orchestra will have place;To it they'll dance. Taxes I'll raise, and theyIn dread of rope and forfeit well will pay;Brass trumpet-calls shall be my flutes that lead,Where gibbets rise the imposts grow and spread."

Said Zeno, "I've the girl and so is best,""She's beautiful," said Joss.

"Yes, 'tis confess'd.""What shall you do with her?" asked Joss.

"I know.Make her a corpse," said Zeno; "marked you howThe jade insulted me just now! Too smallShe called me--such the words her lips let fall.I say, that moment ere the dice I threwHad yawning Hell cried out, 'My son, for youThe chance is open still: take in a heapThe fair Lusace's seven towns, and reapThe corn, and wine, and oil of counties ten,With all their people diligent, and thenBohemia with its silver mines, and nowThe lofty land whence mighty rivers flowAnd not a brook returns; add to these countsThe Tyrol with its lovely azure mountsAnd France with her historic fleurs-de-lis;Come now, decide, what 'tis your choice must be?'I should have answered, 'Vengeance! give to meRather than France, Bohemia, or the fairBlue Tyrol, I my choice, O Hell! declareFor government of darkness and of death,Of grave and worms.' Brother, this woman hathAs marchioness with absurdity set forthTo rule o'er frontier bulwarks of the north.In any case to us a danger she,And having stupidly insulted me'Tis needful that she die. To blurt all out--I know that you desire her; without doubtThe flame that rages in my heart warms yours;To carry out these subtle plans of ours,We have become as gypsies near this doll,You as her page--I dotard to control--Pretended gallants changed to lovers now.So, brother, this being fact for us to knowSooner or later, 'gainst our best intentAbout her we should quarrel. EvidentIs it our compact would be broken through.There is one only thing for us to do,And that is, kill her."

"Logic very clear,"Said musing Joss, "but what of blood shed here?"Then Zeno stooped and lifted from the groundAn edge of carpet--groped until he foundA ring, which, pulled, an opening did disclose,With deep abyss beneath; from it there roseThe odor rank of crime. Joss walked to seeWhile Zeno pointed to it silently.But eyes met eyes, and Joss, well pleased, was fainBy nod of head to make approval plain.

If sulphurous light had shone from this vile wellOne might have said it was a mouth of hell,So large the trap that by some sudden blowA man might backward fall and sink below.Who looked could see a harrow's threatening teeth,But lost in night was everything beneath.Partitions blood-stained have a reddened smear,And Terror unrelieved is master here.One feels the place has secret historiesReplete with dreadful murderous mysteries,And that this sepulchre, forgot to-day,Is home of trailing ghosts that grope their wayAlong the walls where spectre reptiles crawl."Our fathers fashioned for us after allSome useful things," said Joss; then Zeno spoke:"I know what Corbus hides beneath its cloak,I and the osprey know the castle old,And what in bygone times the justice bold."

"And are you sure that Mahaud will not wake?""Her eyes are closed as now my fist I make;She is in mystic and unearthly sleep;The potion still its power o'er her must keep.""But she will surely wake at break of day?""In darkness."

"What will all the courtiers sayWhen in the place of her they find two men?""To them we will declare ourselves--and thenThey at our feet will fall."

"Where leads this hole?""To where the crow makes feast and torrents rollTo desolation. Let us end it now."

These young and handsome men had seemed to growDeformed and hideous--so doth foul black heartDisfigure man, till beauty all depart.So to the hell within the human faceTransparent is. They nearer move apace;And Mahaud soundly sleeps as in a bed."To work."

Joss seizes her and holds her headSupporting her beneath her arms, in his;And then he dared to plant a monstrous kissUpon her rosy lips,--while Zeno bentBefore the massive chair, and with intentHer robe disordered as he raised her feet;Her dainty ankles thus their gaze to meet.And while the mystic sleep was all profound,The pit gaped wide like grave in burial ground.

Bearing the sleeping Mahaud they moved nowSilent and bent with heavy step and slow.Zeno faced darkness--Joss turned towards the light--So that the hall to Joss was quite in sight.Sudden he stopped--and Zeno, "What now!" called,But Joss replied not, though he seemed appalled,And made a sign to Zeno, who with speedLooked back. Then seemed they changed to stone indeed.For both perceived that in the vaulted hallOne of the grand old knights ranged by the wallDescended from his horse. Like phantom heMoved with a horrible tranquillity.Masked by his helm towards them he came; his treadMade the floor tremble--and one might have saidA spirit of th' abyss was here; betweenThem and the pit he came--a barrier seen;Then said, with sword in hand and visor down,In measured tones that had sepulchral grownAs tolling bell, "Stop, Sigismond, and you,King Ladisläus;" at those words, though few,They dropped the Marchioness, and in such a wayThat at their feet like rigid corpse she lay.

The deep voice speaking from the visor's grateProceeded--while the two in abject stateCowered low. Joss paled, by gloom and dread o'ercast,And Zeno trembled like a yielding mast."You two who listen now must recollectThe compact all your fellow-men suspect.'Tis this: 'I, Satan, god of darkened sphere,The king of gloom and winds that bring things drear,Alliance make with my two brothers dear,The Emperor Sigismond and Polish KingNamed Ladisläus. I to surely bringAid and protection to them both alway,And never to absent myself or sayI'm weary. And yet more--I, being lordOf sea and land, to Sigismond awardThe earth; to Ladisläus all the sea.With this condition that they yield to meWhen I the forfeit claim--the King his head,But shall the Emperor give his soul instead.'"

Said Joss, "Is't he?--Spectre with flashing eyes,And art thou Satan come to us surprise?""Much less am I and yet much more.Oh, kings of crimes and plots! your day is o'er,But I your lives will only take to-day;Beneath the talons black your souls let stayTo wrestle still."

The pair looked stupefiedAnd crushed. Exchanging looks 'twas Zeno cried,Speaking to Joss, "Now who--who can it be?"Joss stammered, "Yes, no refuge can I see;The doom is on us. But oh, spectre! sayWho are you?"

"I'm the judge."

"Then mercy, pray."The voice replied: "God guides His chosen handTo be th' Avenger in your path to stand.Your hour has sounded, nothing now indeedCan change for you the destiny decreed,Irrevocable quite. Yes, I looked on.Ah! little did you think that any oneTo this unwholesome gloom could knowledge bringThat Joss a kaiser was, and Zeno king.You spoke just now--but why?--too late to plead.The forfeit's due and hope should all be dead.Incurables! For you I am the grave.Oh, miserable men! that naught can save.Yes, Sigismond a kaiser is, and youA king, O Ladisläus!--it is true.You thought of God but as a wheel to rollYour chariot on; you who have king's controlO'er Poland and its many towns so strong.You, Milan's Duke, to whom at once belongThe gold and iron crowns. You, Emperor madeBy Rome, a son of Hercules 'tis said;And you of Spartibor. And your two crownsAre shining lights; and yet your shadow frownsFrom every mountain land to trembling sea.You are at giddy heights twin powers to beA glory and a force for all that's great--But 'neath the purple canopy of state,Th' expanding and triumphant arch you prize,'Neath royal power that sacred veils disguise,Beneath your crowns of pearls and jewelled stars,Beneath your exploits terrible and wars,You, Sigismond, have but a monster been,And, Ladisläus, you are scoundrel seen.Oh, degradation of the sceptre's mightAnd swords--when Justice has a hand like night,Foul and polluted; and before this thing,This hydra, do the Temple's hinges swing--The throne becomes the haunt of all things baseOh, age of infamy and foul disgrace!Oh, starry heavens looking on the shame,No brow but reddens with resentful flame--And yet the silent people do not stir!Oh, million arms! what things do you deter--Poor sheep, whom vermin-majesties devour,Have you not nails with strong desiring powerTo rend these royalties, that you so cower?But two are taken,--such as will amazeE'en hell itself, when it on them shall gaze.Ah, Sigismond and Ladisläus, youWere once triumphant, splendid to the view,Stifling with your prosperity--but nowThe hour of retribution lays you low.Ah, do the vulture and the crocodileShed tears! At such a sight I fain must smile.It seems to me 'tis very good sometimesThat princes, conquerors stained with bandits' crimes,Sparkling with splendor, wearing crowns of gold,Should know the deadly sweat endured of old,That of Jehoshaphat; should sob and fear,And after crime th' unclean be brought to bear.'Tis well--God rules--and thus it is that IThese masters of the world can make to lieIn ashes at my feet. And this was heWho reigned--and this a Caesar known to be!In truth, my old heart aches with very shameTo see such cravens with such noble name.But let us finish--what has just passed hereDemands thick shrouding, and the time is near.Th' accursed dice that rolled at CalvaryYou rolled a woman's murder to decreeIt was a dark disastrous game to play;But not for me a moral to essay.This moment to the misty grave is due,And far too vile and little human youTo see your evil ways. Your fingers lackThe human power your shocking deeds to track.What use in darkness mirror to uphold?What use your doings to be now retold?Drink of the darkness--greedy of the illTo which from habit you're attracted still,Not recognizing in the draught you takeThe stench that your atrocities must make.I only tell you that this burdened ageTires of your Highnesses, that soil its page,And of your villanies--and this is whyYou now must swell the stream that passes byOf refuse filth. Oh, horrid scene to showOf these young men and that young girl just now!Oh! can you really be of human kindBreathing pure air of heaven? Do we findThat you are men? Oh, no! for when you laidFoul lips upon the mouth of sleeping maid,You seemed but ghouls that had come furtivelyFrom out the tombs; only a horrid lieYour human shape; of some strange frightful beastYou have the soul. To darkness I at leastRemit you now. Oh, murderer SigismondAnd Ladisläus pirate, both beyondRelease--two demons that have broken ban!Therefore 'tis time their empire over manAnd converse with the living, should be o'er;Tyrants, behold your tomb your eyes before;Vampires and dogs, your sepulchre is here.Enter."

He pointed to the gulf so near.All terrified upon their knees they fell."Oh! take us not in your dread realm to dwell,"Said Sigismond. "But, phantom! do us tellWhat thou wouldst have from us--we will obey.Oh, mercy!--'tis for mercy now we pray.""Behold us at your feet, oh, spectre dread!"And no old crone in feebler voice could pleadThan Ladisläus did.

But not a wordSaid now the figure motionless, with swordIn hand. This sovereign soul seemed to communeWith self beneath his metal sheath; yet soonAnd suddenly, with tranquil voice said he,"Princes, your craven spirit wearies me.No phantom--only man am I. Arise!I like not to be dreaded otherwiseThan with the fear to which I'm used; know me,For it is Eviradnus that you see!"

As from the mist a noble pine we tellGrown old upon the heights of Appenzel,When morning freshness breathes round all the wood,So Eviradnus now before them stood,Opening his visor, which at once revealedThe snowy beard it had so well concealed.Thin Sigismond was still as dog at gaze,But Ladisläus leaped, and howl did raise,And laughed and gnashed his teeth, till, like a cloudThat sudden bursts, his rage was all avowed."'Tis but an old man after all!" he cried.

Then the great knight, who looked at both, replied,"Oh, kings! an old man of my time can copeWith two much younger ones of yours, I hope.To mortal combat I defy you bothSingly; or, if you will, I'm nothing lothWith two together to contend; choose hereFrom out the heap what weapon shall appearMost fit. As you no cuirass wear, I see,I will take off my own, for all must beIn order perfect--e'en your punishment."

Then Eviradnus, true to his intent,Stripped to his Utrecht jerkin; but the whileHe calmly had disarmed--with dexterous guileHad Ladisläus seized a knife that layUpon the damask cloth, and slipped awayHis shoes; then barefoot, swiftly, silentlyHe crept behind the knight, with arm held high.But Eviradnus was of all aware,And turned upon the murderous weapon there,And twisted it away; then in a triceHis strong colossal hand grasped like a viceThe neck of Ladisläus, who the bladeNow dropped; over his eyes a misty shadeShowed that the royal dwarf was near to death.

"Traitor!" said Eviradnus in his wrath,"I rather should have hewn your limbs away,And left you crawling on your stumps, I say,--But now die fast."

Ghastly, with starting eyes,The King without a cry or struggle dies.One dead--but lo! the other stands bold-faced,Defiant; for the knight, when he unlacedHis cuirass, had his trusty sword laid down,And Sigismond now grasps it as his own.The monster-youth laughed at the silv'ry beard,And, sword in hand, a murderer glad appeared.Crossing his arms, he cried, "'Tis my turn now!"And the black mounted knights in solemn rowWere judges of the strife. Before them layThe sleeping Mahaud--and not far awayThe fatal pit, near which the champion knightWith evil Emperor must contend for right,Though weaponless he was. And yawned the pitExpectant which should be engulfed in it.

"Now we shall see for whom this ready grave,"Said Sigismond, "you dog, whom naught can save!"Aware was Eviradnus that if heTurned for a blade unto the armory,He would be instant pierced--what can he do?The moment is for him supreme. But, lo!He glances now at Ladisläus dead,And with a smile triumphant and yet dread,And air of lion caged to whom is shownSome loophole of escape, he bends him down.

"Ha! ha! no other club than this I need!"He cried, as seizing in his hands with speedThe dead King's heels, the body lifted high,Then to the frightened Emperor he came nigh,And made him shake with horror and with fear,The weapon all so ghastly did appear.The head became the stone to this strange sling,Of which the body was the potent string;And while 'twas brandished in a deadly way,The dislocated arms made monstrous playWith hideous gestures, as now upside downThe bludgeon corpse a giant force had grown."'Tis well!" said Eviradnus, and he cried,"Arrange between yourselves, you two allied;If hell-fire were extinguished, surely itBy such a contest might be all relit;From kindling spark struck out from dead King's brow,Batt'ring to death a living Emperor now."

And Sigismond, thus met and horrified,Recoiled to near the unseen opening wide;The human club was raised, and struck againAnd Eviradnus did alone remainAll empty-handed--but he heard the soundOf spectres two falling to depths profound;Then, stooping o'er the pit, he gazed below,And, as half-dreaming now, he murmured low,"Tiger and jackal meet their portion here,'Tis well together they should disappear!"

Then lifts he Mahaud to the ducal chair,And shuts the trap with noiseless, gentle care;And puts in order everything around,So that, on waking, naught should her astound.

"No drop of blood the thing has cost," mused he,"And that is best indeed."

But suddenlySome distant bells clang out. The mountains grayHave scarlet tips, proclaiming dawning day;The hamlets are astir, and crowds come out--Bearing fresh branches of the broom--aboutTo seek their Lady, who herself awakesRosy as morn, just when the morning breaks;Half-dreaming still, she ponders, can it beSome mystic change has passed, for her to seeOne old man in the place of two quite young!Her wondering eyes search carefully and long.It may be she regrets the change: meanwhile,The valiant knight salutes her with a smile,And then approaching her with friendly mien,Says, "Madam, has your sleep all pleasant been?"