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 hill-side; 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 creaking pine rafter
He follow'd her silent. A few moments after,

His heart almost stunn'd 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 toss'd 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 threatens man's life-
Woman's honour.

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

'For the man who has trifled before, wantonly,

Why now you refuse me; 'tis (is it not so?)

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 shall not live
To make you as wretched as you have made me!'

LUVOIS.

Well, madam, in those words what word do you see
That threatens the honour 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 dishonour'd by more than mere shame
If the woman that bore it had first been the cause

Of the crime which in these words is menaced? You pause!
Woman's honour, you ask? Is there, sir, no dishonour

In the smile of a woman, when men, gazing on her,

Can shudder, and say, In that smile is a grave'?

No! you can have no cause, Duke, for no right you have In the contest you menace. That contest but draws

Every right into ruin. By all human laws

Of man's heart I forbid it, by all sanctities
Of man's social honour!

The Duke droop'd his eyes.

'I obey you,' he said, 'but let woman beware

'How she plays fast and loose thus with human despair, 'And the storm in man's heart. Madam, yours was the right, 'When you saw that I hoped, to extinguish hope quite, 'But you should from the first have done this, for I feel 'That you knew from the first that I loved you.'

Lucile

This sudden reproach seem'd to startle.

She raised

A slow, wistful regard to his features, and gazed

On them silent awhile. His own looks were downcast. Through her heart, whence its first wild alarm was now pass'd Pity crept, and perchance o'er her conscience a tear,

Falling softly, awoke it.

However severe,

Were they unjust, these sudden upbraidings, to her?
Had she lightly misconstrued this man's character,
Which had seem'd, even when most impassion'd it seem'd,
Too self-conscious to lose all in love? Had she deem'd
That this airy, gay, insolent man of the world,

So proud of the place the world gave him, held furl'd

In his bosom no passion which once shaken wide

Might tug, till it snapp'd, that erect lofty pride?

Were those elements in him, which once roused to strife
Overthrow a whole nature, and change a whole life?

There are two kinds of strength. One, the strength of the river,
Which through continents pushes its pathway for ever

To fling its fond heart in the sea; if it lose

This, the aim of its life, it is lost to its use,

It goes mad, is diffused into deluge, and dies.

The other, the strength of the sea; which supplies
Its deep life from mysterious sources, and draws

The river's life into its own life, by laws

Which it heeds not. The difference in each case is this:
The river is lost, if the ocean it miss;

If the sea miss the river, what matter?

The sea

Is the sea still, for ever. Its deep heart will be
Self-sufficing, unconcious of loss as of yore;

Its sources are infinite; still to the shore,

With no diminution of pride, it will say,

'I am here; I, the sea! stand aside, and make way!' Was his love, then, the love of the river? and she, Had she taken that love for the love of the sea?

V.

At that thought, from her aspect whatever had been
Stern or haughty departed; and, humbled in mien,
She approach'd him, and brokenly murmur'd, as though
To herself more than him, 'Was I wrong? is it so?
'Hear me, Duke! you must feel that, whatever you deem
'Your right to reproach me in this, your esteem

'I may claim on one ground-I at least am sincere.
'You say that to me from the first it was clear

'That you loved me.

'At a moment in life

But what if this knowledge were known when I felt most alone,

'And least able to be so? a moment, in fact,

'When I strove from one haunting regret to retract
'And emancipate life, and once more to fulfil
'Woman's destinies, duties, and hopes? would you still
'So bitterly blame me, Eugène de Luvois,

'If I hoped to see all this, or deem'd that I saw
'For a moment the promise of this, in the plighted
'Affection of one who, in nature, united

'So much that from others affection might claim,

'If only affection were free? Do you blame

'The hope of that moment? I deem'd my heart free From all, saving sorrow. I deem'd that in me

'There was yet strength to mould it once more to my will,

'To uplift it once more to my hope. Do you still

'Blame me, Duke, that I did not then bid you refrain 'From hope? alas! I too then hoped !'

LUVOIS.

O again,

Yet again, say that thrice blessed word! say, Lucile,
That you then deign'd to hope-

LUCILE.

Yes! to hope I could feel,