Thus, he appear'd

To the world what the world chose to have him

appear,

The frivolous tyrant of Fashion, a mere

Reformer in coats, cards, and carriages! Still
'Twas this vigour of nature, and tension of will,
That found for the first time-perchance for the last-
In Lucile what they lacked yet to free from the Past
Force, and faith, in the Future.

And so, in his mind,
To the 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 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 grey 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 lifeWoman'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. . .

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.

law,

'I know

But he shall not! By man's last wild

'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,

the right,

yours was

'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.'

This sudden reproach seem'd to startle.

Lucile

She raised

A slow, wistful regard to his features, and gazed
On them silent awhile. His own looks were down-

cast.

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