[Illustration]

[Illustration]

XVIII

DONJON

(In a niche of the wall a shrine, with an image of the Mater Dolorosa.  Pots of flowers before it.)

MARGARET

(putting fresh flowers in the pots)

        Incline, O Maiden,
        Thou sorrow-laden,
        Thy gracious countenance upon my pain!

        The sword Thy heart in,
        With anguish smarting,
        Thou lookest up to where Thy Son is slain!

        Thou seest the Father;
        Thy sad sighs gather,
        And bear aloft Thy sorrow and His pain!

        Ah, past guessing,
        Beyond expressing,
        The pangs that wring my flesh and bone! 
        Why this anxious heart so burneth,
        Why it trembleth, why it yearneth,
        Knowest Thou, and Thou alone!

        Where’er I go, what sorrow,
        What woe, what woe and sorrow
        Within my bosom aches! 
        Alone, and ah! unsleeping,
        I’m weeping, weeping, weeping,
        The heart within me breaks.

        The pots before my window,
        Alas! my tears did wet,
        As in the early morning
        For thee these flowers I set.

        Within my lonely chamber
        The morning sun shone red: 
        I sat, in utter sorrow,
        Already on my bed.

        Help! rescue me from death and stain! 
        O Maiden! 
        Thou sorrow-laden,
        Incline Thy countenance upon my pain!

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

XIX

NIGHT

STREET BEFORE MARGARET’S DOOR

VALENTINE (a soldier, MARGARET’S brother)

When I have sat at some carouse. 
Where each to each his brag allows,
And many a comrade praised to me
His pink of girls right lustily,
With brimming glass that spilled the toast,
And elbows planted as in boast: 
I sat in unconcerned repose,
And heard the swagger as it rose. 
And stroking then my beard, I’d say,
Smiling, the bumper in my hand: 
“Each well enough in her own way. 
But is there one in all the land
Like sister Margaret, good as gold,—­
One that to her can a candle hold?”
Cling! clang!  “Here’s to her!” went around
The board:  “He speaks the truth!” cried some;
“In her the flower o’ the sex is found!”
And all the swaggerers were dumb. 
And now!—­I could tear my hair with vexation. 
And dash out my brains in desperation! 
With turned-up nose each scamp may face me,
With sneers and stinging taunts disgrace me,
And, like a bankrupt debtor sitting,
A chance-dropped word may set me sweating! 
Yet, though I thresh them all together,
I cannot call them liars, either.