Gerard ^ Isabel
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE SAINT GEORGE SERIES 
 NUMBER VII 
 
 PUBLISHED BY ALEXANDER 
 MORING LIMITED, THE DE 
 LA MORE PRESS, lo CLIFFORD 
 STREET, BOND STREET, W.i
 
 GERARD ^ ISABEL 
 
 A ROMANCE IN FORM OF 
 CANTEFABLE BY FRANCIS 
 WILLIAM BOURDILLON 
 
 ALEXANDER MORING LTD., THE DE 
 LA MORE PRESS, lo CLIFFORD STREET 
 BOND STREET, LONDON, W. i 1921
 
 p^. 
 
 GERARD AND ISABEL 
 
 Belle Ysabiaus, pucelle blen aprise, 
 Ama Gerart et il li en tel guise 
 C'ainc de folor ne fu par lui requise, 
 Et joie atent Gerars. 
 
 810S18
 
 GERARD AND ISABEL 
 I 
 
 F^ OET of a day departed, 
 ^ Who for ever in thy story 
 Liv'st unknown, beloved, ^ nameless ! 
 To thy memory take this tribute. 
 Take this fancy, lightly fashioned 
 To the form of thy devising. 
 Song and tale in mood alternate ! 
 Aucassin, the flower of lovers, 
 Nicolette, the pearl of maidens. 
 Are immortal; thou art nameless. 
 Take my tribute, and forgive it. 
 If a hand too rash be twining   ; 
 
 Tinsel leaves with thy true roses !
 
 II 
 
 ISABEL had been three days in 
 Heaven, and so full of gladness had 
 she been those three days that already 
 she had forgotten all the happiness and all 
 the sorrow that she had had in the world; 
 and her life there seemed to her as a dream 
 from which she had awaked. Only Gerard 
 had she not forgotten ; yet in her thought 
 he seemed to her but as one of those fair 
 angels with whom she now companied, as 
 one whom she had seen yesterday and 
 would see again to-morrow, and of whose 
 happiness she need have no more care than 
 she had of her own. 
 
 But so it happened thatonthefourth day 
 she went by the side of one of the blue 
 rivers of Paradise, and saw the flowers 
 growing on the banks, and the ripple 
 moving softly on the stream. And she sat 
 her down beneath a beautiful tree of Para- 
 dise, and set her feet in the warm clear 
 water. And she heard a bird sing; and its 
 song seemed all memories; such a song 
 as the blackbird sings on the earth when
 
 the evenings are long and light in the 
 month of April. And she remembered 
 Gerard, and her old life when she was in 
 the world with him; and a sudden longing 
 came on her, and a certain fear. 
 
 And then, as she looked on the clear 
 water below her, she seemed to see down 
 and down far beneath it. And it was as if 
 a mist had cleared away, and showed her 
 again the world in which she used to live. 
 Just as one standing on the top of a high 
 mountain will see the clouds rolling below 
 him break apart, and there far far away 
 are the green meadows & the blue streams 
 and the red roofs of the houses, all real ^ 
 bright and plain to see. Only the world 
 did not appear to her very far away and 
 small; but she could see plainly all the 
 places and the people whom she knew 
 so well. And she saw Gerard, and he was 
 lying weeping on a grave in the church- 
 yard. The grave was quite new, <y the turf 
 that covered it seemed but lately cut and 
 pieced together, for the edges were not 
 yet at all curled or dried. And she knew 
 that it was her own grave, in which her
 
 body had been laid three days agone; and 
 that Gerard was weeping and lamenting 
 because she was dead, ^ because he could 
 no moreseeherorspeak with her. And she 
 heard him crying on her name, 'Isabel! 
 Isabel!' And she called out loudly to 
 him: 
 'Gerard, do not weep so much!' 
 But he did not seem as if he heard, though 
 she said it three times or four, very loud. 
 And then she began to weep because she 
 could not make him hear, nor stop his 
 weeping. 
 
 And a littlechild-angelcameby,and saw 
 her weeping; ^ he asked her why she wept 
 in Paradise? But she answered nothing, 
 but went on weeping. And again he asked 
 her: 
 'Why do you weep in Paradise?' 
 And she pointed with her finger down 
 through the water to where she saw 
 Gerard lying on the grave. And the child- 
 angel looked, but he could see nothing of 
 all that she saw. And he said : 
 'There see I nothingforwhich you should 
 weep ; only the clear water and the shining 
 
 4
 
 gravel and the fishes swimming up and 
 down.' 
 
 'Ah, dear child,' said Isabel, 'do you not 
 see the churchyard, and Gerard lying 
 weeping on the grave?' 
 
 'Nay.' said the child, 'that do I not see. 
 These things are not there, but only in your 
 thought; and there is none can see them in 
 Heaven save you only, and God Himself 
 Who seeth all things.' 
 
 'Alas, dear child !' said Isabel, 'but I see 
 full plainly Gerard weeping at my grave. 
 And I have cried to him more than three 
 times, very loud ; but he does not heed. And 
 I cannot go tohim to touch him or to speak 
 to him. Ah, sweet child! You that have 
 wings, will you not fly down to him, for it 
 does not seem far, and tell him to look up 
 and listen; for perhaps he might hear me 
 then ? ' 
 
 'Nay,'said thechild-angel,'I am not your 
 messenger, but God's. And on no message 
 may I go saving God H imself sends me.' 
 
 And when Isabel heard him say that he 
 might not go for her, nor bear her message 
 to Gerard, she began to weep again. And 
 
 5
 
 the child-angel was sorry when he saw her 
 weeping, and he gently touched her and 
 said: 
 
 'Though I may do nothing to help you, 
 yet there is one who may.' 
 
 'Ah!'saidshe,'whoisthat?' 
 
 'It is Mary, the dear Mother of God. All 
 who are in sorrow on the earth cry to her, 
 and she comforts them. And if there be a 
 heart so full of sorrow that even in Paradise 
 she cannot stay her tears, yet surely Mary 
 will be able to stay them.' 
 
 'Ah, fair child !' said Isabel, 'how shall I 
 know where to find her?' 
 
 'I will bring you to her,' he said. 
 
 And she rose up and followed him. And 
 as she went she sought to dry her tears, that 
 she should not show to Mary that she had 
 been weeping in Paradise. But ever she 
 seemed to see Gerard lying on the grave; 
 and the tears fell again from her eyes. 
 
 And they went along thelawns and paths 
 of Paradise, till they came to a beautiful 
 parterre, where all the flowers were lilies. 
 In the midst of the parterre was a bower, 
 inthebowersat Mary, the Maid-Mother; 
 
 6
 
 and all aboutherwereangels in white robes, 
 coming and going, doing her bidding to 
 succour those who on earth were praying 
 to her. And she sat very still, as one who 
 listens; and sometimes a smile came on her 
 face, but oftener a look of sorrow or com- 
 passion. But none but she herself could 
 hear the prayers. 
 
 And when Isabel sawherthus, atfirst she 
 wassore afraid, and trembled very greatly. 
 And Mary beheld her, and bade her come 
 near. And when she came near, she fell on 
 her knees, and set her arms about Mary's 
 knees,andweptmostpiteously. And Mary 
 spake to her.
 
 Ill 
 
 MARY spake, the Mother, 
 Maid, and Queen of Heaven : 
 'Who art thou who weepest 
 In the bliss of Heaven? ' 
 Isabel made answer: 
 'Ah, dear Maid and Mother! 
 Be not angered with me! 
 On my grave lies Gerard; 
 He is weeping, weeping; 
 And I may not call him, 
 Send him help or comfort. 
 Weep I must to see him. 
 Lonely, broken-hearted. 
 Weeping there and dying. 
 Even as the flowers 
 Laid by friend and lover 
 On my grave are dying.' 
 
 8
 
 IV 
 
 W^ HEN Mary heard Isabel speak 
 thus, 
 ' Daughter,' said she, 'for what 
 dost thou make request?' 
 
 'Ah, sweet Mother! ' said Isabel; 'May 
 I not once speak to him so that he shall 
 hear me, and know that I love him still 
 in Heaven, even as sister loveth brother? ' 
 
 ' Nay,' said Mary, ' that may not be. For 
 thewisdomof God hath appointed other- 
 wise. And what is thy little matter that 
 it should overthrow the great counsels of 
 the Almighty? ' 
 
 'Ah, dear Mother of our Lord ! ' said 
 Isabel; 'Wilt thou not then send one of 
 these thy angels to carry my message to 
 him?' 
 
 'Nay,' answered Mary; 'it were not 
 meet to send a heavenly messenger to bear 
 a message of earthly love. And though 
 thou say est that it is but the message of a 
 sister to a brother thou wouldest send, yet 
 know I well that there are many others of 
 thy kin and of thy friends who are now
 
 sorrowing for thee, but for none of them 
 dost thou make request that I would send 
 an angel to speak words for their com- 
 forting.' 
 
 Then was Isabel sore abashed, for she 
 knew in her heart that it was even so as 
 Mary said. And she arose from kneeling 
 before Mary, and made her obeisance, 
 and turned to depart. And as she departed 
 the tears began again to fall from her eyes. 
 And Mary saw them; and she called her 
 again to her, and said: 
 
 ' Daughter, lovest thou then this man so 
 well?' 
 
 'Aye, dear Mother, so well that I trow 
 I shall know no happiness even in Heaven 
 without him.' 
 
 And Mary looked on her and sighed 
 softly. And then she said: 
 
 'Knowst thou all that thou hast gained 
 in reaching Heaven? Nay, how shouldst 
 thou know?' 
 
 And she opened a book that lay beside 
 her, and said: 
 
 ' Here shalt thou see the truth of thy life 
 in the world, and of the things that befell 
 
 lO
 
 thee there. For not as they really are do 
 the things of the world seem to men, 
 more than to children seem the pi(5tures 
 of such things as they have never seen. 
 But they appear to each after the cheat- 
 ing fancy of his own thought.' 
 
 And Isabel looked in the book. And she 
 saw that it was painted with strange and 
 very beautiful pidures. But the things in 
 the pictures appeared to her as the things 
 themselves, & not mere pictures of them. 
 And what was written in the book ap- 
 peared to her the very thoughts and 
 words of living men. And Mary turned 
 the leaves, and opened one page in which 
 Isabel saw herself, living and moving as 
 she did in life. But about her in the pic- 
 ture were strange appearances and many 
 things she knew not of nor remembered. 
 And with her were none of those whom 
 she had known and loved on earth ; 
 neither her father nor her mother nor her 
 brothers nor her sisters nor Gerard. And 
 she said to Mary: 
 
 'Dear Mother, how is it that here I see 
 myself only, and none of those who were 
 
 iz
 
 so dear to me, whose lives were to me as 
 part of my own life?' 
 
 And Mary answered: 
 
 *What else seest thou beside thyself in 
 the pi(5tures?' 
 
 And she said: 'I see here the likeness 
 of many strange things, such as I remem- 
 ber not in my life on earth. I see dreadful 
 rocks and huge precipices, and fire and 
 fierce beasts and sharp swords; and I see 
 the likeness of a gentle dove, and of a 
 hand that holds a vessel of softening oil.' 
 
 And Mary said : ' In the likeness of these 
 things thou seest all the words and a6ts 
 of those who were around thee in thy life 
 on earth. It was but their words and their 
 afts which were aught to thee in reality; 
 and of these, though thou knewest it not, 
 many were as dangerous to thy soul as 
 burning fires or ravening beasts or threat- 
 ening swords; and others were gentle as 
 a dove and mollifying as soft oil, to the 
 which, by the mercy of Heaven, thou 
 didst the rather turn and incline. But 
 thou seest how few are the good, and how 
 many the evil things. And thou seest how 
 
 12
 
 hardly thou hast passed through the fires 
 and the beasts and the swords; and how 
 rocks and precipices were around thee all 
 thy life; and how from all these perils 
 thou hast now escaped, and hast reached 
 the Paradise of God, where thou mayest 
 rest in safety evermore.' 
 
 And Isabel looked a long while upon the 
 pi(5lure; and after she had looked a long 
 while, the Mother said to her: 
 
 'Now hast thou seen how hard it is for 
 a soul to make safely the passage of life, 
 and to reach this fair rest wherein thou 
 standest. Thinkest thou then that any 
 would give up this peace once attained, 
 and return again to all the perils of the 
 world ? ' 
 
 And Isabel answered very softly: 
 
 'Yea, verily, if there were one there 
 that she loved.' 
 
 'Wouldest thou,' said Mary, ' do this for 
 him thou lovest?' 
 
 And Isabel said 'Yea.' 
 
 Then said Mary to her: 
 
 'This can I do for thee. But I would 
 have thee first consider well what is that 
 
 13
 
 thou wilt undertake. While thou art here, 
 no temptation can assail thee, no assault 
 of the Devil come near thy soul, and thou 
 art set free from the power to sin. But if 
 thou return to the world, then wilt thou 
 once more be in the kingdom subjedl to 
 the Devil, and thy soul will be emperilled 
 amid the snares and temptations with 
 which he will assail thee. Hast thou 
 strength for this trial?' 
 
 'Aye,' said Isabel, 'if God give me 
 strength.' 
 
 And Mary said : 
 
 'Further, thou must consider that thou 
 canst not again be as thou wert in the 
 world. Thy mortal body rests in the 
 ground, to be kept in trust of the Earth 
 unto the Day of Judgment. This body 
 canst thou not take again till that day. 
 Only of some living creature mayest thou 
 take the body, of flower or herb of the 
 field, or beast of the earth, or bird of the 
 air, or fish of the waters. For these things 
 have no souls, and are as empty tenements 
 wherein when God permits the soul of a 
 man may sojourn awhile.' 
 
 14
 
 * And of man or woman may I not take 
 the shape?' said Isabel. 
 
 'Nay/ said the Mother. 'Else were 
 there two souls in one body. Yet indeed 
 is there one way in which such a thing 
 might become possible. But the occasion 
 is rare, and the chance little likely.' 
 
 'Ah ! ' said Isabel. ' Yet tell me this way ! 
 For without human tongue how can I 
 speak to him or make him understand.? 
 And without human hands how can I 
 minister to him, or lend him help at 
 need .? ' 
 
 And Mary sighed again; and she sat in 
 silence while one might count many 
 minutes of time, where Time is and not 
 Eternity. And then at last she spake: 
 
 'Now am I about to reveal to thee one 
 of the great secrets of God, which men 
 know not. For it is hidden from them 
 for their good, that they may not for joy 
 of earthly life lightly cast away their 
 heritage of Eternity. Know then that the 
 soul of no man is in its nature immortal; 
 but it becomes so through baptism, if 
 then or thereafter it accept the New Birth 
 
 15
 
 therein offered to it. And through the 
 devout prayers of its parents and sponsors, 
 and in its own inborn desire after life 
 eternal, the soul of every child is led to 
 this acceptance, and receives its rightful 
 heritage of immortality. But ever and 
 anon such a child is born whose soul is 
 light and of little worth and wholly of 
 earthly nature; and such an one will not 
 receive the gift, and becomes not im- 
 mortal. When one such as this dies, the 
 soul itself perishes for ever. Wherefore 
 the body wherein it lodged hath no longer 
 any owner; and when it lies dead, before 
 the three handfuls of dust are thrown to 
 deliver it into the possession of Earth, 
 another soul might enter into it and give 
 it a second life on earth until such time as 
 it must needs suffer a second death. But 
 rare is such a soul, and very rare the occa- 
 sion when its body should lie as it were 
 with open doors ready to give lodging to 
 another soul. Aye, and very great were 
 the danger to any soul that should enter 
 the body of one who had rcjefted eternal 
 life. Not save for some extremest need 
 
 i6
 
 should such peril be adventured by any 
 soul that would be saved.' 
 
 * Hast thou now shown me the whole ? ' 
 said Isabel. 
 
 ' Aye, dear daughter ! ' said Mary. 
 
 Then Isabel knelt again at the Mother's 
 feet, and threw her arms about her knees, 
 and said: 
 
 'O dear Mother of God, hear me! Not 
 formineownsakedo I ask to leave the bliss 
 of Paradise and return to the world, but for 
 the great need and danger in which I see 
 Gerard to stand. For all too clearly hast 
 thou shown me the perils to be passed 
 through by the soul in its mortal life. And 
 full well I know that if the passage through 
 the world was dangerous for me, then is it 
 tenfold more dangerous for him; nor will 
 he ever pass safely save there be one ever 
 near him as a guardian angel to watch and 
 to withstand the Devil. This, by God's 
 permitting, will I do. And though it be 
 true that it is my love for him that urges 
 me to it, yet is it not for my own desire 
 only, but that his soul also may attain the 
 bliss of Paradise.' 
 
 c , 17
 
 And Mary, the mild Mother,smiled upon 
 herjG'then again she sighed. And she said: 
 
 ' By the power that is permitted me, 
 daughter, thy request is granted. Yet I be- 
 seech thee remember well the perils that 
 will now again beset thy soul. And before 
 all things beware that thou be not thyself 
 a cause of sin to him thou lovest; for even 
 that might be. And of the perils to beset 
 thee, those will be the least if thy soul find 
 lodging in some simple flower or herb or 
 tree. But if it enter into some beast of the 
 field or moving creature, then will the 
 danger begreater; for in these there is more 
 powerof doingright (^ wrong. Butshould 
 thy spirit, by unhappy occasion, be led to 
 enter again the body of man or woman, 
 then will thy peril be in truth most deadly. 
 For should'st thou, in such a second life, 
 fall into mortal sin, even the love I bear 
 thee, aye, and all the love and compassion 
 of Heaven, were unable to restore thee to 
 innocence or bring thee again to the safety 
 and joy of Paradise.' 
 
 And Isabel thanked her humbly for her 
 grace and for the boon granted her. 
 
 i8
 
 A S the gentle murmur 
 /% Of the wind at even 
 ^ \^ Sighing through the forest 
 Far away is tempest 
 Shaking earth and ocean, 
 So the word low-spoken 
 By the mild-eyed Mother 
 Stirred in Earth and Heaven 
 Many a mighty Power, 
 Angels of the record, 
 Watchers of the gateway, 
 Death and Hell and Devil. 
 And the gentle spirit 
 Passing Heaven's portal 
 Lightly floated earthward. 
 Earth resumed her power. 
 Death his dark dominion, 
 Hell its expectation. 
 
 19
 
 VI 
 
 NOWleave we of Isabel, and speak 
 ofGerard. For three days (^ three 
 nights his soul refused comfort, 
 andhislipsto takefood. To no man would 
 he speak, nor make answer to any woman 
 who spake to him, howso softly and com- 
 passionately. And all day long, from the 
 first light of dawn till thestars werebright 
 in heaven, he lay on the new-heaped grave 
 wherein restedthemortalbody of hislove, 
 and cried to her, until almost the dumb 
 earth opened her mouth to answer him, so 
 piteouswas it to hearhimcrying andnone 
 to make reply. Young he was, and well- 
 looking and strong of limb and forward of 
 courage as a man should be. And in his 
 young gladness of life, while all things 
 without and his own warm pulse within 
 calledhim to joy, itseemed to him a thing 
 incredible that death should have leave to 
 take from him that without which all 
 other joys were vain. And the first day he 
 cried as one who would have his answer. 
 And the second day he cried as a child to 
 
 20
 
 its mother when for a while she heeds it 
 not. But the thirdday he cried as one who 
 sinks at sea when none is near to hear or 
 help. And when the fourth day rose he 
 came not so early to the grave; and when 
 he came he walked wearily, so that by his 
 mere bearing you could know that he was 
 onewhohaddonewith hope. And he cast 
 not himself down upon the grave as here- 
 tofore, but stood upright beside it, as 
 taking heed of nothing. And now his 
 hands moved not wildly, and the tears 
 came not in his eyes. He seemed as one 
 who walks in sleep, and is ready to wake, 
 but wakes not. And the sexton, who had 
 business with a grave hard by, when he 
 went home told how he stood there, and 
 said that in no long time he should be 
 digging him also a grave. And his wife 
 said ' God forbid ! and him so young and 
 comely ! ' 
 
 But it fell that after Gerard had stood by 
 the grave some little while, he perceived 
 a little flower that grew close beside the 
 green mound; and he thought to himself 
 that it had not been there before. And he 
 
 21
 
 stood gazing at it, half heeding, and hardly 
 knowing that he gazed. And he saw that 
 it was a little green plant with delicate 
 stems and threefold leaves like the leaves 
 of clover. And on one of the stems which 
 was a little longer than the others was a 
 flower-bud such as he had never seen be- 
 fore. It was small and long and wrapped 
 close together in a tiny whorl. And even 
 as he took heed of these things, a shaft of 
 sunlight fell athwart the plant, ^straight- 
 way the tight-wrapped bud was loosened, 
 and the twisted petals of silver grey showed 
 crimson edges. And as the sun beat warm 
 on the folded bud, it loosened more ^ con- 
 tinually uncurled itself till it had opened 
 full, and lay wide-faced with silken petals 
 all crimson and an inmost heart of bright 
 gold. So beautiful it was and so sweetly 
 looked up at him that it seemed almost as 
 ifan angel-face smiled in that little flower. 
 Then, because of its beauty, and by reason 
 of some strange thrill that came to him in 
 gazing at it, his heart again melted within 
 him, & the fountain of his tears was again 
 loosed, so that he wept aloud and cried. 
 
 22
 
 ^Isabel! Isabel!' But nowhecried the name 
 softly, and no more in tones without hope; 
 but rather as a lover cries the name of her 
 who has been long absent and the day of 
 whose return draws near. And if he felt 
 comfort he knew it not; and if hope came 
 back to him he knew not why it came nor 
 of what he was hopeful. But the warm 
 heart within him which had been frozen in 
 the fierce winter of his grief was now again 
 melted and quickened as with new life. 
 And the thought came to him that God 
 who had made this soft flower to spring 
 from the hard ground and thus open its 
 heart to him had done even so with her 
 whom he loved, and raised her as a lovely 
 flower in Heaven; and that for her sake 
 who waited for him there, to smile on him 
 as this flower smiled, he would bear him- 
 self with a good courage and no more let 
 despair have the mastery of him. 
 
 m
 
 VII 
 
 IN the heart's young sorrow 
 What can bring assuaging, 
 What but Hope, Hope only? 
 Hope, thou dearest angel 
 In the host of Heaven, 
 What were earth without thee? 
 In the Spring thou shinest, 
 In the opening flower. 
 In the evening rainbow. 
 What were man without thee? 
 Death had no defeating. 
 Grief no counter-vailing, 
 Youth no heart for living. 
 Age no cheer in dying. 
 Therefore do men hail thee, 
 Hope, the dearest angel 
 In the host of Heaven, 
 And of Heaven's mercies 
 First and best and greatest. 
 
 2#
 
 VIII 
 
 Now you must know that Gerard 
 was the son of a very rich Count, 
 and that Isabel whom he loved 
 was only a maiden of the people; so that 
 his father rejoiced greatly at her death. 
 For now he thought that his son would 
 marry some lady of high rank, and would 
 become a great man at the Court, and 
 increase his name with fresh honours and 
 titles and kinship with the highest in the 
 land. But being withal a prudent and 
 crafty man he kept silence during the 
 time of his son's exceeding grief; and if 
 he said no word of sorrow, neither did he 
 manifest any joy, for all that he might 
 feel in the secret of his heart. And there- 
 fore when after some days Gerard began 
 again to show blither cheer and to put 
 off his downcast looks, the father had 
 the wages of his silence and of his self- 
 restraining. For his son's heart turned to 
 him the more in thinking upon it; and 
 he said within himself 'My Father has 
 been melted by seeing my grief; and 
 
 25-
 
 though he had been sore vexed had I 
 married Isabel, yet is he sorry for her 
 death, in seeing how all my hope is gone 
 and my joy put out and my life made irk- 
 some to me. Verily he too is one who has 
 known love and sorrow, and has a heart 
 to be touched by these things when they 
 come to others.' So simple and true- 
 hearted was the youth, 6? had not learned 
 yet that kindness and self-seeking 6f love 
 and guile may be mingled and live to- 
 gether in the heart of man. Therefore he 
 showed himself more gentle to his father, 
 and more ready to do his will. And the 
 father was glad; and thought that now 
 all that he had hoped and devised would 
 surely come to pass. 
 
 After a little while hebegan to talk to his 
 son of the King and of the Court and the 
 gay world, saying how for a young man of 
 good birth, and with wealth and title to 
 boot, strong also of body £if comely of face, 
 there wasnothing impossible, whether he 
 sought the glory of a soldier or the power 
 of a statesman or to be famous among his 
 fellows for prowess in games and knightly 
 
 26
 
 exercises. And thereat he ceased, though 
 within himself he thought there is yet a 
 fourth thing to be attained which to youth 
 seems often the most desirable of all, 
 namely, the love and favours of a beautiful 
 woman. At first Gerard heard him with- 
 out much heeding, as one who of courtesy 
 listens to a tale that means little to him. Yet 
 his father urged him not, but after a time 
 spakeagainof thesamematters, fsfshowed 
 him a great book written on parchment by 
 afairscribe,(^ painted throughout by skil- 
 ful artists, in which were tales of fights and 
 tourneys, and paintings in rich colours and 
 glistening with gold & silver, where were 
 shown all the bravery of courts and camps 
 and cities, and the splendour of knights in 
 armour and the beauty of ladies in silken 
 garments and adorned with bright jewels. 
 And so with the lust of the eye and the 
 pride of life did he ensnare his son's soul; 
 and turned him from simple pleasures to 
 think more of the world and ways of men. 
 And whereas it had been heretofore his 
 chief pleasure to wander on the hills and 
 watch the changinglight on the widelands
 
 below and the shadows sweeping over the 
 hollowsandthesungleamingonthefar-off 
 streams, or again to follow the wild deer 
 with the hounds and the wild swan with 
 the falcon, and to live with Nature and 
 understand her ways as the wild creatures 
 do; henow began to readof the names and 
 deeds of his ancestors, and to go more in 
 the streets, where men paid him reverence 
 for his rank and wealth. And when the 
 Count saw that his son's mind was inclin- 
 ing more and more where he would have 
 it set, he said to him that he should go to 
 the Court and seek the favour of the King, 
 and learn the ways of the greater world. 
 Pity it were such prowess of body & gifts 
 of mind should lie unused and wasted, 
 hidden in the obscurity of a country life, 
 when at the Court they might shine forth 
 and bring fresh lustre to the name which 
 his ancestors had made bright. 
 
 And Gerard consented, and made ready 
 to present himself at the Court of the 
 King. And his father was very glad. 
 
 ^8
 
 IX 
 
 AH, you should have seen him, 
 Ye that read my story, 
 ^ Seen him spring to saddle, 
 Seen him sit the warhorse, 
 In his gleaming armour. 
 In his plumed helmet, 
 In his curving cuisses! 
 And his father gave him 
 Gold to give in largesse, 
 Gold to spend in pleasure, 
 Servants to attend him. 
 Steeds for chase or combat. 
 Hawk and hound and palfrey. 
 All the country people 
 Gazed as he rode by them. 
 All the city people 
 Said, What Prince may this be? 
 All the Court and courtiers 
 Watched with jealous glances. 
 Saying, Shall this stranger 
 Oust us from our honours. 
 Push us from our places? 
 All the maidens whispered. 
 Oh, the goodly lover! 
 Who shall be his lady ? 
 
 29
 
 X 
 
 GERARD came to the King's 
 Palace; and there for his father's 
 sak.e£ffthelettersheborefromhim, 
 he was much welcomed, and was admitted 
 to be one of the King's high servants; and 
 soon for his own sake he was beloved and 
 admired and favoured by all men. Also by- 
 women he was greatly favoured, and many 
 fair ladies would willingly have had his 
 love. But for all the soft glances they threw 
 on him, and the sweet smiles they gave to 
 him, and the pretty words they spake to 
 him, never was his bearing to any woman 
 other than that of a man courteous and 
 gentle but unmoved by love. For hid 
 within his heart was the face and memory 
 of Isabel; and to her continually he whis- 
 pered lovers' words and murmured little 
 songs of love; even as a lover whose mis- 
 tress is faraway, who awaits her returning 
 in a sure season. 
 
 Yet was he so courteous and so gentle of 
 heart and of manner to all, both men and 
 women, that none bore him a grudge, 
 
 30
 
 even of those ladies whose looks of love 
 he returned not, or of those knights and 
 lords of the Court who saw him regarded 
 with the favour that they themselves de- 
 sired in vain. Moreover, he stood high 
 in honour with the King himself, show- 
 ing himself a trusty servant and faithful 
 minister in all things that were given to 
 his hands; and one besides who could 
 give wise counsel when it was asked of 
 him, not indeed by reason of age, seeing 
 he was but a youth, nor of statecraft, 
 seeing he had no experience of it, but 
 because of his honesty of purpose and 
 simple love of truth & uprightness. And 
 verily there is no safeguard for a young 
 man's soul so secure and so helpful as the 
 continual remembrance of the love of a 
 worthy lady, and the stedfast faith that 
 by a noble life he can fit himself to be her 
 lover, whether in this world if by Heaven's 
 favour she yet walks therein, or hereafter 
 in Paradise if God have already called her 
 to be one of His angels. 
 
 So in all ways did Gerard prosper at the 
 Court, although he was the newest knight 
 
 31
 
 there; for the King himself had made 
 him knight, and with his own hands 
 given him the accolade. Yet, as ever hap- 
 pens, was there one man who went not 
 with the rest in bearing goodwill to the 
 youth, but hated him, and watched him 
 with ill intent, seeking opportunity if he 
 could to do him injury and to destroy the 
 repute and favour he had in all men's eyes. 
 This was Count Lucien, a proud lord ot 
 the King's court, and one privy to all the 
 King's counsels. He was a man of cruel 
 natureandof crafty thought, whodespised 
 tenderness of conscience and kindness of 
 heart as mere weaknesses to be affedled 
 when it was expedient to cajole women 
 or persuade simple folk. He was never- 
 theless a brave man and valiant in battle; 
 and being of age and experience, he had 
 risen high among the King's counsellors 
 and the chief governors of the realm. 
 
 And before Gerard came to the Court he 
 had been great in esteem both with the 
 King and those about the Court, and also 
 in the world of rich and gay folk who re- 
 sorted to the city. And the subtle leaven 
 
 32
 
 of his heartlessness and craft had spread ^ 
 been in a fair way to become the general 
 habit of thought ^ conversation. Never- 
 theless in the nature of all men is im- 
 planted such an instincSt of kindness and 
 truth that they will quickly turn to these 
 and forsake the meaner way, if some man 
 present himself in whom the nobler is seen 
 clear and unfeigned. And in Gerard these 
 virtues of kindness and uprightness were 
 shown alive and visible to all eyes so that 
 none could doubt of them. And more- 
 over so endowed was he with grace of 
 youth and favour of person and prowess 
 of arms, that goodness and honour were 
 well employed in him, and all those of the 
 Court and of the people who were of alike 
 natureturned to him asa newleader; while 
 the multitude of usual men who have no 
 steady mind of their own but ever follow 
 the strongest persuasion of the moment 
 turned away from pursuing the crooked 
 and mocking ways of Count Lucien, and 
 adopted the fashion of true words and 
 honourable practice set by Gerard. 
 In this way it came to pass that Count 
 
 » 33
 
 Lucien found himself continually less in 
 favour both with the King himself Gf with 
 thecourtiers^fotherfolk; while theyoung 
 knight whom at first he had scorned and 
 madescofFat grew in estimation ^ account 
 with all. Therefore his crafty mind and 
 cruel will stirred him to devise evil against 
 Gerard, and to seek how he might ensnare 
 him and bring him to ruin. 
 
 34
 
 XI 
 
 MIGHTY is the hero 
 On the field of battle, 
 In the hour of combat, 
 In the clash of onset. 
 When his might is broken. 
 And his armour useless, 
 And in vain his valour. 
 In the hour of sickness. 
 In despair and sorrow, 
 In wanhope and weakness. 
 He must seek one weaker. 
 Ask the aid of woman. 
 Mighty is the statesman 
 In the Court and Council, 
 In the royal favour 
 And the people's praises. 
 When his glory waneth. 
 And his power passes. 
 In his hour of weakness. 
 He must seek one weaker. 
 Win the help of woman. 
 
 35
 
 XII 
 
 COUNT LUCIEN watched and 
 waited, seeking some occasion ot 
 prove a fault in Gerard before the 
 King, or to lessen his estimation in the eyes 
 ofmen;butinvain. Ifafaulthecommitted, 
 as all men must who walk in the open ways 
 of the world, he was ever the first to dis- 
 cover it, and to make amends if he might, 
 or to acknowledge his error frankly if 
 remedy might not be. And so fair and 
 honest and simple of heart he was, that all 
 men and the King himself not only forgave 
 him easily, but even held the noble youth 
 dearer for the reason that he was shown to 
 be a man able to trespass like other men, 
 and not a saint or angel, such as ever walk 
 in paths of the air, lifted above the soil and 
 mire of the roadways of earth. And so the 
 days passed, and the weeks and the months, 
 and ever Gerard's repute waxed yLucien's 
 waned till theCountdeemed that heshould 
 be driven in shameandsicknessof heart to 
 quit the Court and retire to an irksome and 
 morose solitude in his own castle afar from 
 
 36
 
 the city. Even as the wild beast that has 
 overpassed his term retreats to his cave, and 
 sullen and solitary there awaits his end. 
 Rather than yield himself thus vanquished, 
 however, he determined to seek assistance 
 of one whom he had till now despised. 
 This was a lady named Clarisse, the King's 
 favourite. For in those days and in that 
 country it was the custom for the King to 
 have a lady favourite, one or more; nor 
 was this held to be any reproach to him or 
 to that lady, or any shame or wrong to the 
 Queen Consort, who often was intimate 
 with the favourite. And indeed it hap- 
 pened many times that it was one of the 
 Queen's own ladies that had been so pre- 
 ferred and exalted to the King's favour. 
 
 Now the Lady Clarisse had been a young 
 girl of no high birth, who had come first 
 to the Queen's service as a waiting-maid. 
 But being quick, clever, and well-looking, 
 and ever gay as a stroke of sunshine in the 
 room, she had speedily risen into favour 
 with the Queen. And provingherself ready 
 of wit, and ever helpful however great the 
 occasion or serious the need, she had been 
 
 37
 
 raised to the position of a Lady of the 
 Queen's train; and so coming into notice 
 with the King, had in a short timewonhis 
 heart and confidence, and taken the place 
 of chief favourite. 
 
 This King, however, was not a king of 
 weak will, orsuch a one as leans overmuch 
 upon a woman's counsel, or needs to keep 
 her liking by confiding to her his secret 
 matters and discovering to her affairs of 
 state. And Count Lucien, when in power, 
 had everthwartedthislady'sdesire to learn 
 of such things and to make herself the 
 King's confidant not only in the light 
 businesses of love and pleasure but also in 
 matters of statecraft and policy. Therefore 
 she, being a true woman who counts no 
 kingdom her own unless she govern it 
 wholly, hated this man who kept the King 
 from entrusting her with the knowledge 
 of his state secrets. 
 
 But nowit seemed to Count Lucien that 
 he might make as it were an alliance with 
 his fair foe, and by her aid destroy Gerard 
 and win back his own position with the 
 King. And so, taking an occasion when 
 
 38
 
 theKingwaselsewhere he sought aprivate 
 meeting with her. And she received him 
 with the smiling face which she showed 
 to all men, but with something of mockery 
 in her smile, as knowing well wherefore 
 he nowsought her whom he had been wont 
 to despise. And they talked privately to- 
 gether, and were not long in coming to 
 an agreement for the undoing of Gerard; 
 seeing that the lady herself had a grudge 
 against himalreadyasinsomesort her rival, 
 and withal as bearing the repute of one 
 whom no woman could win. 
 
 59
 
 XIII 
 
 HAPPY is the vessel 
 Ere it leave the haven, 
 Ere it seek the ocean. 
 Happy is the young heart 
 Ere it learn of evil. 
 Ere it find how cruel. 
 False and traitor-hearted 
 Are the smiling faces 
 Fawning on one favoured 
 By the King and fortune. 
 Youth and health and gladness, 
 Honour and high instin6t, 
 Guileless heart and goodwill — 
 Many a shaft of evil 
 Is by these averted. 
 But the tireless serpent. 
 Jealously unsleeping, 
 In a careless hour 
 Snares the simple-hearted 
 When he thinks no evil; 
 Coils about his heart-strings. 
 Steals from him his secret. 
 Suddenly betrays him. 
 
 40
 
 XIV 
 
 Now before this time the Lady 
 Clarisse had had but little speech 
 with Gerard, and never in any 
 private way, but only in the full Court or 
 at some public assembly, where there was 
 jesting and laughter and bright flashing 
 of wits among the gay ladies and gallant 
 youths. And being quick of discernment 
 she readily perceived that this simple- 
 minded youth was not such an one as 
 could be lured or flattered into a secret 
 understanding or clandestine tryst with 
 any lady, least of all with her who was the 
 favourite of the King his master. She 
 therefore sought her opportunity in more 
 subtle ways; and in order to disguise her 
 purpose and to throw the young man 
 more off his guard, she avoided all dis- 
 course with him in public places where 
 they met, and made no effort to draw him 
 to her side, or win him to make one of 
 the company that ever gathered about her 
 for the sake of her bright eyes and merry 
 laughter and witty words. But knowing 
 
 41
 
 that he was much devoted to hunting and 
 hawking and all sports of the field and the 
 forest, and being withal herself a fine 
 horse-woman and fond of the same sports, 
 she took care on all occasions to be one of 
 those that followed the hounds or rode 
 with the falcon, and never to be far away 
 from that part where Gerard chanced to 
 be. And so it came to pass that one day, 
 when the Devil had leave — as now and 
 again is granted him — to use Fortune for 
 his own purposes, he threw Gerard and 
 the Lady Clarisse together as she desired, 
 albeit not altogether in such a way as she 
 would have willingly chosen had she had 
 the devising of it. For even while helping 
 those who serve him the Devil takes 
 pleasure in spiting them also, and will 
 give them a tweak of malice in the a6l of 
 fulfilling their desire. 
 
 The hunting that day was in a great 
 forest, where there were few open spaces 
 and many high crags and steep hillsides, 
 so that to follow where the hounds went 
 was often impossible for the horsemen, 
 who must of necessity wind round the 
 
 4?
 
 cliffs and precipitous banks over which 
 the deer leapt nimbly and the hounds 
 pursued eagerly. And as oftentimes it was 
 doubtful which might be the better path 
 to choose to win round the withstanding 
 steep, and some went this way and others 
 that, the hunters were widely scattered; 
 andsomeofthem,being many times turned 
 back and thwarted, wandered altogether 
 out ofthe way, and lost all trace of the hunt- 
 ing. Even thus it befell Gerard, so that at 
 length he found himself riding all alone in a 
 grassy glade bordered with great oak-trees 
 and winding down a narrow valley cleft 
 amid the rocky hills. 
 
 There all at once he heard a cry for help; 
 and riding hastily to the spot, which lay 
 among the trees and out ofthe track-way, 
 he saw a horse lying on the ground; and 
 underneath the horse, held down by the 
 weight of its body, was a lady, who made 
 no effort to free herself but kept crying out 
 in one breath for help and in another to the 
 horse to keep still, for fear it should crush 
 her in rolling and trying to rise. And the 
 horse, knowing her voice, lay still with the 
 
 43
 
 lady beneath it. Yet plainly was she in very 
 deadly peril; and it was only by reason 
 of her being slender of form so that the 
 curve of the saddle made an arch over her 
 body, and also because of a slight hollow 
 in the ground just at that place, that the 
 weigh tofthehorsedid not sopressuponher 
 as tocauseher death. And Gerardwas sore 
 dismayed atthesight. Andhedismounted 
 quickly, tying his horse to a tree at a little 
 distance so that the lady's palfrey should 
 notbeawareof it; and heran hastily to her 
 help. And then he saw that it was the Lady 
 Clarisse. And though she was spent and 
 very pale, she smiled upon him, and herself 
 ordained him what to do to set her free. 
 First she bade him unfasten the girths of 
 her saddle, so that if the horse rolled or 
 moved the saddle should still remain in the 
 same place protecting her from being 
 crushed. And then she said: 
 
 * Sorry indeed am I for such a need; but 
 unless you slay my horse he will slay me. 
 Though God knows he were as loth to do 
 so as I am to ordain his death. For he is my 
 own beloved steed, and loves me as well as 
 
 44
 
 I do him. But he lies so heavy on me that 
 I cannot stir; and even now my strength 
 begins to fail me from the long bearing of 
 this great weight upon my weak woman's 
 body. Do thou therefore haste and pierce 
 him so shrewdly to the heart that he suffer 
 no agony of death and make no struggle in 
 dying.' 
 
 And Gerard saw that it was indeed as the 
 lady said, and that that there was no other 
 help or means to save her. So he quickly 
 drew out his huntsman's dagger from its 
 sheath, and coming softly to the horse, 
 struck one fair full blow straight and deep 
 into the heart. And the beautiful creature 
 gave but one shiver through all its limbs, 
 and then lay still in death. And though the 
 lady was in sore grief of heart and much 
 pain of body, she neither wept nor swooned 
 but continued to teach Gerard how she 
 might be set free. For she was held as 
 tightly prisoned beneath the dead body 
 of the horse as if she had been chained 
 in a dungeon or bound on the rack. And 
 forthwith as she bade him Gerard did. 
 He saw a young sapling of an ash-tree 
 
 45
 
 hard by, straight and strong; and with 
 his dagger he wrought till he had cut it 
 half through, and by great strength broke 
 it off near to the root. And with this he 
 contrived a lever, and placing it under the 
 dead horse heso wrought that helifted the 
 body a little from resting on the lady ; and 
 so she dragged herself from beneath and 
 was freed. And straightway she swooned. 
 And Gerard fetched water from a clear 
 stream that ran near at hand, and with such 
 skillasamanmaycompass brought her out 
 of her swoon till she came to herself. Then 
 he gave her to eat of such food as a hunts- 
 man carries; and presently she was re- 
 stored, and smiled on him, and began to 
 speak. 
 
 'Ah, Gerard !' she said; 'but for you I 
 were now lying dead, and my horse were 
 yet alive. So I must thank you, and also 
 thank you not. For my own saving I praise 
 you; and for his death I blame you. For 
 youhave slain that which I loved, and saved 
 that which I little value.' 
 
 And with that she began to weep because 
 her horse was dead ; and then again she 
 
 46
 
 smiled because she was yet alive. And 
 so they continued awhile, while Gerard 
 sought to comfort her; and he knew not 
 which was more beautiful in her, her 
 sorrow or her joy, so fair and tender and 
 womanly she seemed. And in this way be- 
 gan the mischief which had been devised 
 against the guileless youth. 
 
 47
 
 XV 
 
 LOVELY was the valley, 
 Fair the day, the sunlight, 
 /Fair the flowers, the forest. 
 Very fair the lady. 
 Gerard urged her lightly: 
 'Rise! The day is passing. 
 On my horse I'll set you. 
 Lead him through the forest 
 Till we reach the highway. 
 Find some habitation. 
 And a hand to tend you 
 Better than a hunter's.' 
 'Stay a while!' she answered. 
 'Hardly am I rested. 
 Far away is evening. 
 Every hour that passes 
 Here in peace and stillness. 
 With your voice so gentle, 
 And your aid so courteous. 
 Strengthens me to bearing 
 All the long way homeward.' 
 So she soothed and snared him, 
 With her words cajoling. 
 And her looks so simple, 
 
 48
 
 And her glance so kindling. 
 Thus they lingered, couching 
 On the moss and grasses, 
 'Neath the oak-tree branches ; 
 While the brook below them 
 Made a dream-like music. 
 Nor the space between them 
 Lessened in their converse, 
 Though their hearts drew nearer. 
 Just so far the fair one 
 Lay that all her beauty, 
 Grace of form and feature. 
 Fell within one eye-glance; 
 Just so far that never 
 Need was to speak loudly; 
 And her voice so flute-like 
 Sounded low and sweetly. 
 While the streamlet's murmur 
 Made an under-music ; 
 As when harp or viol 
 Follows in soft echo 
 What the singer singeth. 
 
 49
 
 XVI 
 
 Now when the day wore towards 
 evening, and the sun had already 
 passed behind the high wooded 
 hills that encompassed that valley, the 
 Lady Clarisse rose up and said that she was 
 no wrested and refreshedfor the ride home- 
 wards. And Gerard set her on his horse, 
 and he himself mounted behind her. And 
 so slender was she and slight of figure that 
 the horse scarcely felt the burden more 
 than if there had been but one rider. And 
 they rode back through the windings of 
 the hills, under the lengthening shadows 
 ofthetrees,over the green slopes and under 
 the high brows, till they came out to the 
 tilled lands, and found the highway that 
 led to the city. And ever her loosened 
 hair hung soft over her shoulders, and 
 played about her slender neck and white 
 throat, as she sat before him on the saddle. 
 And aye andanona wisp of the silken soft- 
 ness flew back as they rode faster, and fell 
 across Gerard's face. And he felt his pulse 
 quicken, and a new life stir in his blood, as 
 
 50
 
 a young man must when he holds a lovely 
 lady in this way, and when his spirit is all 
 astir with thejoy of swift riding. And for 
 the Lady Clarisse also there was born a 
 new delight as she rode thus, held fast by 
 the arm of a youth so brave and gentle. 
 And although neither the one nor the 
 other spake any word of that which they 
 both felt, there grew between them an un- 
 worded consciousness, and that ride to- 
 gether seemed like a sacrament to seal the 
 fellowship established between their souls 
 on that delicious day. 
 
 Yet neither in his thought nor in hers did 
 the name of Love arise to cause them to 
 tremble or to blush for shyness one of the 
 other. In Gerard's heart was no devout 
 worship, as when he dreamed of Isabel in 
 Heaven. And much as Clarisse had known 
 of love, never had she felt any feeling like 
 this, nor did she dream yet that this was 
 love greater and more beautiful than any 
 she hadknown heretofore. For the greatest 
 love comes to the heart as the wind to the 
 wind-harp, and plays long & softly among 
 the strings before by stealth it awake them 
 
 5'
 
 to its music. So they rode on in silence, 
 while the daylight slowly waned, and the 
 sunset blushed*^ died in little gold clouds, 
 and one by one the stars were lighted like 
 lamps overhead. And just before darkness 
 fell they came to the city. And the lady 
 alighted at the entrance to the Palace, and 
 with no word but with a very sweet last 
 look tookleave of him who had saved her. 
 And Gerard rode on to his own lodging, 
 his soul filled with new delight & a name- 
 less happiness. 
 
 And as there had been a stir in the Palace 
 what had become of the Lady Clarisse, so 
 there was much joy over her safe return- 
 ing; and they of the Court who were most 
 about her, to whom the King would look 
 for her safe going, were overjoyed that no 
 word of her losing need now come to the 
 King's ears. And she made a tale of her 
 adventure that was full of laughter and 
 pleasant hearing, and like enough to the 
 truth to pass without denial from Gerard 
 should he hear it. For well she discerned 
 that he was of such a nature that falsehood 
 were hateful to him. Yet there was much 
 
 5^
 
 that she told not; nor did she say how long 
 a time she had sat with Gerard in converse 
 in that lonely spot, nor how pleasant was 
 the ride back together, letting it appear 
 that she had been dazed as half in swoon, 
 and desirous only to arrive home as quickly 
 as might be. 
 
 And when Count Lucien contrived again 
 to have private speech with her, and asked 
 her how their matter went, and if she had 
 yet won the young man's confidence so 
 that he should tell her of the King's affairs 
 of state, she only laughed and answered 
 Nay; that there had been little talk be- 
 tween them; and that she had no thought 
 but of her danger and her escape, and 
 of the sorry appearance of her torn rai- 
 ment and dishevelled tresses. The Count, 
 however, being a shrewd man and well 
 accustomed to pierce through feigned 
 words and false appearances to the inmost 
 thought of man or woman, discerned 
 quickly that she was telling him little of 
 the real matter, and that her mind was 
 changed towards him and towards Gerard. 
 And affecting to take the affair just as she 
 
 53
 
 told it, and to rejoice that she had made so 
 prosperous a beginning towards the end 
 they together desired, he left her. And 
 straightway he enquired of others who had 
 been at that hunting, and of the hunts- 
 men and even of labourers in the fields 
 which lay in their way homeward, till he 
 knew in order and certainty all the times 
 and places that had been disordered and 
 shortened and confused in the lady's story ; 
 and moreover he sought out himself the 
 very spot where the dead horse still lay, and 
 there by the crushed grasses and the frag- 
 ments left of the food they had eaten, per- 
 ceived clearly that they had rested there 
 longer than it would seem from her report. 
 And all that he discovered or guessed he 
 wrote down, and kept the account by him 
 to lay in due time before the King, were 
 this necessary to accomplish his designs. 
 
 54
 
 XVII 
 
 LOVE is woman's master. 
 Vain is all her struggling 
 /If she once allow him; 
 Vain her resolution, 
 Vain her pride, her purpose. 
 In Love's net is Clarisse, 
 Snared and foiled and helpless 
 As some simple maiden 
 In whose eyes a lover 
 Gazes for the first time. 
 Heavily the day went 
 When she saw not Gerard. 
 And the night was sleepless 
 When he smiled not on her. 
 Many a wile well-practised 
 Knew she, many a love-way 
 Sweetly coy and secret. 
 Yet with power as deadly 
 As the subtle poison 
 Iseult drank and Tristan. 
 But the simple-hearted 
 Bear a triple armour. 
 Faith and truth and honour, 
 Strong against all weapons 
 
 55
 
 By a woman wielded. 
 Failed her amorous glances, 
 Failed her languid poses, 
 Lovely arms uplifted, 
 Snowy bosom heaving, 
 Floating hair unhanded. 
 Till desire grew maddened. 
 And her whole heart's fortune 
 Threw she on one hour, 
 To achieve or perish. 
 
 56
 
 XVIII 
 
 Now that friendship had been 
 made between Gerard ^ Clarisse, 
 she found it not difficult to see him 
 often, and have speech with him apart. 
 And especially she contrived with a 
 woman's skill that they met continually, 
 yet it seemed by chance, when they both 
 went a-hunting with all the Court, and the 
 course led far astray , so that those who rode 
 in pursuit were widely scattered, and none 
 to perceivethattheytwo still held together 
 and were separated from the rest. For ever 
 she was awareof spying eyes and traitorous 
 tongues of such as would fain find occa- 
 sion against her. And chiefly was she alert 
 against discovery by Count Lucien, whom 
 she knew well to be now her enemy and to 
 be watchful for any chance to bring both 
 her & Gerard to ruin and disgrace. There- 
 fore save in the forest and the lone wild 
 country she affected not the company of 
 him she loved and desired, but rather 
 shunned him. So that oft-timeshe was sore 
 puzzled at the cold looks she returned him 
 
 57
 
 in the Court, while her ways were so dif- 
 ferent in the woods and wild places where 
 they met alone. And so it fell out that one 
 fair summer's evening, as they rodesideby 
 side homeward after a dav of much sweet 
 converse together in the forest ways; and 
 in that converse Love himself had been 
 present, although Gerard knew it not, but 
 she knew it well, while he only knew that 
 his heart was stirred within him and full 
 of joy, and that this his fair friend was more 
 tender and gracious than ever before; he 
 turned to her and said: 
 
 'Sweet friend, tell me why it is that you 
 are at times so friendly to me that meseems 
 you are the truest comrade I have on earth, 
 and at other times so cold and aloof that I 
 dare not come near to you.' 
 
 Much was she moved by his words, and 
 by his gentle tones, and by his look upon 
 her, which was not upbraiding but trustful 
 and wondering. And it was her mind for 
 one moment to open all her heart to him 
 and make sweet confession of her love. 
 But about him in hisfrankness and honesty 
 of thought was an armour of which he was 
 
 58
 
 not aware ; and little as she was wont to feel 
 maidenly shyness, she could not nowmeet 
 his eyes or bringhertonguetoconfessthat 
 which her heart urged her to betray. And 
 for a little while she rode in silence; and 
 presently she said: 
 
 ' Gerard, it is true that my outward bear- 
 ing to you changes its seeming; but within, 
 my heart is ever the same.' 
 
 And more shewould not say. And with- 
 out further speech they rode on till the 
 time for parting. He kept silence as one sad 
 and sore rebuffed, and she dared not speak 
 lest she should reveal all her secret to him. 
 
 But that same evening it chanced that 
 there was a rich ball given by the King, at 
 which were present all the nobles and fair 
 ladies of the Court. Very bright was the 
 Palace with the light of innumerable 
 torches and candles. Very gay were the 
 garments of the nobles and the silk dresses 
 of the ladies. Lustrous was the sheen of 
 diamonds and coloured gems flashing in 
 their soft tresses and gleaming about their 
 fair arms and necks. And there was lan- 
 guorous music, full of dreamy sweetness 
 
 59
 
 and haunting memories of love. Very 
 beautiful was the Lady Clarisse in her rich 
 robe of silk, and very alluring were her 
 swaying motions in the dance. And with 
 many of the chief nobles she danced, as 
 well as with the King; but with Gerard 
 she danced not once, nor even grantedhim 
 one of those gay looks (Sif laughing glances 
 which sheflungso easily on all around her. 
 And Gerard's heart was sore within him; 
 and heaviness ofspirit overcame him when 
 hesawher so lovely and so blitheand him- 
 self shut out from her company, although 
 so lately they had been as it were alone in 
 the world, they two. And he fella-wonder- 
 ing what this could be that had come to 
 him, which made himsounhappyandun- 
 satisfied to see her and not speak with her. 
 And anon there came in the music some 
 throb of sweetness or thrill of yearning 
 which moved him almost to tears and re- 
 vealed to him the secret of his own heart; 
 and he knew suddenly that he loved her. 
 What a wild delight came with the know- 
 ledge, and what a sick hunger ! Never he 
 thought of Isabel, nor remembered his 
 
 60
 
 love for her. So different in kind was this 
 new love, a thing of lighted rooms and 
 gay dresses and luxurious music, a thing 
 of earthly passion & throbbing pulses and 
 delicious longings. How should he be- 
 think him of his other love in Heaven, of 
 the soft pure gaze of her eyes, the uplifting 
 impulse of her memory, the devout and 
 certain hope of her attainment through 
 patience and cleanly living and self-con- 
 trol.? New fire burned in his breast and 
 showed itself in his eyes. And presently, 
 as the lady passed him in the swift motion 
 of the dance, for one moment her eyes met 
 his, and she saw that new light and per- 
 ceived that love had come to consciousness 
 of itself in him asin her. Oh, what a blind- 
 ing joy passed between them in that 
 moment's glance of eyes to eyes ! As the 
 lightningflashleapingfrom cloud tocloud 
 lights up the whole world anew, so for 
 these the world was changed in that 
 moment. No more was Gerard sore in 
 spirit and downcast of mood, but full of 
 joyful hope and glad foreknowing. No 
 more was Clarisse afraid of discovering to 
 
 6i
 
 him her heart'ssecret,but rejoiced that he 
 should know it. Her feet moved with a 
 fresh lightness in the dance, and her lithe 
 bodyswayed to newmeasuresin themusic 
 and tones which none else could hear. 
 And straightway she devised how she 
 might see himagainalonethat very night; 
 and when once more she passed close be- 
 side him in the dance, one of the flowers 
 from her breast fell at his feet. And when 
 he stooped to take it unseen by others, lo, 
 within the petals was hidden a morsel of 
 paper, with a message bidding him be in 
 the garden beneath her windowthatnight 
 when the dancing was over and the lights 
 put out and the gay throng all dispersed 
 and gone their ways. 
 
 62
 
 XIX 
 
 OH, the joy of loving 
 On a night of summer 
 In the month of roses ! 
 Bright as day the garden 
 Lay beneath the moonlight. 
 Lightly came the lover 
 Through the shine and shadow, 
 Came below her chamber. 
 Looked and saw it lighted. 
 Saw her golden tresses 
 In the moonbeams shining. 
 Saw her white arms gleaming 
 And her fair face blushing 
 At the opened casement. 
 There was none to hear them, 
 And she called him softly : 
 ' Gerard, do you love me ? ' 
 And he murmured quickly : 
 'Long time have I loved you, 
 Loved you but I knew not. 
 Clarisse, do you love me ? ' 
 Low she breathed her answer 
 As a waft from heaven : 
 
 63
 
 'Long time have I loved you, 
 Loved you and you knew not. 
 Climb now to my window ! 
 You shall know I love you ! ' 
 
 64
 
 XX 
 
 Now leave we awhile of Gerard, 
 and speak of Isabel, who ever 
 watched about him, unseen as an 
 angel, to save and shield him from evil in- 
 fluences. For when the little flower died 
 thathadsprungso quickly from her grave, 
 her spirit that had been therein passed 
 again into the air, & she was able to follow 
 Gerard wherever she would; nor ever 
 ceased she to watch over him. 
 
 O the blessed spirits of our dead that love 
 us! Little know we how they linger near 
 us & company with us night and day, un- 
 derstanding our thoughts & our words and 
 all that we do, but without power to reveal 
 themselves or reach a hand to help us or 
 uplift a voice to soothe us. Only their 
 prayers go up for us continually to God, 
 who hears and answers by many wonders 
 of loving providence and preserving care, 
 when dangers we see not are averted from 
 us and evils we dread removed from our 
 path. 
 And now was Isabel aware of a greater 
 
 F 65
 
 peril to her lover's soul than any that had 
 yet assailed him. For the sanctifying re- 
 membrance & love of her had been merged 
 and swallowed awhile in a new surge of 
 passion,(^shesawhimabouttosinamortal 
 sin against God ©"the King. And a torment 
 like the flame of Hell stung her as she per- 
 ceived that another woman had won his 
 love, and was like to win his immortal soul 
 away from her and away from Heaven. 
 Oh, if there be a wrath that is righteous, 
 istherenotalso a righteousjealousy,when 
 a woman pure and noble and worthy sees 
 her lover taken from her by a rival in whom 
 is no pureness, nobleness nor worth? And 
 in this sore agony of her soul it seemed to 
 Isabel that there could be nothing she 
 would not dare or do, even to the risking 
 of her own part in Paradise, so she might 
 save Gerard from the snare in which he 
 was taken, already well-nigh beyond 
 rescue. 
 
 For even now was he climbing with a 
 lover's haste up to the window where that 
 lady awaited him. The window was high 
 from the ground, as all windows were in 
 
 66
 
 those days when little safety was found in 
 the strongest castle should there be any 
 entrance possible save only by the prin- 
 cipal gate or the postern, at which guards 
 wereeverplaced.Butthough the windows 
 were set high in the wall, yet as this side of 
 the Palace gave on a garden lying within 
 the ramparts, the ivy had not been forbid- 
 den to grow about it. And right below the 
 lady's window was a stout stem, thick as a 
 man's leg, clinging close to the masonry, 
 and stretching itslofty branches up around 
 the windows above, with many knots and 
 twining stems strong enough to bear a 
 man's weight, and affording hold for a 
 climber's hand and foot. 
 
 Eager was the young lover, and strong of 
 limb and active; and with firm hands he 
 graspedthe boughs above, and with steady 
 feet sought foothold among the hairy 
 stems ; and swiftly, swiftly he rose, till his 
 head was level with thesill ofthewindow, 
 and in his upturned face already he felt or 
 seemed to feel the warm breath of that 
 sweet lady waiting there and smiling down 
 upon him as he climbed. But just as his 
 
 67
 
 hands held the window-sill of stone, a 
 little lap-dog which thelady carried in her 
 arms suddenly sprang at him, as it were in 
 jealousy or defence of his mistress; and 
 though he was but small, so fierce and 
 sudden was his spring that Gerard was 
 thrown backwards, his hands having but 
 an insecure hold of the thickness of the 
 sill; and in a moment he was falling. In 
 vain he caught at the straggling sprays of 
 the ivy ; such as he grasped were but slender 
 and brake as he clutched them; and al- 
 though he thereby somewhat lessened the 
 peril of his fall, yet the window was high 
 and the ground beneath hard, and he felt 
 himself sore hurt and bruised. The lady 
 gave a little shriek as he fell, <^ shuddered 
 when she heard him strike the ground ; and 
 she cried to him in sore alarm, but softly 
 lest any should hear: 
 
 'Oh, Gerard, are you hurt.? O my love, 
 my love!' 
 
 And he groaned a little, for he was in great 
 pain; yet as a brave man he answered 
 bravely, so that she should not know of his 
 pain: 
 
 68
 
 'Nay, sweetheart, I am not hurt, or but 
 little. Only methinks the bone of my arm 
 is broken, for I cannot move it as I will. 
 Alas ! and with but one arm how shall I 
 climb to you?' 
 
 And as he lay there he heard a low moan- 
 ing close beside him ; & turning his head 
 he saw that the little dog who had sprung 
 at him had fallen also, and lay panting and 
 dying. Andfor a moment he felt wrathful 
 with this creature which had thus kept 
 him from that sweetlady's arms ; but again 
 he remembered that it was Clarisse's dar- 
 ling, & being ever gentle & compassionate 
 to all things maimed and helpless, he put 
 out his hand to stroke and fondle it. And 
 the dog turned upon him eyes so wistful 
 and so loving that he was all astonished. 
 And then it began to lick his hand softly. 
 And at this suddenly came back to him the 
 thought of Isabel, and so strong and clear 
 to his mind was the remembrance of her 
 sweetness and her love, that it seemed to 
 him as if she was there present. And all 
 in a moment his wild & passionate desire 
 for that other departed from him, and the 
 
 69
 
 great love of Isabel possessed his whole 
 soul as before. So that shame and astonish- 
 ment overcame him that ever her memory 
 had faded from his thought and his mind 
 been turned to another so unlike her and 
 so little worthy. Yet he knew not where- 
 fore histhoughthadnowgonebacktoher, 
 nor that it was indeed her spirit that was 
 so near him lodged for his salvation in the 
 creature that lay dying under his hand. 
 
 And by this time the first light of dawn 
 began to show through the trees of the 
 garden, and the summer warblers woke 
 and uttered their first notes of sweet wel- 
 come to the coming day. Time was it for 
 Gerard to hasten away lest he should be 
 discovered. And even at that moment the 
 littlelifebesidehim fluttered and died, and 
 agreatsorrowfilledhim,heknewnotwhy. 
 And he rose from the ground, & softly laid 
 thelifelessbody beneath a bush. And with- 
 out a look up to the window above, or a 
 word of farewell to her who still leaned 
 from it to watch him, he went his way and 
 came to his own lodging. 
 
 70
 
 XXI 
 
 OH, the joy, half shame, of waking 
 From the heats & chills of passion 
 To the light of love unfevered, 
 Glowing as the sun in heaven ! 
 As one waking from a madness, 
 Or from wine within him working, 
 Half-remembering and shame-faced 
 In remembrance, sorely wonders 
 At his own unfaith and weakness : 
 As the mariner emerging 
 From the cloudy mist to clearness 
 And the starry heaven to steer by : 
 So from blinding mists of madness 
 Gerard woke, with joy returning 
 To his light-abandoned love-star. 
 As a dream of empty sweetness 
 Seemed the memory of Clarisse, 
 Worthless, not to be regarded 
 In broad day, with life in living 
 And true love from heaven shining. 
 
 71
 
 XXII 
 
 Now the Lady Clarisse marvelled 
 that Gerard departed from her 
 with no word offarewell,^thathe 
 had no more answered her albeit she called 
 to him softly from her window three times 
 or four. And she perceived that his mind 
 towards her was changed in some sort, 
 though by what means it had changed she 
 divinednot, ^indeed wasmuch perplexed 
 thereabout. At last she said to herself that 
 it was by reason of his hurt, or through 
 some dazing of the head from his fall, that 
 this change had come over him as he lay 
 beneath her eyes in the moonlight ; or that 
 perhaps the moon herself had struck him 
 with brief madness from which in the day 
 he would recover. Little wist she that his 
 madness had been when he loved her, and 
 that his reason was now returned to him 
 when he loved her no more. And she 
 thought that she would soon see him again, 
 and that they would meet as before in the 
 lone places of the forest. And fondly she 
 pictured to herself the joy of such meet- 
 ings with love confessed between them, 
 
 72
 
 and sweetly she forecast the hours of bliss 
 to be passed together in the vaulted cham- 
 bers of the rocks & arching bowers of the 
 leafy trees. 
 
 Yet the days went by and the weeks, and 
 never she met him or saw him or heard 
 ought of him, save that some said he had 
 chanced to get a hurt in falling, none knew 
 how, which kept him at home. Nor dared 
 she ask any one concerning him. For al- 
 though in former times she had spoken 
 freely of him, yet now that her love was 
 set wholly upon him she feared so much as 
 to name his name, lest the syllables on her 
 tongue or the light in her eyes should be- 
 tray her. But at length there came a day 
 when she heard news of him, when for 
 the passing hour his name was abroad and 
 his fortunes the idle talk of the day. Thus 
 shelearnt that his father had suddenly died, 
 and that he was now Count in his stead, 
 and had left the Court and gone to take up 
 his inheritance. And so for many days she 
 soothed and coyed her longing spirit by 
 saying that this was a necessity unexpect- 
 edly laid upon him, and that in no long 
 
 73
 
 time he would return to the Court and to 
 her, a greater man & more desirable lover. 
 But once more the days went by and the 
 weeks©* even the months, yet he returned 
 not, nor ever came to the Court even to do 
 homage to the Kingfor his lordship. And 
 thislackof courtesy and devoir on thepart 
 of theyoung Count was notduetohis own 
 fault, but was brought about by the secret 
 workingof his enemy Count Lucien,who 
 kept the summons from being sent to 
 him. For he thought that herein lay his 
 opportunity to loosen the King from his 
 high estimation of Gerard, firstly by him- 
 self supplanting him and recovering his 
 former place as the King's closest friend 
 and adviser, and further, when the King's 
 mind was once turned away from Gerard, 
 by urging that his discourtesy was of 
 intention, and was sign of a disloyal and 
 disaffected mind. And this subtility pros- 
 pered so well that all that he desired came 
 to pass. And when the King had well-nigh 
 forgotten Gerard — so easily do Kings for- 
 get — and Count Lucien was restored again 
 to the place of most trusted counseller and 
 
 74
 
 confidant of the King's secrets, he took 
 occasion one day in the presence of the 
 Lady Clarisse to mention Gerard before 
 the King, saying: 
 
 ' I marvel that this new Count has so for- 
 gotten his devoir as not yet to come to do 
 his homage to your Majesty.' 
 
 Whereto the King replied: 
 
 ' Indeed w^e had not observed his absence. 
 But truly it is high time that he returned 
 and shov^edtherespedl due totheThrone. 
 This continued absencefrom our presence 
 seems discourteous, nay more, disloyal 
 and even treasonable.' 
 
 Now the Lady Clarisse dared not speak 
 that which was in her mind, nor defend 
 the good name of him whom she loved. 
 But her heart within her leaped when she 
 heard the King command Lucien to send 
 an urgent summons to Gerard bidding 
 him attend the Court at once, under pain of 
 the royal displeasure & even deprivation 
 of his lands and his honours. For now she 
 thought thatsheshouldseehimagain, and 
 that her long-tarrying dream of joy should 
 be fulfilled. 
 
 75
 
 XXIII 
 
 LOVE, art thou more happy 
 Dreaming or possessing? 
 ^ Cometh e'er fulfilment 
 Glad as the forecasting 
 Of the dreams of lovers? 
 Clarisse in her chamber 
 Dreamed her dream of rapture. 
 Love and love's attaining. 
 Ah, poor shallow-hearted 
 Butterfly of pleasure! 
 In whose breast unworthy 
 Love the cruel master 
 Such a sting had planted! 
 This his keenest arrow. 
 Strongest, deepest-wounding, 
 Surely had found fitter 
 Mark and prize more precious 
 In a breast more noble, 
 In a heart unfathomed, 
 In a soul immortal! 
 Ah, poor day-lived dreamer. 
 All thy golden treasure 
 
 76
 
 Pledged on this life only! 
 What shall be the ending 
 If thy dream be broken. 
 If thy hope be scattered? 
 
 77
 
 XXTV 
 
 GERARD received the King's 
 summons, & he set forth for the 
 Court with a sorrowful heart and 
 not willingly. Fain would he have done 
 for ever with the life there, its gaiety and 
 feverish pleasures, and lived with a soul 
 at peace in his own castle among his own 
 folk, sharing their plain life and country 
 ways, and enjoying the simple delights of 
 the woods in spring-time and the fields in 
 hay and harvest, & in winter the chase of 
 wild things in the forest lands. Also in his 
 heart was foreboding, and a fear of falling 
 into the snare of that lovely lady who had 
 so nearly caused him to sin and so to lose 
 both Heaven and the love of Isabel. And 
 when he arrived at the Court, he cared 
 little that he received but a cold welcome. 
 His devoir he did, and homage paid as a 
 loyal servitor; but it pleased him well that 
 the King called him not to privy counsel 
 asin former days, nor sought his company, 
 nor did him honour before the courtiers. 
 For he thought in himself that thus it 
 
 78
 
 would be easy for him to return soon to his 
 country Hfe. 
 
 And for the Lady Clarisse, who would 
 fain have welcomed him with such kind- 
 ness as had caused him to forget all other's 
 coldness, he came not near her, but ever 
 avoided her company ; (Jif in vain she spread 
 her silken snares and sought occasion for 
 secret speech with him. And full well she 
 perceived that his heart had turned from 
 her. And as her disappointment grew ever 
 greater, so her love waxed stronger and its 
 torment more unendurable. So that at last 
 she was fain to venture all herhopeson one 
 cast with Fortune, and either to win him 
 again & have hislove, or to lose all shehad, 
 even herself and her very life. 
 
 And having thus determined, she con- 
 trived by subtle ways that they should 
 again go both of them on such a hunting 
 party as before, in which she might ride 
 ever near to Gerard. And partly by her 
 craft & in part through the aid which the 
 Devil lent her, it came about that once 
 more they two were separated from the 
 rest of the company, and will he nill he 
 
 79
 
 Gerard must ride with her down the deep 
 valleys and bosky glens where was none to 
 see them or know. Very fair to look upon 
 was the lady in her green riding coat with 
 herfloating golden hair. And very sorrow- 
 ful and downcast was her air, and not gay 
 and laughing as she was ever wont to be. 
 And as she rode beside him ^ keptsilence, 
 he began to feel sad for her sadness, and a 
 softened feeling awoke in his heart, with 
 stirringsofthepassionwhich had possessed 
 him before. And, bye and bye, they came 
 to the same place where first they had been 
 friends, and where he had slain her horse 
 and saved her life. There she dismounted, 
 and bade him sit near her on the moss while 
 they ate a hunter's meal at mid-day. 
 
 Oh, the lure of a lovely woman in her 
 mood of tender sadness ! How should any 
 man withstand it ? For now she spake to 
 him freely, yet not of love, but of his early 
 kindness to her and their friendship ; and 
 she minded him of many sweet occasions 
 when they had been together as they were 
 now. And as they talked together he 
 forgot all he had feared and all he had felt 
 
 80
 
 shame for, and his thought of her was 
 softened and his heart melted within him. 
 And when at length she spoke of that night 
 in the moonlit garden, and told him how 
 she had wept for his hurt, and how sorely 
 she had desired to help and comfort him, 
 there came in his eyes once more that look 
 of love for which she lay in wait. And as 
 soon as she saw it, all her heart went out to 
 him unhindered, and in a torrent of wild 
 sweet words she poured out her passionate 
 desire, praying him to be her lover and to 
 take her for his own. 
 
 Ah, poor Clarisse! Hadst thou but de- 
 layed! Hadst thou let be for that day, and 
 curbed thy passionate tongue till time had 
 brought thy lover to his former mood! 
 Then, haply, hadst thou attained thine end 
 and he perdition. But now thy passion so 
 outran his reviving love that he shrank 
 startled, and scorched with shame. Instead 
 of the lovelight in his eyes there came the 
 gleam of anger. He thrust aside the lovely 
 arms outstretched; and, rising to his feet, 
 spake out stern & scornful words, such as 
 no woman may hear without shame, and 
 
 G 8i
 
 no loving woman without a deadly wound 
 even to her inmost heart. Pale, death-pale 
 she grew, save for a fierce red spot burning 
 on each fair cheek. Her eyes turned not 
 from him, but were fixed on his face, like 
 lamps of fire. All had she ventured, & she 
 had lost all. One thing only remained to 
 her, one way only to end her torment and 
 move him to repent and think kindly of 
 her. From her girdle she drew a little 
 dagger; & ere his hand could stay her she 
 had plunged it deep in her breast, close to 
 her heart. The red blood surged forth over 
 her green coat, and she sank back on the 
 grounddying. One look she turned on 
 him — no sweeter look was ever turned on 
 man ; and with a last failing breath she 
 murmured: 
 ' Forgive me ! as I forgive you ! Gerard !' 
 She was dead; and a dreadful horror fell 
 on him. He had done this — he! And she 
 was dead, who had been all life and joy. 
 He had done this — he! And she had loved 
 him so well, so truly, so sweetly, that even 
 as she died, died by his doing, she forgave 
 him and asked his forgiveness, forgiveness 
 
 82
 
 ofhim who had slain her! A darkness came 
 overhim, and a sickness©* aquaking; and, 
 strong man as he was, he fell into a swoon 
 beside her; so that they lay as if both were 
 dead, and in death not divided. 
 
 Awhile he lay in swoon; and when he 
 returned to his sense, very sore was his 
 anguish of soultoseethatlovely lady lying 
 dead, & to remember that his cruel words 
 had driven her to slay herself Very gentle 
 and innocent and sweet-seeming was she 
 to look on as she lay there; and his love for 
 her returned to him in full tide, and he 
 marvelled how he could have thought ill 
 of so gentle a creature, & that to love her 
 had ever seemed unworthy. For love for 
 one dead is purified of grossness, and be- 
 coming a devotion to that which is no 
 more within reach, grows sacramental, 
 and loses the stain and taint of earthly 
 passion. He remembered the gladness of 
 her, and her blithe looks (Sf radiant smiles; 
 and thought howshe evercarriedjoy with 
 her as a lamp carrieslight. Andherhappy 
 laughter, and the play of her wit and the 
 raillery of her soft eyes — ever touched for 
 
 83
 
 him with tenderness — ©* her frolic gaiety, 
 as of some wild young creature of the 
 woods which has no soul and recks of no 
 sin: all this returned to him in remem- 
 brance. And all this, so it seemed to him, 
 had he with his own hand slain. How shall 
 he bear the weight of such a sin? How 
 shall he answer to God and the world for 
 its destroying? Aye, and how shall he 
 answer to the King for the death of her? 
 And then he bethought him that he would 
 be accused of her death, & that there was 
 none to bear witness or speak for him. And 
 he remembered how Count Lucien was 
 his enemy and sought to compass his de- 
 stru6tion; and how the King was cold to 
 him. Andas hethoughtof these things,he 
 perceived that he was in great danger of 
 his life. And if for that he cared not over- 
 much — as a brave man fears not death for 
 its own sake — yet greatly he cared for the 
 reproach and the shame and the ill repute 
 that would cling thereafter to his name. 
 And so, as he continued there, tormented 
 with self-accusing, <Sf dismayed at the fore- 
 knowledge of disgrace, the Devil caught 
 
 «4
 
 the occasion to tempt him to follow where 
 that fair one had led, and with one stroke 
 to escape all his troubles, the burden of 
 sorrow, and the sting of conscience, & the 
 dread of evil and shame to come. And as 
 he looked on her who lay now so peacefully 
 beside him, she seemed to call him to come 
 after her along a pathway that promised 
 peace. 
 
 85
 
 XXV 
 
 GENTLE Death, supreme deliverer. 
 Loosener of the iron fetters. 
 Life has bound but cannot loosen 
 Round the feet of those that stumble! 
 Who shall wonder if the weary, 
 Sore perplexed or broken-hearted, 
 Turn to thee to seek assuaging 
 Of the gnawing cares and anguish 
 That like marish-snakes have fastened 
 On their limbs and suck their life-blood? 
 So the Devil sings as siren, 
 Luring souls in hours of weakness 
 To Hell-gate and the dark whirlpool 
 Where despair eternal waiteth. 
 Ah, when once the soul has barkened, 
 Turning to the Devil-siren, 
 Little hope is left to save him! 
 As the needle to the lode-stone 
 Nearing ever firmer pointeth, 
 So the soul to self-destru6tion. 
 Oh, what hand can save thee, Gerard? 
 This is past the help of flowers. 
 Past the help of living creature. 
 Is there any now can save thee? 
 
 86
 
 XXVI 
 
 SPEAK we now again of Isabel, who 
 ever waited upon her lover to ward 
 and succour him. Very great was her 
 grief when she perceived him to be once 
 morecaught in the snare of her rival's grace 
 and sweetness. Ah, how she longed to 
 possess again her ownliving body, that she 
 might be equally equipped & fight for her 
 lover with a woman's rightful armoury, 
 sweet looks against sweet looks, and soft 
 words against soft words, & true love self- 
 devoting against false love self-seeking ! 
 Who can picture the agony of a soul, 
 unclothed of flesh, with the power of a 
 Spirit to see all & know all and suffer all, yet 
 with the impotence of a Spirit to reveal 
 itself, or lend help or defence, or make any 
 effort to thwart evil or achieve good? And 
 now was come for Isabel that supreme 
 hour of which Mary had warned her to 
 beware. For when she saw that fair body 
 lying dead but not yet given into Earth's 
 keeping, she knewthat by Mary's gift her
 
 own soul might enter into it & cause it to 
 live again; andshe perceived that thus and 
 in no other way could Gerard be saved from 
 self-destru6lion and eternal damnation. O 
 cruel choice! O pang unendurable! To 
 lend new life to her rival, that those eyes 
 which were not hers might take his looks 
 of love, & that beauty which was not hers 
 might win his favour, and those soft arms 
 which were not hers might close about 
 him in embrace! What soul of woman 
 ever yet had such a choice set before her 
 — to save him thus or lose him eternally? 
 Not for one moment remembered she the 
 Mother's warning, or thought of the peril 
 to her own soul if she took upon her the 
 body of this other woman, with all its 
 weakness andwill to sin, and prone to such 
 temptations as she had not experienced 
 norlearned to withstand in her own. Nay, 
 nothingof this she considered, norcame it 
 into her mind. There was in her thought 
 no place for memory save of the one 
 desperate contention: either to see 
 Gerard sink into the pit of destrudlion 
 from which to save him she had adven- 
 
 88
 
 tured so greatly; or herself to live hence- 
 forth in a hell of her own thoughts, hav- 
 ing given her own being to her rival and 
 deadly foe. 
 
 Very fierce was the strife in that sweet 
 soul, but who will doubt of her decision? 
 What noble woman, in the last stress, ever 
 shrank from the sacrifice of herself ? Even 
 as Gerard's hand was outstretched to the 
 dagger yet fixed in her rival's breast, her 
 choice was made. And as he gently drew 
 forth the blade to plunge it into his own 
 breast, lo, the lady opened her eyes and 
 smiled on him. 
 
 He looked : he saw : he could not believe. 
 So firmly had his mind been set on death, 
 that for a while he fancied that he had in 
 truth fulfilled his intent, G? that he had now 
 passed the gate of death, & that this was the 
 greeting that met him on the further side. 
 Butstilltheladysmiled,and called him by 
 his name;andthen,as he bent over her, her 
 armswere thrown around his neck, and her 
 lips pressed upon his in soft warm living 
 kisses such as the dead can give not nor 
 receive. Oh, the wild joy of this moment, 
 
 89
 
 when they were both as it were snatched 
 from death, &' found the warm green world 
 of life & love and sunshine yet about them 
 to be enjoyed ! Too full charged were their 
 spirits for speech, too rapt in devotion for 
 longembraces. Ever they gazed(^gazed on 
 one another,full of wonder (^thrilled with 
 love unutterable and unforecast. And for 
 both of them this love was a new strange 
 thing, rapturous with emotion unfelt 
 before, and astonishing as the vision of a 
 new Heaven Gf Earth. For to both of them 
 love was added to love and became double 
 and of twofold nature. In her was that 
 pure love which had moved Isabel to leave 
 Heaven for his salvation twinned with 
 that warm earthly passion which had made 
 Clarisse offer herself to him or ever he 
 prayed her for love. And in him also love 
 was twofold; for was he not loving Isabel 
 and Clarisse in one? His whole nature, 
 body, soul, & spirit, felt one ecstasy of rap- 
 ture as these two tides of love, love bodily 
 and love spiritual, came together and made 
 one mightysurge of feeling. Hidden from 
 him, indeed, was the secret of this over- 
 
 90
 
 whelming joy ; hidden from him that he 
 was loving the soul oflsabel in the form and 
 demeanour of Clarisse. All that he knew 
 was that this fair creature before his eyes 
 was desirable beyond all he had ever known 
 of beauty Gf love-worthiness ; and that such 
 delight filled him, unlanguageable and 
 undreamed, as made Heaven itself fade 
 undesired. 
 
 And as they talked together, in the sweet 
 heart-opening of lovers new-confessed, 
 one while he called her Clarisse Gf another 
 Isabel. And at this name she blushed, and, 
 looking stcdfastly in his eyes, said: 
 
 'Am I Isabel?' 
 
 And he was puzzled and astonished, and 
 answered: 
 
 ' O, my love, verily I know not who you 
 are ! For methought it was Clarisse who 
 died, and yet it seems to me Isabel who has 
 come to life. Tell me, indeed, who you 
 are!' 
 
 And at that she opened her heart to him, 
 and told him all the matter; and very 
 wonderful it seemed to him. Yet easy was 
 it to him to believe it, so like to Isabel was 
 
 91
 
 she in all her speech and in the pure love 
 that looked from her eyes, while yet her 
 lovely body and her sweet way with him 
 were like to Clarisse. 
 
 92
 
 XXVII 
 
 IONGER grew the shadows 
 As they talked together, 
 ^ And the sun dedining 
 Sank behind the clifF-tops. 
 
 ' Come, my love ! ' said Gerard ; 
 
 ' Rise, and let us hasten 
 Far from hence ere nightfall; 
 Find some priest in chapel 
 Who shall join for ever 
 Our two lives in wedlock. 
 We will fare to-morrow 
 To some far-ofF country, 
 Where no King can find us, 
 Nor no wrath pursue us. 
 Nor derision wound us. 
 Love shall make an Eden 
 Round us like that Heaven 
 That you left to seek me.' 
 
 93
 
 XXVIII 
 
 A T these words, as a sudden storm- 
 /% cloud darkens a smiling land, so 
 ji jL^in Isabel's breast rose a tempest 
 that overcast her bright joy. And the two- 
 fold nature in her was sore divided. For 
 though the soul In her was the soul of 
 Isabel, set earnestly towards Heaven's 
 grace & eternal salvation, yet In her body 
 now ran the warm blood of one who cared 
 little for Heaven and much for Earth, and 
 whose nature was ever Inclined to luxurl- 
 ousness. For a while she said nothing In 
 answer; & the conflict within her swayed 
 her mind this way and that, as you see a 
 tree swayed by the wind, howso firmly It 
 stand rooted in the ground. But when a 
 second time he urged her, as surprised at 
 her silence, and when his lips pressed hers 
 in sweet persuasion, her desire so echoed 
 his that almost she had consented to him. 
 But on a sudden came Into her mind the 
 remembrance of Mary's warning: 'Be- 
 ware that thou be not thyself a cause of 
 sin to him thou lovest !' And she bethought 
 
 94
 
 her that although in spirit she was Isabel, 
 a pure maiden & meet to become his wife 
 without sinning, yet the body that she 
 would yield to him was not Isabel's but 
 that of Clarisse the King's favourite, with 
 which to wed would be for him a sin, 
 deadly to his own soul, and adulterous in 
 the eyes of the world. 
 
 Ah, poor Isabel ! Once again a hard 
 choice is before thee: to grant to thy lover 
 and to thine own heart all that ye both 
 desire on earth, or by stern denial to keep 
 your two souls unspotted, and forfeit not 
 your sure hope of Heaven! Strong, very 
 strong, was the earthly nature of that fair 
 body; but stronger was the heavenly will 
 of that pure soul. And, with a sad look, 
 but a tone firm and unfaltering, she said : 
 ' Nay, Gerard ! that may not be yet.' 
 Very hard were her words for him to 
 hear; and he brake out in vehement ques- 
 tion and loud remonstrance. So strange it 
 seemed to him and so cruel that he might 
 not wed her in whom was lodged the 
 spirit of his own love, Isabel; aye, and so 
 light in his eyes appeared the sin of taking 
 
 95
 
 to wife one who was not wedded wife 
 but only King's favourite. Long was the 
 debate between them; but in the end, so 
 softly firm was she, so sweetly fixed of 
 will, that the very greatness of his love for 
 her made him yield to her, loth to refuse 
 her ought who had given up Paradise for 
 him. And this covenant she made with 
 him for his comforting and hers, that she 
 would not again return to the Court or 
 remain the King's favourite; but she said 
 that she would go away to a distant part of 
 the country where was a nunnery, in 
 which she might be received as one seek- 
 ing asylum and safety for her soul, yet 
 without taking on her the vow of per- 
 petual maidenhood. There she said she 
 would abide, until such time as it might 
 please Heaven to set her free by the death 
 of the King, who was now in advanc- 
 ing years, when, if Gerard still lived 
 
 unwedded 
 
 At which words she was fain to cease; for 
 he kissed her sweet mouth so that she could 
 speak no more, & told her that never would 
 he look on another woman save her. Only 
 
 96
 
 he prayed her to grant him now and again 
 toridetothatnunnery Gf have speech with 
 her, and to strengthen his heart and lighten 
 his eyes with her converse and her sweet 
 looks. And to this she gave consent. 
 
 97
 
 XXIX 
 
 LEAVE we now these lovers, 
 Sad to part, yet joyful 
 /In sure hope and certain 
 Faith of love's abiding. 
 Leave we in his castle 
 Gerard, ever shunning 
 Court and city pleasures. 
 Leave we in her cloister 
 Isabel, the white-souled 
 Pure warm-blooded woman 
 Blithe in daily duties. 
 Yet in spirit feeding 
 Ever on the one day 
 When her punctual lover 
 Riding to the gateway 
 Yearly claimed her greeting. 
 Till one day in summer 
 Came he for the last time; 
 Came with happy tidings 
 Telling of her freedom ; 
 Came to bear her with him 
 Far through field and forest 
 Many a long day's riding 
 To his own fair castle, 
 
 98
 
 Where the twain were wedded 
 Never more to sever. 
 Now the storms are over, 
 And the ships in haven, 
 And my story ended. 
 
 99
 
 UMlVIiRSlTY Of CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 Form L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444
 
 U161 
 
 __baurdiil« 
 
 Gerard k Isabel 
 
 ^'^ 000 366 591 
 
 PR 
 lil6l 
 
 B225g 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIl 
 LOS ANGELES