“I am here to time, you see; The glade is well-screened — eh?— against alarm; Fit place to vindicate by my arm The honour of my spotless wife,
Who scorns your libel upon her life In boasting intimacy! “‘ All hush-offerings you'll spurn, My husband. Two must come; one only go,’
She said.‘ That he'll be you I know; To faith like ours Heaven will be just, And I shall abide in fullest trust Your speedy glad return.’”
“Good. Here am also I; And we'll proceed without more waste of words To warm your cockpit. Of the swords Take you your choice. I shall thereby
Feel that on me no blame can lie, Whatever Fate accords.” So stripped they there, and fought, And the swords clicked and scraped, and the onsets sped;
Till the husband fell; and his shirt was red With streams from his heart's hot cistern. Nought Could save him now; and the other, wrought Maybe to pity, said:
“Why did you urge on this? Your wife assured you; and‘ t had better been That you had let things pass, serene In confidence of long-tried bliss,
Holding there could be nought amiss In what my words might mean.” Then, seeing nor ruth nor rage Could move his foeman more — now Death's deaf thrall -
He wiped his steel, and, with a call Like turtledove to dove, swift broke Into the copse, where under an oak His horse cropt, held by a page.
“All's over, Sweet,” he cried To the wife, thus guised; for the young page was she. “‘ Tis as we hoped and said‘ t would be. He never guessed... We mount and ride
To where our love can reign uneyed. He's clay, and we are free.”
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