TENTH STAVE

There in her cage roamed Helen light and fierce, Unresting, with bright eyes and straining ears, Nor ever stayed her steps; but first the hall She ranged, touching the pillars; next to the wall

Went out and shot her gaze into the murk Whereas the ships should lie; then to her work Upon the great loom turned and wove a shift, But idly, waiting always for some lift

In the close-wrapping fog that might discover The moving hosts, the spearmen of her lover — Lover and husband, master and lord of life, Coming at last to take a slave to wife.

And as wide-eyed she stared to feel her heart Leap to her side, she felt the warm tears start, And thankt the Goddess for the balm they brought. Yet to her women, withal so highly wrought

By hope and care and waiting, she was mild And gentle-voiced, and playful as a child That sups the moment's joy, and nothing heeds Time past or time to come, but fills all needs

With present kindness. She would laugh and talk, Take arms, suffer embraces, even walk The terrace‘ neath the eyes of all her fate, And seem to heed what they might show or prate,

As if her whole heart's heart were in this house And not at fearful odds and perilous. And should one speak of Paris, as to say, “Would that our lord might see thee go so gay

About his house!” Gently she'd bend her head Down to her breast and pluck a vagrant thread Forth from her tunic's hem, and looking wise, Gaze at her hand which on her bosom's rise

Lit like a butterfly and quivered there. Now in the dusk, with Paris otherwhere At council with the chieftains, into the hall To Helen there, was come, adventuring all,

Odysseus in the garb of countryman, A herdsman from the hills, with stain of tan Upon his neck and arms, with staff and scrip, And round each leg bound crosswise went a strip

Of good oxhide. Within the porch he came And louted low, and hailed her by her name, Among her maidens easy to be known, Though not so tall as most, and not full blown

To shape and flush like a full-hearted rose; But like a summer wave her bosom flows Lax and most gentle, and her tired sweet face Seems pious as the moon in a blue space

Of starless heaven, and in her eyes the hue Of early morning, gray through mist of blue. Not by a flaunted beauty is she guessed Queen of them all, but by the right expressed

In her calm gaze and fearless, and that hold Upon her lips which Gods have. Nay, not cold, Thou holy one, not cold thy lips, which say All in a sigh, and with one word betray

The passion of thy heart! But who can wis The fainting piercing message of thy kiss? O blest initiate — let him live to tell Thy godhead, show himself thy miracle!

But when she saw him there with his head bowed And humble hands, deeply her fair face glowed, And broad across the iris swam the black Until her eyes showed darkling. “Friend, your lack

Tell me,” she said, “and what is mine to give Is yours; but little my prerogative Here in this house, where I am not the queen You call me, but another name, I ween,

Serves me about the country you are of, Which Ilios gives me too, but not in love. Yet are we all alike in evil plight, And should be tender of each other's right,

And of each other's wrongdoing, and wrongs done Upon us. Have you wife and little one Hungry at home? Have you a son afield? Or do you mourn? Alas, I cannot wield

The sword you lack, nor bow nor spear afford To serve....” He said, “Nay, you can sheathe the sword, Slack bowstring, and make spear a hunter's toy.

Lady, I come to end this war of Troy In your good pleasure.” With her steady eyes Unwinking fixt, “Let you and me devise,”

Said she, “this happy end of bow and spear, So shall we serve the land. You have my ear; Speak then.” “But so,” he said, “these maidens have it.

But we save Troy alone, or never save it.” Turning she bid them leave her with a nod, And they obeyed. Swift then and like a God She seemed, with bright all-knowing eyes and calm

Gesture of high-held head, and open palm To greet. “Laertes’ son, what news bringst thou?” “Lady,” he said, “the best. The hour is now. We stand within the heaven-establisht walls,

We gird the seat. Within an hour it falls, The seat divine of Dardanos and Tros, After our ten years’ travail and great loss Of heroes not yet rested, but to rest

Soon.” Then she laid her hand upon her breast To stay it. “Who are ye that stand here-by?” “Desperate men,” he said, “prepared to die

If thou wilt have it so. Chief is there none Beside the ships but Nestor. All are gone Forth in the Horse. Under thy covering hand Thou holdest all Achaia. Here we stand,

Epeios, Pyrrhos, Antiklos, with these Cretan Idomeneus, Meriones, Aias the Lokrian, Teukros, Diomede Of the loud war-cry, next thy man indeed,

Golden-haired Menelaus the robbed King, And Agamemnon by him, and I who bring This news and must return to take what lot Thou choosest us; for all is thine, God wot,

To end or mend, to make or mar at will.” A weighty utterance, but she heard the thrill Within her heart, and listened only that — To know her love so near. So near he sat

Hidden when she that toucht the Horse's flank Could have toucht him! “Odysseus!” her voice sank To the low tone of the soft murmuring dove That nests and broods, “Odysseus, heard my love

My whisper of his name when close I stood And stroked the Horse?” “I heard and understood,” He said, “and Lokrian Aias would have spoken

Had I not clapt a hand to his mouth — else broken By garish day had been our house of dream, And our necks too. I heard a woman scream Near by and cry upon the Ruinous Face,

But none made answer to her.” Nought she says To that but “I am ready; let my lord Come when he will. Humbly I wait his word.”

“That word I bring,” Odysseus said, “he comes. Await him here.” Her wide eyes were the homes Of long desire. “Ah, let me go with thee

Even as I am; from this dark house take me While Paris is abroad!” He shook his head. “Not so, but he must find thee here abed —

And Paris here.” The light died out; a mask Of panic was her face, what time her task Stared on a field of white horror like blood:

“Here! But there must be strife then!” “Well and good,” Said he. Then she, shivering and looking small,

“And one must fall?” she said; he, “One must fall.” Reeling she turned her pincht face other way And muttered with her lips, grown cold and gray, Then fawning came at him, and with her hands

Besought him, but her voice made no demands, Only her haunted eyes were quick, and prayed, “Ah, not to fall through me!” “By thee,” he said,

“The deed is to be done.” She droopt adown Her lovely head; he heard her broken moan, “Have I not caused enough of blood-shedding,

And enough women's tears? Is not the sting Sharp enough of the knife within my side?” No more she could. Then he, “Think not to avoid

The lot of man, who payeth the full price For each deed done, and riddeth vice by vice: Such is the curse upon him. The doom is By God decreed, that for thy forfeit bliss

In Sparta thou shalt pay the price in Troy, Dishonour for lost honour, pain for joy; By what hot thought impelled, by that alone Win back; by violence violence atone.

If by chicane thou fleddest, by chicane Win back thy blotted footprints. Out again With all thine arts of kisses slow and long, Of smiles and stroking hands, and crooning song

Whenas full-fed with love thou lulledst asleep; Renew thine eyebright glances, whisper and creep And twine about his neck thy wreathing arms: As we with spears so do thou with thy charms,

Arm thee and wait the hour of fire and smoke To purge this robbery. Paris by the stroke Of him he robbed shall wash out his old cheat In blood, and thou, woman, by new deceit

Of him redeem thy first. For thus God saith, Traitress, thou shalt betray thy thief to death.” He ceased, and she by misery made wild And witless, shook, and like a little child

Gazed piteous, and asked, “What must I do?” He answered, “Hold him by thee, falsely true, Until the King stand armed within the house Ready to take his blood-price. Even thus,

By shame alone shalt thou redeem thy shame.” And now she claspt his knee and cried his name: “Mercy! I cannot do it. Let me die Sooner than go to him so. What, must I lie

With one and other, make myself a whore, And so go back to Sparta, nevermore To hold my head up level with my slaves, Nor dare to touch my child?”

Said he, “Let knaves Deal knavishly till freedom they can win; And so let sinners purge themselves of sin.” Then fiercely looking on her where she croucht

Fast by his knees, his whole mind he avoucht: “How many hast thou sent the way of death By thy hot fault? What ghosts like wandering breath Shudder and wail unhouseled on the plain,

Shreds of Achaian honour? What hearts in pain Cry the night through? What souls this very night Fare forth? Art thou alone to sup delight, Alone to lap in pleasantness, who first

And only, with thy lecher and his thirst, Wrought all the harm? Only for thy smooth sake Did Paris reive, and Menelaus ache, And Hector die ashamed, and Peleus’ son

Stand to the arrow, and Aias Telamon Find madness and self-murder for the crown Of all his travail?” He eyed her up and down Sternly, as measuring her worth in scorn.

“Not thus may traffic any woman born While men endure cold nights and burning days, Hunger and wretchedness.” She stands, she says,

“Enough — I cannot answer. Tell me plain What I must do.” “At dark,” he said, “we gain The Gates and open them. A trumpet's blast

Will sound the entry of the host. Hold fast Thy Paris then. We storm the citadel, High Pergamos; that won, the horn will tell The sack begun. But hold thou Paris bound

Fast in thine arms. Once more the horn shall sound. That third is doom for him. Release him then.” All blank she gazed. “Unarmed to face armed men?” “Unarmed,” he said, “to meet his judgment day.”

Now was thick silence broken; now no way For her to shift her task nor he his fate. Keenly she heeds. “‘ Tis Paris at the gate! What now? Whither away? Where wilt thou hide?”

He lookt her in the face. “Here I abide What he may do. Was it not truth I spake That all Hellas lay in thy hand? Now take What counsel or what comfort may avail.”

Paris stood in the door and cried her Hail. “Hail to thee, Rose of the World!” then saw the man, And knit his brows upon him, close to scan His features; but Odysseus had his hood

Shadowing his face. Some time the Trojan stood Judging, then said, “Thou seek'st? What seekest thou?” “A debt is owed me. I seek payment now.” So he was told; but he drew nearer yet.

“I would know more of thee and of thy debt,” He said. And then Odysseus, “This thy strife Hath ruined all my fields which are my life,

Brought murrain on my beasts, cold ash to my hearth, Emptiness to my croft. Hunger and dearth, Are these enough? Who pays me?” Then Paris,

“I pay, but first will know what man it is I am to pay, and in what kind.” So said, Snatching the hood, he whipt it from his head And lookt and knew the Ithacan. “Now by Zeus,

Treachery here!” He swung his sword-arm loose Forth of his cloak and set hand to his sword; But Helen softly called him: “Hath my lord No word of greeting for his bondwoman?”

Straightway he went to her, and left the man, And took her in his arms, and held her close. And light of foot, Odysseus quit the house.