THIRD STAVE

But when he had her there, sharp root of ill To him and his, safeguarded from him still, Too sweet to be forgotten, too much marred By usage to be what she seemed, bescarred,

Behandled, too much lost and too much won, Mock image making horrible the sun That once had shown her pure for his demesne, And still revealed her lovely, and unclean —

Despair turned into stone what had been kind, And bitter surged his griefs, to flood his mind. “O ruinous face,” said he, “O evil head, Art thou so early from the wicked bed?

So prompt to slough the snugness of thy vice? Or is it that in luxury thou art nice Become, and dalliest?” Low her head she hung And moved her lips. As when the night is young

The hollow wind presages storm, his moan Came wailing at her. “Ten years here, alone, And in that time to have seen thee thrice!” But she:

“Often and often have I chanced to see My lord pass.” His heart leapt, as leaps the child Enwombed: “Hast thou —?”

Faintly her quick eyes smiled: “At this time my house sleepeth, but I wake; So have time to myself when I can take New air, and old thought.”

As a man who skills To read high hope out of dark oracles, So gleamed his eyes; so fierce and quick said he: “Lady, O God! Now would that I could be

Beside thee there, breathing thy breath, thy thought Gathering!” Silent stood she, memory-fraught, Nor looked his way. But he must know her soul, So harpt upon her heart. “Is this the whole

That thou wouldst have me think, that thou com'st here Alone to be?” She blushed and dared to peer Downward. “Is it so wonderful,” she said,

“If I desire it?” He: “Nay, by my head, Not so; but wonderful I think it is In any man to suffer it.” The hiss Of passion stript all vesture from his tones

And showed the King man naked to the bones, Man naked to the body's utterance. She turned her head, but felt his burning glance Scorch, and his words leap up. “Dost thou desire

I leave thee then? Answer me that.” “Nay, sire, Not so.” And he: “Bid me to stay while sleeps Thy house,” he said, “so stay I.” Her eyes’ deeps

Flooded his soul and drowned him in despair, Despair and rage. “Behold now, ten years’ wear Between us and our love! Now if I cast My spear and rove the snow-mound of thy breast,

Were that a marvel?” Long she lookt and grave, Pondering his face and searching. “Not so brave My lord as that would prove him. Nay, and I know

He would not do it.” And the truth was so; And well he knew the reason: better she. Yet for a little in that vacancy Of silence and unshadowing light they stood,

Those long-divided, speechless. His first mood With bitter grudge was choked, but hers was mild, As fearing his. At last she named the child, Asking, Was all well? Short he told her, Yes,

The child was well. She fingered in her dress And watched her hand at play there. “Here,” she said, “There is no child,” and sighed. Into his dead

And wasted heart there leaped a flame and caught His hollow eyes. “Rememberest thou naught, Nothing regrettest, nothing holdst in grief Of all our joy together ere that thief

Came rifling in?” For all her answer she Lookt long upon him, long and earnestly; And misty grew her eyes, and slowly filled. Slowly the great tears brimmed, and slowly rilled

Adown her cheeks. So presently she hid Those wells of grief, and hung her lovely head; And he had no more words, but only a cry At heart too deep for utterance, and too high

For tears. And now came Paris from the house Into the sun, rosy and amorous, As when the sun himself from the sea-rim

Lifteth, and gloweth on the earth grown dim With waiting; and he piped a low clear call As mellow as the thrush's at the fall Of day from some near thicket. At whose sound

Rose up caught Helen and blushing turned her round To face him; but in going, ere she met The prince, her hand along the parapet She trailed, palm out, for sign to who below

Rent at himself, nor had the wit to know In that dumb signal eloquence, and hope Therein beyond his sick heart's utmost scope. Throbbing he stood as when a quick-blown peat,

Now white, now red, burns inly — O wild heat, O ravenous race of men, who'd barter Space And Time for one short snatch of instant grace! Withal, next day, drawn by his dear desire,

When as the young green burned like emerald fire In the cold light, back to the tryst he came; But she was sooner there, and called his name Softly as cooing dove her bosom's mate;

And showed her eyes to him, which half sedate To be so sought revealed her, half in doubt Lest he should deem her bold to meet the bout With too much readiness. But high he flaunted

Her name towards the sky. “Thou God-enchanted, Thou miracle of dawn, thou Heart of the Rose, Hail thou!” On his own eloquence he grows The lover he proclaims. “O love,” he saith,

“I would not leave thee for a moment's breath, Nor once these ten long years had left thy side Had it been possible to stay!” She sighed,

She wondered o'er his face, she looked her fill, Museful, still doubting, smiling half, athrill, All virgin to his praise. “O wonderful,” She said, “Such store of love for one so foul

As I am now!” O fatal hot-and-cold, O love, whose iris wings not long can hold The upper air! Sudden her thought smote hot

On him. “Thou sayest! True it is, God wot! Warm from his bed, and tears for thy unworth; Warm from his bed, and tears to meet my mirth; Then back to his bed ere yet thy tears be dry!”

She heard not, but she knew his agony Of burning vision, and kept back her tears Until his pity moved in tune with hers Towards herself. But he from thunderous brows

Frowned on. “No more I see thee by this house, Except to slay thee when the hour decree An end to this vile nest of cuckoldry And holy vows made hateful, save thou speak

To each my question sooth. Keep dry thy cheek From tears, hide up thy beauty with thy grief — Or let him have his joy of them, thy thief, What time he may. Answer me thou, or vain

Till thine hour strike to look for me again.” With hanging head and quiet hanging hands, With lip atremble, as caught in fault she stands, Scarce might he hear her whispered message:

“Ask, Lord, and I answer thee.” Strung to his task: “Tell me now all,” he said, “from that far day

Whenas embracing thee, I stood to pray, And poured forth wine unto the thirsty earth To Zeus and to Poseidon, in whose girth Lie sea and land; to Gaia next, their spouse,

And next to Heré, mistress of my house, Traitress, and thine, for grace upon my faring: For thou wert by to hear me, false arm bearing Upon my shoulder, glowing, lying cheek

Next unto mine. Ay, and thou prayedst, with meek Fair seeming, prosperous send-off and return. Tell me what then, tell all, and let me learn With what pretence that dog-souled slaked his thirst

In thy sweet liquor. Tell me that the first.” Then Helen lifted up her head, and beamed Clear light upon him from her eyes, which seemed That blue which, lying on the white sea-bed

And gazing up, the sunbeam overhead Would show, with green entinctured, and the warp Inwoven of golden shafts, blended yet sharp; So that a glory mild and radiant

Transfigured them. Upon him fell aslant That lovely light, while in her cheeks the hue Of throbbing dawn came sudden. So he knew Her best before she spoke; for when she spoke

It was as if the nightingale should croak In April midst the first young leaves, so bleak, So harsh she schooled her throat, that it should speak Dry matter and hard logic — as if she

Were careful lest self-pity urged a plea Which was not hers to make; or as one faint And desperate lays down all his argument Like bricks upon a field, let who will make

A house of them; so drily Helen spake With a flat voice. “Thou hadst been nine days gone, Came my lord Alexandros, Priam's son, And hailed me in the hall whereas I sat,

And claimed his guest-right, which not wondering at I gave as fitting was. Then came the day I was beguiled. What more is there to say?” Fixt on her fingers playing on the wall

Her eyes were. But the King said: “Tell me all. Thou wert beguiled: by his desire beguiled, Or by thine own?” She shook her head and smiled Most sadly, pitying herself. “Who knoweth

The ways of Love, whence cometh, whither goeth The heart's low whimper? This I know, he loved Me then, and pleasured only where I moved About the house. And I had pleasure too

To know of me he had it. Then we knew The day at hand when he must take the road And leave me; and its eve we close abode Within the house, and spake not. But I wept.”

She stayed, and whispering down her next word crept: “I was beguiled, beguiled.” And then her lip She bit, and rueful showed her partnership In sinful dealing.

But he, in his esteem Bleeding and raw, urged on. “To Kranai's deme He took thee then?” Speechless she bent her head

Towards her tender breasts whereon, soft shed As upon low quiet hills, the dawn light played, And limned their gentle curves or sank in shade. So gazing, stood she silent, but the King

Urged on. “From thence to Ilios, thou willing, He took thee?” Then, “I was beguiled,” again She said; and he, who felt a worthier strain

Stir in his gall compassion, and uplift Him out of knowledge, saw a blessed rift Upon his dark horizon, as tow'rds night The low clouds break and shafted shows the light.

“Ten years beguiled!” he said, “but now it seems Thou art ——” She shook her head. “Nay, now come dreams; Nay, now I think, remember, now I see.” “What callest thou to mind?” “Hermione,”

She said, “our child, and Sparta my own land, And all the honour that lay to my hand Had I but chosen it, as now I would” — And sudden hid her face up in her hood,

Her courage ebbed in grief, all hardness drowned In bitter weeping. Noble pity crowned The greater man in him; so for a space

They wept together, she for loss; for grace Of gain wept he. “No more,” he said, “my sweet, Tell me no more.” “Ah, hear the whole of it

Before my hour is gone,” she cried. But he Groaning, “I dare not stay here lest I see Him take thee again.” Both hands to fold her breast,

She shook her head; like as the sun through mist Shone triumph in her eyes. “Have no more fear Of him or any ——” Then, hearing a stir Within the house, her finger toucht her lip,

And one fixt look she gave of fellowship Assured — then turned and quickly went her way; And his light vanisht with her for that day.