VIII.

The swift chameleon in the gloom — This silence it is so profound!— Forsakes its bough, glides to the ground, Then up, and lies across the tomb.

It erst was green as olive-leaf, It then grew gray as myrtle moss The time it slid the moss across; But now‘ tis marble-white with grief.

The little creature's hues are gone; Here in the pale and ghostly light It lies so pale, so panting white,— White as the tomb it lies upon.

The two men by that nameless tomb, And both so still! You might have said These two men, they are also dead, And only waiting here for room.

How still beneath the orange-bough! How tall was one, how bowed was one! The one was as a journey done, The other as beginning now.

And one was young,— young with that youth Eternal that belongs to truth; And one was old,— old with the years That follow fast on doubts and fears.

And yet the habit of command Was his, in every stubborn part; No common knave was he at heart, Nor his the common coward's hand.

He looked the young man in the face, So full of hate, so frank of hate; The other, standing in his place, Stared back as straight and hard as fate.

And now he sudden turned away, And now he paced the path, and now Came back, beneath the orange-bough Pale-browed, with lips as cold as clay.

As mute as shadows on a wall, As silent still, as dark as they, Before that stranger, bent and gray, The youth stood scornful, proud, and tall.

He stood, a tall palmetto-tree With Spanish daggers guarding it; Nor deed, nor word, to him seemed fit While she prayed on so silently.

He slew his rival with his eyes; His eyes were daggers piercing deep,— So deep that blood began to creep From their deep wounds and drop wordwise:

His eyes so black, so bright that they Might raise the dead, the living slay, If but the dead, the living, bore Such hearts as heroes had of yore:

Two deadly arrows barbed in black, And feathered, too, with raven's wing; Two arrows that could silent sting, And with a death-wound answer back.

How fierce he was! how deadly still In that mesmeric, hateful stare Turned on the pleading stranger there That drew to him, despite his will:

So like a bird down-fluttering, Down, down, beneath a snake's bright eyes, He stood, a fascinated thing, That hopeless, unresisting, dies.

He raised a hard hand as before, Reached out the gold, and offered it With hand that shook as ague-fit,— The while the youth but scorned the more.

“You will not touch it? In God's name Who are you, and what are you, then? Come, take this gold, and be of men,— A human form with human aim.

“Yea, take this gold,— she must be mine She shall be mine! I do not fear Your scowl, your scorn, your soul austere, The living, dead, or your dark sign.

“I saw her as she entered there; I saw her, and uncovered stood: The perfume of her womanhood Was holy incense on the air.

“She left behind sweet sanctity, Religion lay the way she went; I cried I would repent, repent! She passed on, all unheeding me.

“Her soul is young, her eyes are bright And gladsome, as mine own are dim; But, oh, I felt my senses swim The time she passed me by to-night!—

“The time she passed, nor raised her eyes To hear me cry I would repent, Nor turned her head to hear my cries, But swifter went the way she went,—

“Went swift as youth, for all these years! And this the strangest thing appears, That lady there seems just the same,— Sweet Gladys — Ah! you know her name?

“You hear her name and start that I Should name her dear name trembling so? Why, boy, when I shall come to die That name shall be the last I know.

“That name shall be the last sweet name My lips shall utter in this life! That name is brighter than bright flame,— That lady is my wedded wife!

“Ah, start and catch your burning breath! Ah, start and clutch your deadly knife! If this be death, then be it death,— But that loved lady is my wife!

“Yea, you are stunned! your face is white, That I should come confronting you, As comes a lorn ghost of the night From out the past, and to pursue.

“You thought me dead? You shake your head, You start back horrified to know That she is loved, that she is wed, That you have sinned in loving so.

“Yet what seems strange, that lady there, Housed in the holy house of prayer, Seems just the same for all her tears,— For all my absent twenty years.

“Yea, twenty years to-night, to-night, Just twenty years this day, this hour, Since first I plucked that perfect flower, And not one witness of the rite.

“Nay, do not doubt,— I tell you true! Her prayers, her tears, her constancy Are all for me, are all for me,— And not one single thought for you!

“I knew, I knew she would be here This night of nights to pray for me! And how could I for twenty year Know this same night so certainly?

“Ah me! some thoughts that we would drown Stick closer than a brother to The conscience, and pursue, pursue Like baying hound to hunt us down.

“And then, that date is history; For on that night this shore was shelled, And many a noble mansion felled, With many a noble family.

“I wore the blue; I watched the flight Of shells like stars tossed through the air To blow your hearth-stones — anywhere, That wild, illuminated night.

“Nay, rage befits you not so well: Why, you were but a babe at best, Your cradle some sharp bursted shell That tore, maybe, your mother's breast!

“Hear me! We came in honored war. The risen world was on your track! The whole North-land was at our back, From Hudson's bank to the North star!

“And from the North to palm-set sea The splendid fiery cyclone swept. Your fathers fell, your mothers wept, Their nude babes clinging to the knee.

“A wide and desolated track: Behind, a path of ruin lay; Before, some women by the way Stood mutely gazing, clad in black.

“From silent women waiting there Some tears came down like still small rain; Their own sons on the battle plain Were now but viewless ghosts of air.

“Their own dear daring boys in gray,— They should not see them any more; Our cruel drums kept telling o'er The time their own sons went away.

“Through burning town, by bursting shell — Yea, I remember well that night; I led through orange-lanes of light, As through some hot outpost of hell!

“That night of rainbow-shot and shell Sent from your surging river's breast To waken me, no more to rest,— That night I should remember well!

“That night amid the maimed and dead,— A night in history set down By light of many a burning town, And written all across in red,—

“Her father dead, her brothers dead, Her home in flames,— what else could she But fly all helpless here to me, A fluttered dove, that night of dread?

“Short time, hot time had I to woo Amid the red shells’ battle-chime; But women rarely reckon time, And perils speed their love when true.

“And then I wore a captain's sword; And, too, had oftentime before Doffed cap at her dead father's door, And passed a soldier's pleasant word.

“And then — ah, I was comely then! I bore no load upon my back, I heard no hounds upon my track, But stood the tallest of tall men.

“Her father's and her mother's shrine, This church amid the orange wood, So near and so secure it stood, It seemed to beckon as a sign.

“Its white cross seemed to beckon me: My heart was strong, and it was mine To throw myself upon my knee, To beg to lead her to this shrine.

“She did consent. Through lanes of light I led through that church-door that night — Let fall your hand! Take back your face And stand,— stand patient in your place!

“She loved me; and she loves me still. Yea, she clung close to me that hour As honey-bee to honey-flower,— And still is mine, through good or ill.

“The priest stood there. He spake the prayer; He made the holy, mystic sign. And she was mine, was wholly mine,— Is mine this moment I will swear!

“Then days, then nights, of vast delight,— Then came a doubtful, later day; The faithful priest, now far away, Watched with the dying in the fight:

“The priest amid the dying, dead, Kept duty on the battle-field,— That midnight marriage unrevealed Kept strange thoughts running through my head.

“At last a stray ball struck the priest: This vestibule his chancel was. And now none lived to speak her cause, Record, or champion her the least.

“Hear me! I had been bred to hate All priests, their mummeries and all. Ah, it was fate,— ah, it was fate That all things tempted me to fall!

“And then the rattling songs we sang Those nights when rudely revelling,— The songs that only soldiers sing,— Until the very tent-poles rang!

“What is the rhyme that rhymers say Of maidens born to be betrayed By epaulettes and shining blade, While soldiers love and ride away?

“And then my comrades spake her name Half taunting, with a touch of shame; Taught me to hold that lily-flower As some light pastime of the hour.

“And then the ruin in the land, The death, dismay, the lawlessness! Men gathered gold on every hand,— Heaped gold: and why should I do less?

“The cry for gold was in the air, For Creole gold, for precious things; The sword kept prodding here and there Through bolts and sacred fastenings.

“‘ Get gold! get gold!’ This was the cry. And I loved gold. What else could I Or you, or any earnest one Born in this getting age have done?

“With this one lesson taught from youth, And ever taught us, to get gold,— To get and hold, and ever hold,— What else could I have done, forsooth?

“She, seeing how I sought for gold,— This girl, my wife, one late night told Of treasures hidden close at hand, In her dead father's mellow land:

“Of gold she helped her brothers hide Beneath a broad banana tree, The day the two in battle died,— The night she dying fled to me.

“It seemed too good; I laughed to scorn Her trustful tale. She answered not; But meekly on the morrow morn Two massive bags of bright gold brought.

“And when she brought this gold to me, Red Creole gold, rich, rare, and old,— When I at last had gold, sweet gold, I cried in very ecstasy!

“Red gold! rich gold! two bags of gold! The two stout bags of gold she brought And gave with scarce a second thought,— Why, her two hands could hardly hold!

“Now I had gold! two bags of gold! Two wings of gold to fly, and fly The wide world's girth; red gold to hold Against my heart for aye and aye!

“My country's lesson:‘ Gold! get gold!’ I learned it well in land of snow; And what can glow, so brightly glow, Long winter nights of Northern cold?

“Ay, now at last, at last I had The one thing, all fair things above My land had taught me most to love! A miser now! and I grew mad.

“With those two bags of gold my own, I then began to plan that night For flight, for far and sudden flight,— For flight; and, too, for flight alone.

“I feared! I feared! My heart grew cold,— Some one might claim this gold of me! I feared her,— feared her purity, Feared all things but my bags of gold.

“I grew to hate her face, her creed,— That face the fairest ever yet That bowed o'er holy cross or bead, Or yet was in God's image set.

“I fled,— nay, not so knavish low As you have fancied, did I fly; I sought her at that shrine, and I Told her full frankly I should go.

“I stood a giant in my power,— And did she question or dispute? I stood a savage, selfish brute,— She bowed her head, a lily-flower.

“And when I sudden turned to go, And told her I should come no more, She bowed her head so low, so low, Her vast black hair fell pouring o'er.

“And that was all; her splendid face Was mantled from me, and her night Of hair half hid her from my sight As she fell moaning in her place.

“And there,‘ mid her dark night of hair, She sobbed, low moaning through her tears, That she would wait, wait all the years,— Would wait and pray in her despair.

“Nay, did not murmur, not deny,— She did not cross me one sweet word! I turned and fled: I thought I heard A night-bird's piercing low death-cry!”