And well he knew it, too,—­the accursed!—­
    To whom my grandsire gave his child
  With dying breath;—­for from the first
    He saw, and tried to snare the wild
  And frightened love that thought to rest
  Its wings upon my father’s breast.

  You may have seen him riding by,—­
    This same Count Bernard, stern and cold;
  You know, then, how his creeping eye
    One’s very soul in charm will hold. 
  Snow-locks he wears, and gracious art;
  But hell is whiter than his heart.

  Well, as I said, the secret rite
    Had joined them, and the two were one;
  And so it chanced, one summer night,
    When the half-moon had set, and none
  But faint star-shadows on the grass
  Lay watching for his feet to pass,

  Led by the waiting light that gleamed
    From out one chamber-window, came
  The husband-lover;—­soon they dreamed,—­
    Her lips still murmuring his name
  In sleep,—­while, as to guard her, fell
  His arm across her bosom’s swell.

  The low wind shook the darkened pane,
    The far clock chimed along the hall,
  There came a moment’s gust of rain,
    The swallow chirped a single call
  From his eaves’-nest, the elm-bough swayed
  Moaning;—­they slumbered unafraid.

  Without a creak the chamber-door
    Crept open!—­with a cat-like tread,
  Shading his lamp with hand that bore
    A dagger, came beside their bed
  The Count.  His hair was tinged with gray: 
  Gold locks brown-mixed before him lay.

  A thrust,—­a groan,—­a fearful scream,
    As from the peace of love’s sweet rest
  She starts!—­O God! what horrid dream
    Swells her bound eyeballs?  From her breast
  Fall off the garments of the night,—­
  A red hand strikes her bosom’s white!

  She knew no more that passed; her ear
    Caught not the hurried cries,—­the rush
  Of the scared household,—­nor could hear
    The voice that broke the after-hush:—­
  “There with her paramour she lay! 
  He lies here!—­carry her away!”

  The evening after I was born
    No roses on the bier were spread,
  As when for maids or mothers mourn
    Pure-hearted ones who love the dead;
  They buried her, so young, so fair,
  With hasty hands and scarce a prayer.

  Count Bernard gained the lands, while I,
    Cast forth, forgotten, thus have grown
  To manhood; for I could not die—­
    I cannot die—­till I atone
  For her great shame; and so you see
  I track him, and he flies from me.

  And one day soon my hand I’ll lay
    Upon his arm, with lighter touch
  Than ladies use when in their play
    They tap you with their fans; yet such
  A thrill will freeze his every limb
  As if the dead were clutching him!

  I think that it would make you smile
    To see him kneel and hear him plead,—­
  I leaning on my sword the while,
    With a half-laugh, to watch his need:—­
  At last my good blade finds his heart,
  And then this red stain will depart.