Then Muriel heard her lover’s foot anear,
And cried upon him with a bitter cry,
Sharp and despairing.  And those two stood back,
With such affright, and violent anger stirred
He broke from out the thicket to her side,
Not knowing.  But, her hands before her face,
She sat; and, stepping close, that woman came
And faced him.  Then said Muriel, “O my heart,
Herbert!”—­and he was dumb, and ground his teeth,
And lifted up his hand and looked at it,
And at the woman; but a man was there
Who whirled her from her place, and thrust himself
Between them; he was strong,—­a stalwart man: 
And Herbert thinking on it, knew his name. 
“What good,” quoth he, “though you and I should strive
And wrestle all this April day?  A word,
And not a blow, is what these women want: 
Master yourself, and say it.”  But he, weak
With passion and great anguish, flung himself
Upon the seat and cried, “O lost, my love! 
O Muriel, Muriel!” And the woman spoke,
“Sir, ’twas an evil day you wed with me;
And you were young; I know it, sir, right well. 
Sir, I have worked; I have not troubled you,
Not for myself, nor for your child.  I know
We are not equal.”  “Hold!” he cried; “have done;
Your still, tame words are worse than hate or scorn. 
Get from me!  Ay, my wife, my wife, indeed! 
All’s done.  You hear it, Muriel; if you can,
O sweet, forgive me.” 
                    Then the woman moved
Slowly away:  her little singing child
Went in her wake:  and Muriel dropped her hands,
And sat before these two that loved her so,
Mute and unheeding.  There were angry words,
She knew, but yet she could not hear the words;
And afterwards the man she loved stooped down
And kissed her forehead once, and then withdrew
To look at her, and with a gesture pray
Her pardon.  And she tried to speak, but failed,
And presently, and soon, O,—­he was gone.

She heard him go, and Laurance, still as stone,
Remained beside her; and she put her hand
Before her face again, and afterward
She heard a voice, as if a long way off,
Some one entreated, but she could not heed. 
Thereon he drew her hand away, and raised
Her passive from her seat.  So then she knew
That he would have her go with him, go home,—­
It was not far to go,—­a dreary home. 
A crippled aunt, of birth and lineage high,
Had in her youth, and for a place and home,
Married the stern old rector; and the girl
Dwelt with them:  she was orphaned,—­had no kin
Nearer than they.  And Laurance brought her in,
And spared to her the telling of this woe. 
He sought her kindred where they sat apart,
And laid before them all the cruel thing,
As he had seen it.  After, he retired: 
And restless, and not master of himself,
He day and night haunted the rectory lanes;
And all things, even to the spreading out
Of leaves, their flickering shadows on the ground,
Or sailing of the slow, white cloud, or peace
And glory and great light on mountain heads,—­
All things were leagued against him,—­ministered
By likeness or by contrast to his love.