Part 6 (1/2)

XX.

Before them stood a guilty pair; But, though an equal fate they share, Yet one alone deserves our care.

Her s.e.x a page's dress belied; The cloak and doublet, loosely tied, 385 Obscured her charms, but could not hide.

Her cap down o'er her face she drew; And, on her doublet breast, She tried to hide the badge of blue, Lord Marmion's falcon crest. 390 But, at the Prioress' command, A Monk undid the silken band That tied her tresses fair, And raised the bonnet from her head, And down her slender form they spread, 395 In ringlets rich and rare.

Constance de Beverley they know, Sister profess'd of Fontevraud, Whom the Church number'd with the dead, For broken vows, and convent fled. 400

XXI.

When thus her face was given to view, (Although so pallid was her hue, It did a ghastly contrast bear To those bright ringlets glistering fair), Her look composed, and steady eye, 405 Bespoke a matchless constancy; And there she stood so calm and pale, That, bur her breathing did not fail, And motion slight of eye and head, And of her bosom, warranted 410 That neither sense nor pulse she lacks, You might have thought a form of wax, Wrought to the very life, was there; So still she was, so pale, so fair.

XXII.

Her comrade was a sordid soul, 415 Such as does murder for a meed; Who, but of fear, knows no control, Because his conscience, sear'd and foul, Feels not the import of his deed; One, whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires 420 Beyond his own more brute desires.

Such tools the Tempter ever needs, To do the savagest of deeds; For them no vision'd terrors daunt, Their nights no fancied spectres haunt, 425 One fear with them, of all most base, The fear of death,--alone finds place.

This wretch was clad in frock and cowl, And 'shamed not loud to moan and howl, His body on the floor to dash, 430 And crouch, like hound beneath the lash; While his mute partner, standing near, Waited her doom without a tear.

XXIII.

Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek, Well might her paleness terror speak! 435 For there were seen in that dark wall, Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall;-- Who enters at such grisly door, Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more.

In each a slender meal was laid, 440 Of roots, of water, and of bread: By each, in Benedictine dress, Two haggard monks stood motionless; Who, holding high a blazing torch, Show'd the grim entrance of the porch: 445 Reflecting back the smoky beam, The dark-red walls and arches gleam.

Hewn stones and cement were display'd, And building tools in order laid.

XXIV.

These executioners were chose, 450 As men who were with mankind foes, And with despite and envy fired, Into the cloister had retired; Or who, in desperate doubt of grace, Strove, by deep penance, to efface 455 Of some foul crime the stain; For, as the va.s.sals of her will, Such men the Church selected still, As either joy'd in doing ill, Or thought more grace to gain, 460 If, in her cause, they wrestled down Feelings their nature strove to own.

By strange device were they brought there, They knew not how, and knew not where.

XXV.

And now that blind old Abbot rose, 465 To speak the Chapter's doom, On those the wall was to enclose, Alive, within the tomb; But stopp'd, because that woful Maid, Gathering her powers, to speak essay'd. 470 Twice she essay'd, and twice in vain; Her accents might no utterance gain; Nought but imperfect murmurs slip From her convulsed and quivering lip; Twixt each attempt all was so still, 475 You seem'd to hear a distant rill-- 'Twas ocean's swells and falls; For though this vault of sin and fear Was to the sounding surge so near, A tempest there you scarce could hear, 480 So ma.s.sive were the walls.

XXVI.

At length, an effort sent apart The blood that curdled to her heart, And light came to her eye, And colour dawn'd upon her cheek, 485 A hectic and a flutter'd streak, Like that left on the Cheviot peak, By Autumn's stormy sky; And when her silence broke at length, Still as she spoke she gather'd strength, 490 And arm'd herself to bear.

It was a fearful sight to see Such high resolve and constancy, In form so soft and fair.

XXVII.

'I speak not to implore your grace, 495 Well know I, for one minute's s.p.a.ce Successless might I sue: Nor do I speak your prayers to gain; For if a death of lingering pain, To cleanse my sins, be penance vain, 500 Vain are your ma.s.ses too.-- I listen'd to a traitor's tale, I left the convent and the veil; For three long years I bow'd my pride, A horse-boy in his train to ride; 505 And well my folly's meed he gave, Who forfeited, to be his slave, All here, and all beyond the grave.-- He saw young Clara's face more fair, He knew her of broad lands the heir, 510 Forgot his vows, his faith forswore, And Constance was beloved no more.-- 'Tis an old tale, and often told; But did my fate and wish agree, Ne'er had been read, in story old, 515 Of maiden true betray'd for gold, That loved, or was avenged, like me!

XXVIII.

'The King approved his favourite's aim; In vain a rival barr'd his claim, Whose fate with Clare's was plight, 520 For he attaints that rival's fame With treason's charge--and on they came, In mortal lists to fight.