Queen, I come to crave a word of thee.

ROSAMUND.

ROSAMUND.

I hear.

ALMACHILDES.

ALMACHILDES.

Thou knowest I love thy noble Hildegard: And rather would I give my soul to burn Than wrong in thought her flawless maidenhood. And now she hath told me what I dare not think Truth. And I dare not think her lips may lie.

ROSAMUND.

ROSAMUND.

I have heard. And what is this to me? She hath not Said—hath not told thee, nor wouldst thou believe— That I have breathed a lie upon her lips Or taught them shamelessness by lesson?

ALMACHILDES.

ALMACHILDES.

No. But she came forth from thee to me—from thee— And spake with quivering mouth and quailing eyes And face whose fire turned ashen, and again Rekindling from that ashen agony Flamed, what no heart could think to hear her speak, Mine least of all, who love her.

ROSAMUND.

ROSAMUND.

Ay?

ALMACHILDES.

ALMACHILDES.

Not she, I know it as sure as night is known from day And surelier than I know mine own soul’s truth, Spake what she spake in broken bursts of breath Out of her own heart and its love for me.

ROSAMUND.

 Prev. P 25/59 next