HOW quick breeds scandal. In some danksome place She builds her nest of shame and sore disgrace, There rears her brood, swift flying far and wide For all her loathsome nestling to provide, And whispered words from off some careless tongue She plucks to bear to her unfeathered young. Where spite and envy fly their poisoned seed, Deep from the dust she snatches in her greed. Soon from their home, hate, jealousy, despair, Fly forth, within their turn to nest, and bear Their evil brood of torture, crime, and death, To blight the heart that meets their noisome breath. What heard Rossillon, riding through the wood, Of this dark bird that fed her horrid brood Close on his path; that made him turn and stay His restless steed upon young Guillem's way. 'How now, fond youth, my Guillem, all so pale, Lone dost thou sigh as doth the nightingale; Who, while all gentle birds have stayed their flight, Still cries his passion to the silent night. 'Tis sure love's way that makes a man to go A wanderer when nocturnal breezes blow. Nor in lone branches builds the bird of fame, He seeks the crowd, who wooes immortal name. Not on the road where valour boldly rides, Nor on the hill where glory safe abides, Do thy feet press, but on the silent path Within the secret wood, that nature hath Made for her children her green veiling through, For those who fly, and those who would pursue. Here, in this place where only those abide Who creep in fear, or in their terror hide, Or pass soft-footed to some wanton play, Or mid the leaves do wage a gory fray, What doth thou, then, in this remote recess, Who should be captor of sweet loveliness? Why let thy sighs all unrequited go, Since gentle ears were vanquished by their woe? Where hides thy love, this most elusive she? Come, speak, poor bondsman to love's cruelty.' Then Guillem spoke, and in his sore distress Forgot all save his heart's lone barrenness. 'As doth each bird, wise with the mating spring, I well do love, and therefore must I sing. As sighs the nightingale, with breast to thorn, In the lone night for joys for e'er unborn. Lest guilt should claim a hideous motherhood. So I despair, since none can bring me good.' Still Count Rossillon with his captive plays, Fixed on his face a fierce suspicious gaze. 'How now, pale scholar at love's school,' he cries. 'But name thy fair, for thee I 'll win the prize.' Half from its sheath his dagger sharp he drew, When white and wan the cheek of Guillem grew. 'Oh, list, my lord,' the youth all falt'ring said, 'To my despair, and then in pity shed My poor heart's blood, lest it in grief expire For ill-advisèd love and fond desire. Look kindly, then, O gentle lord, on one Who hath grown blind in worshipping the sun, And in his darkness, groping on his way, Lost his sure path, and for a while did stray.' Then Guillem paused, for in Rossillon's eyes He saw the crimson flame of murder rise, And was afraid, in sooth, to tell his tale. No true repentance here would aught avail, But bitter jealousy with poisoned dart Would pierce his own and Margarida's heart. Therefore he stayed the valour of his tongue, And from his lips in honied accents sung A tale of love that was but half his own, Of some sweet lady who had made him moan. 'When God created Eden, He inclined To wish some fairer thought for Heav'n designed, Than beast, or bird, or flower, or branching tree, To hold the soul that He desired to be. So God made man, and with him not content, To mould some fairer image o'er him bent. He took the red of rose, the lily's white, The beech-nut's brown, and the soft blue of night, And all the perfumed breath of paradise, To make a creature fair to meet His eyes. And so came woman, who, for her disgrace Fell from the glory of that sacred place. Yet oft, though forth this woman went accurst, A mould is made as lovely as the first That in God's garden to perfection came. And one sweet shape hath Margarida's name, And Agnes one, her sister passing fair; Her do I love, and, with a lover's fear, Fly from her side, when fain I would be near.' 'If this be true,' the fierce Rossillon said, 'That this shy maid doth shun the marriage-bed, I 'll speak her fair; for to thee be the blame, 'Tis the bold hunter spears the swiftest game. Out on thee, fool, who, pleading for a kiss, Would urge the modest maid request the bliss, And thus offend her for her virtue's sake— Less than she longed to give he feared to take. Then, Guillem, rise, and lift thy pallid cheek From dew-wet grass some sweeter rest to seek On thy love's breast. Come, lest in fond desire She die at home, as thou wouldst here expire.' Loud in the woods Rossillon's laughter rung, And echoed long the purple shades among. But Guillem went beside him, wan with fear And hopes, all fugitive as he drew near The castle where sweet Agnes now did dwell. Loud at their feet the clanging drawbridge fell As they passed through, and up the winding stair. Lone in her chamber found young Agnes there, With two white doves she played, and bid them fly From her soft shoulder as came Guillem nigh, And fierce Rossillon laughing in his beard. Then drew she back of this strange pair afeard. 'And hast thou brought some evil tidings here, O Count Rossillon, of my sister dear? Red is thy cheek, as Guillem's is too white. Speak, else my heart must perish of its fright.' 'Nay,' laughed Rossillon, ''tis not grief who flies To greet thee now, but love himself who cries "Sweet, give me peace and respite after pain, Say dost thou love, or must I pine in vain?" This hapless lover did I find astray; In the lone woods he sang his roundelay. Then the dark earth embraced, and left his tear On the brown leaves and grasses long and sear. Him did I lead from out that shady place, And bade him seek the sunshine of thy face. So am I red and somewhat scant of breath, Lest this poor youth should die a hapless death. See thou his pallid cheek, his sunken eyes. Say that thou lovest not, and say he dies,' Then looked fair Agnes proudly and all pale In dire offence to hear this tatler's tale, And saw poor Guillem's bent and humbled head, His piteous eyes, and there his story read; And for her sister's sake, and for his pain, Vowed that she loved—if he did love again. She laid her slender fingers, soft and white, On Guillem's hands, still clenched in their affright. And he, poor youth, did hold them to his heart, And kiss them oft with all a lover's art. So Count Rossillon, watching from his place, Saw but love's message writ on each young face. Soon with content he sprang upon his steed, And home did hie, from his suspicions freed. When fair that night the banquet-hall was spread For many an honoured guest, Rossillon said, 'Now when the wine doth make our hearts on fire, I 'll tell a tale of love and young desire.' He, nothing loth, responded to their cries, All in a piteous voice with lovers' sighs Told how lamenting lone young Guillem stood And cried his sorrows to the list'ning wood. 'In faith,' quoth he, 'I thought that some foul snare Tore at the vitals of a tortured hare, Or that some bird, sore wounded, found its death, And shrieked its anguish with half-human breath. Quick did I urge my charger to his speed, And saw poor Guillem weeping in his need. "And is," said I, "thy love so far from here, That such loud sorrow must assail her ear? Come, Guillem, leave the birds to their sweet rest, And sooth this sorrow on thy lady's breast." ' Rossillon paused, and Margarida grew White as the rose that peeped the window through. Beneath the board she let her slim hands fall, Lest their pale fear be visible to all, And her quick fingers plucked in their distress The gold embroidery of her silken dress. But when Rossillon, merry with his tale, Laughed, 'Soon I with young Guillem did prevail To bring his woe to his dear lady's feet, Where soon he knelt her pity to entreat. His famished kisses did her small hand glove, When I did go, and leave them to their love.' More loud than all young Margarida laughed, And to this love right willingly she quaffed, But on her cheek scorn's passion-flower was born, Flushed as the cloud that ushers in the morn, And from each eye a crystal drop out-flows, Clear as the dew that sparkles on the rose. Was Guillem false, then were no lovers true, And Cupid's favours but the bitter rue That she would wear no longer in her heart. Soon from the board she went and walked apart To where young Guillem stood alone, forgot By all save she, and wept, 'Thou lovest not.' And Guillem cried, 'Why dost thou doubt this love That holds thee dearer than the saints above, Who for the sorrows of thy piteous youth Had slain for thee his honour and his truth?' Then Margarida, fearful of his frown, Hid jealous eyes beneath long lashes brown, And leaned towards him, in a little voice Spoke soft to make his chidden heart rejoice. 'Then thou, my Guillem, thou shalt sing for me What thou didst chant beneath the greenwood tree. If that dear song were tuned for me alone, Oh, let me make the melody my own. Or, must I seek within that green recess, Where all alone thou didst thy love confess, From bud to blossom, and from leaf to bower, Shake the wild bell of every forest flower, To loose the captive echo of thy song? Since it is mine, it must to me belong.' And then, half tearful and half full of glee, Went Margarida, her last guests to see Safe to their saddles, and to say God-speed, As each gay gallant leaped upon his steed. And as her guests went riding through the night, They did discuss, with shameful appetite, Young Margarida's eyes, her neck, her hair, Vowed her too slender, or too lily fair. One called her cold, and one with laughter said, 'But rumour talks,' and then his jesting fled. He muttered in his beard, and, scowling went, Because the banquet did not him content. And one, who, riding, followed hindermost, Spoke words that smote the honour of his host, Because the wine his taste did all displease. Thus did they go, nor did their laughter cease, When 'gan a nightingale in heart's delight To praise the splendour of the summer night, Nor when the moon unwound her golden horn To hang above the cradle of the morn. Fair Margarida soon her guests forgot, In happy dreams she all remembered not Save her heart's love, and, as she smiling slept, Beside her bed two phantom visions crept, Grey Time and Death, to count her failing hours. But Margarida walked amidst the flowers Of all her joys in sleep's enchanted land, Nor knew that night would drive her from that strand, Where she would come no more, and yet she smiled, Safe in her slumber as a little child. Then from the wood, as nightingale ne'er sung, A hymn of love upon the silence rung Its silver circle of outspreading sound, Till Margarida's dreaming ear it found. 'Twas Guillem, who, beneath some spreading tree, Let all the rapture of his passion free. To bid his lady's doubting heart rejoice, He called the choir of his dulcet voice, And let each note on its fond mission fly. The tender treble, in a joyful cry Beside her ear, did timidly repeat He held his serfdom at his lady's feet. But chiming bass did hold himself the king, And bade her to his throne her favours bring. While thus he sung, all in his youthful power, Death told the moments of his passing hour. Within the hall Rossillon idle cast His belt aside, still smiling at the last Guest's parting quip, and from the leather fell A jewelled knife, that chimed like some sweet bell. 'What wouldst thou speak? then whisper unafraid'— And in his hand he raised the shining blade; 'And wouldst thou warn me of some secret foe, Some runagate, whom thou wouldst fain lay low?' Rossillon laughed, and ere his laughter died, He heard young Guillem's song that soared and sighed, A song of love upon the balmy night. And on Rossillon's cheek the red grew white, And then he spoke no more, but up the stair Crept soft, and Margarida, unaware Of his fierce eyes, beside the casement bent Her slender body in its good content. Oft would she raise her little hands on high, As though to hold the music passing by; Oft sighed to dream each note that soared so fair Should blend, dissolve into the upper air. So Margarida, wrapped in fond desire, Saw not Rossillon's frown and eyes of fire, Knew not that by her side stood Time and Death, And Murder, panting with his poisoned breath. And as Rossillon soft crept down the stair, These three most awful shapes pursued him there, Held to his hands, and whispered by his ear, Till to young Guillem's side he drew anear, And ere the startled youth could stay his song, Plunged in his side his dagger keen and long. Nor did he stay on this sad sight to gaze, As one might look in pity and amaze, Who had his jealous anger chidden dumb To see so much young loveliness succumb. Long on her bed did Margarida toss, Bereft of joy, for that sweet song, whose loss Did come so swift, and in some sudden way She wot not of. Full oft she leaned to pray, And oft to weep. And when at dawn she went To walk beside the tower's high battlements She heard a step upon the winding stair, And 'Guillem' cried, and then Rossillon came, And on her brow he saw the flush of shame. 'O sweet,' he said, 'thou art so pale and white, Didst thou not rest through all the weary night? It was in truth made noisy by some bard, Who for his lady fair had such regard That he could nought but trill, and troll, and sigh, Till dawn crept all reluctant to the sky.' Then Margarida raised her shame-bowed head, 'I heard a little song,' she trembling said; 'But oh, it did not stay me from my sleep.' —She turned aside lest he should see her weep. 'My Margarida doth pretend but ill. Who would deceive, must lie with right good-will. Thy paling cheek, thy dim and distant gaze, Doth fill my heart with pity and amaze. So I have vowed that here shall rest thee, sweet, With all the world, as should be, at thy feet. And here I, too, all kindly for thy sake, Have made a dish of which thou must partake.' He struck his hands, and from a secret door A page came forth, and in his arms he bore A covered dish, that Count Rossillon set By Margarida on the parapet. 'What meat is this?' Soft Margarida laid Her hand upon the boy, for, all afraid, She feared to stay so lone on that high place With fierce Rossillon. Then the youth's white face And shaking hands did make her cry aloud In her swift terror. Low the pale youth bowed And ran to hiding in some secret spot, And Margarida knew he 'd aid her not. And then she stood to meet Rossillon's eyes, Fierce in their hate beneath their feigned surprise At her strange fears, since he but bade her eat. 'What dost thou ail, my Margarida sweet? Come, try this dish I did myself prepare For thy dear fancy. Pray you, think it fair.' Thrice Margarida's hand did hover white, Like some shy moth all fearing to alight, Above the dish, and then drew back afraid. Thrice did she sigh her Guillem to upbraid, Who left her so in fear and lone disgrace To brave the frenzy on Rossillon's face. 'Wilt thou forgive?' she did repentant cry, 'Since from this poisoned dish I sure must die.' 'Nay, Margarida, thou dost all mistake,' Rossillon said. 'If this thou dost partake, Thou sure wilt find it of all dishes sweet. Come, lest I weary, let me see thee eat.' And from the dish the clanging cover flew Beneath his hand. What horror came to view! The leaf-brown hair that hung in ringlets long, Those paling lips still parted for their song, Those eyes, so dim, that seemed on her to gaze. Loud Margarida shrieked in her amaze. 'Thou dost not like the dish. Why dost thou fear? I could have sworn no other thing so dear As this to thee, which I did all prepare.' Then Margarida, in her mad despair Snatched to her breast her sin's most awful fee. 'So well I love what thou hast tended me, That I shall ask no more,' and then she sprung From the rude battlement, and screaming flung Her soul unshriven to its certain death, And her young body, that with dying breath Called still on him, whose sad immortal shade She must not meet to comfort or to aid, Since both did die without repentance sore. So ends my tale of the fierce days of yore. Then did the agèd minstrel cease to play On his bright harp, but let his fingers stray Soft on the strings that murmured 'neath his hand In some low whisper he did understand. At Christmas in the Baron's hall, The guests no longer held in thrall By the old harper's tragic lay, Laughed, 'Love is young, and he must stray; Let him not lead, but thou command And take the truant by the hand.' Then did each gallant bold advance To lead his lady to the dance, And soon in stately minuet They did the piteous tale forget. But lone the Baron sat and sighed, Still by the hearth, all deep and wide, Watched where his lady weeping pressed Against the window facing west. And then upon his hand he laid His bent grey head, as though afraid Again to see her wistful eyes, And her fair youth, and hear her sighs. And as he sat there sudden came A whispered voice that called his name. 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