The low tent In her sudden uprising, seem'd dwarf'd by the height From which those imperial eyes pour'd the light Of their deep silent sadness upon him.
No wonder He felt, as it were, his own stature shrink under The compulsion of that grave regard! For between The Duc de Luvois and the Soeur Seraphine At that moment there rose all the height of one soul O'er another; she look'd down on him from the whole Lonely length of a life. There were sad nights and days, There were long months and years in that heart-searching gaze;
And her voice, when she spoke, with sharp pathos thrill'd through And transfix'd him.
"Eugene de Luvois, but for you, I might have been now--not this wandering nun, But a mother, a wife--pleading, not for the son Of another, but blessing some child of my own, His,--the man's that I once loved! . . . Hush! that which is done I regret not. I breathe no reproaches. That's best Which God sends. 'Twas his will: it is mine. And the rest Of that riddle I will not look back to. He reads In your heart--He that judges of all thoughts and deeds.
With eyes, mine forestall not! This only I say:
You have not the right (read it, you, as you may!)
To say . . . 'I am the wrong'd."' . . .
"Have I wrong'd thee?--wrong'd THEE!"
He falter'd, "Lucile, ah, Lucile!"
"Nay, not me,"
She murmur'd, "but man! The lone nun standing here Has no claim upon earth, and is pass'd from the sphere Of earth's wrongs and earth's reparations. But she, The dead woman, Lucile, she whose grave is in me, Demands from her grave reparation to man, Reparation to God. Heed, O heed, while you can, This voice from the grave!"
"Hush!" he moan'd, "I obey The Soeur Seraphine. There, Lucile! let this pay Every debt that is due to that grave. Now lead on:
I follow you, Soeur Seraphine! . . . To the son Of Lord Alfred Vargrave . . . and then," . . .
As he spoke He lifted the tent-door, and down the dun smoke Pointed out the dark bastions, with batteries crown'd, Of the city beneath them . . .
"Then, THERE, underground, And valete et plaudite, soon as may be!
Let the old tree go down to the earth--the old tree With the worm at its heart! Lay the axe to the root!
Who will miss the old stump, so we save the young shoot?
A Vargrave! . . . this pays all . . . Lead on! In the seed Save the forest! . . .
I follow . . . forth, forth! where you lead."
XXX.
The day was declining; a day sick and damp.
In a blank ghostly glare shone the bleak ghostly camp Of the English. Alone in his dim, spectral tent (Himself the wan spectre of youth), with eyes bent On the daylight departing, the sick man was sitting Upon his low pallet. These thoughts, vaguely flitting, Cross'd the silence between him and death, which seem'd near, --"Pain o'erreaches itself, so is balk'd! else, how bear This intense and intolerable solitude, With its eye on my heart and its hand on my blood?
Pulse by pulse! Day goes down: yet she comes not again.
Other suffering, doubtless, where hope is more plain, Claims her elsewhere. I die, strange! and scarcely feel sad.
Oh, to think of Constance THUS, and not to go mad!
But Death, it would seem, dulls the sense to his own Dull doings . . ."
XXXI.
Between those sick eyes and the sun A shadow fell thwart.
XXXII.
'Tis the pale nun once more!
But who stands at her side, mute and dark in the door?
How oft had he watch'd through the glory and gloom Of the battle, with long, longing looks, that dim plume Which now (one stray sunbeam upon it) shook, stoop'd To where the tent-curtain, dividing, was loop'd!
How that stern face had haunted and hover'd about The dreams it still scared! through what fond fear and doubt Had the boy yearn'd in heart to the hero. (What's like A boy's love for some famous man?) . . . Oh, to strike A wild path through the battle, down striking perchance Some rash foeman too near the great soldier of France, And so fall in his glorious regard! . . . Oft, how oft, Had his heart flash'd this hope out, whilst watching aloft The dim battle that plume dance and dart--never seen So near till this moment! how eager to glean Every stray word, dropp'd through the camp-babble in praise Of his hero--each tale of old venturous days In the desert! And now . . . could he speak out his heart Face to face with that man ere he died!
XXXIII.
With a start The sick soldier sprang up: the blood sprang up in him, To his throat, and o'erthrew him: he reel'd back: a dim Sanguine haze fill'd his eyes; in his ears rose the din And rush, as of cataracts loosen'd within, Through which he saw faintly, and heard, the pale nun (Looking larger than life, where she stood in the sun)
Point to him and murmur, "Behold!" Then that plume Seem'd to wave like a fire, and fade off in the gloom Which momently put out the world.
XXXIV.
To his side Moved the man the boy dreaded yet loved . . . "Ah!" . . . he sigh'd, "The smooth brow, the fair Vargrave face! and those eyes, All the mother's! The old things again!
"Do not rise.
You suffer, young man?"
THE BOY.
Sir, I die.
THE DUKE.
Not so young!
THE BOY.
So young? yes! and yet I have tangled among The fray'd warp and woof of this brief life of mine Other lives than my own. Could my death but untwine The vext skein . . . but it will not. Yes, Duke, young--so young!
And I knew you not? yet I have done you a wrong Irreparable! . . . late, too late to repair.
If I knew any means . . . but I know none! . . . I swear, If this broken fraction of time could extend Into infinite lives of atonement, no end Would seem too remote for my grief (could that be!)
To include it! Not too late, however, for me To entreat: is it too late for you to forgive?
THE DUKE.
You wrong--my forgiveness--explain.
THE BOY.
Could I live!
Such a very few hours left to life, yet I shrink, I falter . . . Yes, Duke, your forgiveness I think Should free my soul hence.
Ah! you could not surmise That a boy's beating heart, burning thoughts, longing eyes Were following you evermore (heeded not!)
