He can no longer trust me Then no longer Can I retreat so come that which must come. Vicegerent. Go, conduct your Gustave Wrangel A servant for Octavio Piccolomini. [TO TERTSKY. [To the COUNTESS, who cannot conceal her triumph. No exultation - woman, triumph not! For jealous are the Powers of Destiny. Joy premature, and Shouts ere victory, Incroach upon their rights and privileges. We sow the seed and they the growth determine. [Exit Soon as the early morning shone, For her sweet hest he lived alone, Nor e'er could serve too well. She bade him oft not labor so: But then his eyes would overflow. . . It seemed a sin if strength could swerve From that one thought-her will to serve! And so of all her house, the dame Most favored him always; And from her lips forever came His unexhausted praise. On him, more like some gentle child, For this, the Huntsman Robert's heart And long, till ripened into art, The hateful envy nursed. His lord was rash of thought and deed: "Your lot, great Count, in truth is fair, He who a noble spouse can claim, The smooth seducer comes not there." "How now! bold man, what sayest thou?" The frowning Count replied "Think'st thou I build on woman's vow, Unstable as the tide ? Too well the flatterer's lip allureth On firmer ground my faith endureth ; No smooth seducer comes to woo!" "Right!" quoth the other, " and your scorn Who though a simple vassal born, Who buoys his heart with rash desires, "Surely; can that to all revealed Yet, from your ear if thus concealed "How! Out burst the Count, with gasping breath, "Fool - fool! - thou speak'st the words of death! What brain has dared so bold a sin?" "My lord, I speak of Fridolin! "His face is comely to behold” He adds - then paused with art. The Count grew hot-the Count grew cold The words had pierced his heart. "And then the rhymes - "9 "The rhymes!" "The same Confessed the frantic thought." No doubt the Countess, soft and tender, And I repent the babbling word That 'scaped my lips - What ails my lord?" Straight to a wood, in scorn and shame, Away Count Savern rode, Where, in the soaring furnace-flame, The molten iron glowed. Here, late and early, still the brand Their strength the Fire, the Water gave, The mill wheel, whirled amidst the wave, Here, day and night, resounds the clamor, And, suppled in that ceaseless storm, Iron to iron stamps a form. 'Have you my lord's command obeyed ?' Then gloated they the grisly pair And hied they, with the bellows' breath, The huntsman seeks the page. God wot, How smooth a face hath he! "Off, comrade, off! and tarry not; Thy lord hath need of thee!" Thus spoke his lord to Fridolin, "Haste to the forge the wood within, And ask the serfs who ply the trade 'Have you my lord's command obeyed ?' "It shall be done "—and to the task Had she no hest? -'twere well to ask, So, wending backward at the thought, "Ere I go to the forge, I have come to thee: Hast thou any commands by the road for me?” "I fain," thus spake that lady fair, In winsome tone and low, To hear the mass would go. Forth on the welcome task he wends, To and fro the church bell, swinging, He thought, "Seek God upon thy way, He gains the House of Prayer to pray, It was the Harvest's merry reign, At once the good resolve he takes, "No halt," quoth he, "the footstep makes, That doth but heavenward swerve!" So, on the priest, with humble soul, Now, as the ministrant, before The priest he took his stand; Tinkling, as the sanctus fell, Thrice at each holy name, the bell. Now the meek priest, bending lowly, Rears the cross divine. While the clear bell, lightly swinging, That boy-sacristan is ringing; Strike their breasts, and down inclining, Kneel the crowd, the symbol signing. Still in every point excelling, With a quick and nimble art Every custom in that dwelling Knew the boy by heart! |