|
VIII
`For lovers there are many eyes,
And such there were on us; the devil
On such occasions should be civil -
The devil! - I`m loth to do him wrong,
It might be some untoward saint,
Who would not be at rest too long,
But to his pious bile gave vent -
But one fair night, some lurking spies
Surprised and seized us both.
The Count was something more than wroth -
I was unarmed; but if in steel,
All cap from head to heel,
What `gainst their numbers could I do?
`Twas near his castle, far away
From city or from succour near,
And almost on the break of day;
I did not think to see another,
My moments seemed reduced to few;
And with one prayer to Mary Mother,
And, it may be, a saint or two,
As I resigned me to my fate,
They led me to the castle gate:
Tleresa`s doom I never knew,
Our lot was henceforth separate.
An angry man, ye may opine,
Was he, the proud Count Palatine;
And he had reason good to be,
But he was most enraged lest such
An accident should chance to touch
Upon his future pedigree;
Nor less amazed, that such a blot
His noble `scutcheon should have got,
While he was highest of his line
Because unto himself he seemed
The first of men, nor less he deemed
In others` eyes, and most in mine.
`Sdeath! with a page - perchance a king
Had reconciled him to the thing;
But with a stripling of a page -
I felt - but cannot paint his rage.
|
