Adalieta

All which, and the abounding grace and love Shown him of Saladin, a little held The heart of Torel from its Lombard home With Dame Adalieta: but it chanced He sat beside the king in audience, And there came one who said: “My lord the king, That galley of the Genovese which sailed With Frankish prisoners is gone down at sea.” Gone down!” cried Torel. “Ay! what recks it, friend, To fall thy visage for?” quoth Saladin, A galley less to ship-stuffed Genoa!” Good, my lord!” Torel said, “It bore a scroll Inscribed to Pavia, saying that I lived; For in a year, a month, and day, not come, I bade them hold me dead—and dead I am, Albeit living, if my lady wed Perforce constrained.” “Certes,” spake Saladin, A noble dame—the like not won, once lost— How many days remain?” “Two days, my prince, And twelve-score leagues between my heart and me: Alas! how to be passed?” Then Saladin: Lo! I am loath to loose thee—wilt thou swear To come again if all go well with thee, Or come ill speeding?” “Yea, I swear, my king, Out of true love,” quoth Torel, heartfully. Then Saladin: "Take here my signet-seal; My admiral will loose his swiftest sail Upon its sight, and cleave the seas, and go And clip thy dame, and say the Trader sends A gift, remindful of her courtesies.” Passed were the year, and month, and day; and passed Out of all hearts but one Sir Torel’s name, Long given for dead by ransomed Pavians. And Pavia, thoughtless of her Eastern graves, A lovely widow, all too gay for grief, Made peals from half a hundred campaniles To ring a wedding in. The seven bells Of San Piero from the nones to noon, Boomed with bronze throats the happy tidings out; Till the great tenor, overswelled with sound, Cracked himself dumb. Thereat the sacristan, Leading his swinkèd ringers down the stairs, Came blinking into sunlight—all his keys Jingling their little peal about his belt. Whom, as he tarried, locking up the porch, A foreign signor, browned with southern suns, Turbaned and slippered, as the Moslems use, Plucked by the cope. “Friend,” quoth he—’twas a tongue Italian true, but in a Moslem mouth— Why are your belfries busy—is it peace Or victory, that so ye din the ears Of Pavian lieges?” “Truly, no liege thou!” Grunted the sacristan, “who knowest not That Dame Adalieta weds to-night Her fore-betrothed,—Sir Torel’s widow she, That died i’ the chain?” “To-night!” the stranger said. Aye, sir, to-night!—why not to-night?—to-night! And you may see a goodly Christian feast If so you pass their gates at even-song, For all are asked.” For all are asked.” No more the questioner, But folded on his face the Eastern hood, Lest idle eyes should mark how idle words Had struck him home. “So quite forgot!—so soon!— And this the square wherein I gave the joust, And that the loggia, where I fed the poor; And yon my palace, where—oh, fair! oh, false!— They robe her for a bridal. May it be? Clean out of heart, with twice six changeful moons, The heart that beat on mine as it would break, That faltered forty oaths. Forced! forced!—not false— Yea, I will sit, Wife, at thy wedding feast, And let mine eyes give my fond faith the lie.” So in the stream of gallant guests that flowed Feast-ward at eve, went Torel—passed with them The outer gates—crossed the great courts with them A stranger in the walls that called him lord. Cressets and coloured lamps made the way bright, And rose-leaves strewed to where, within the doors The master of the feast, the bridegroom, stood, A—glitter from his forehead to his foot, Giving fair welcomes. He, a courtly lord, Marking the Eastern guest, bespoke him fair, Prayed place for him, and bade them set his seat Upon the dais. Then the feast began,