VIII.

Last night he came to me, His dark eyes grave and sweet— (Eyes that I could not meet!) To crave my pardon—mine! With that kingly courtesy Which makes his least deed fine.

What fiend took hold on me? I would nor speak nor heed, Tho' he bent his pride to plead— (He, all unused to sue!) Though he sought full tenderly For a pardon not his due.

Fool! to have played with fire— Had I not full often heard How when his wrath was stirred It burst all bounds and leapt Higher and ever higher Like flames by the storm-wind swept?

Yet—tho' his face was white With a passion that shook his soul— Not once did he waive control, Tho' his heart to its depths was stirred— He leashed his wrath that night Nor uttered one bitter word.

Pride held me stubbornly dumb, Stilling what words I would say, While I flung my heart's treasure away, While I tampered with fire—to my cost; Till I knew the ultimate end had come— I had matched pride with love—and lost!