And, by degrees, when he who had chosen her, Brought in his courteous and benignant friends To spend their goodness on her, which she took So very gladly, as a part of his,— By slow degrees, it broke on her slow sense, That she, too, in that Eden of delight Was out of place, and, like the silly kid, Still did most mischief where she meant most love. A thought enough to make a woman mad, (No beast in this, but she may well go mad) That, saying ‘I am thine to love and use,’ May blow the plague in her protesting breath To the very man for whom she claims to die,— That, clinging round his neck, she pulls him down And drowns him,—and that, lavishing her soul, She hales perdition on him. ‘So, being mad,’ Said Marian ... ‘Ah—who stirred such thoughts, you ask? Whose fault it was, that she should have such thoughts? None’s fault, none’s fault. The light comes, and we see: But if it were not truly for our eyes, There would be nothing seen, for all the light; And so with Marian. If she saw at last, The sense was in her,—Lady Waldemar Had spoken all in vain else.’ ‘O my heart, O prophet in my heart,’ I cried aloud, ‘Then Lady Waldemar spoke!’ ‘_Did_ she speak,’ Mused Marian softly—‘or did she only sign? Or did she put a word into her face And look, and so impress you with the word? Or leave it in the foldings of her gown, Like rosemary smells, a movement will shake out When no one’s conscious? who shall say, or guess? One thing alone was certain,—from the day The gracious lady paid a visit first, She, Marian, saw things different,—felt distrust Of all that sheltering roof of circumstance Her hopes were building into with clay nests: Her heart was restless, pacing up and down And fluttering, like dumb creatures before storms, Not knowing wherefore she was ill at ease.’