Just then, the girl stopped speaking,—sate erect, And stared at me as if I had been a ghost, (Perhaps I looked as white as any ghost) With large-eyed horror. ‘Does God make,’ she said, ‘All sorts of creatures, really, do you think? Or is it that the Devil slavers them So excellently, that we come to doubt Who’s strongest, He who makes, or he who mars? I never liked the woman’s face, or voice, Or ways: it made me blush to look at her; It made me tremble if she touched my hand; And when she spoke a fondling word, I shrank, As if one hated me, who had power to hurt; And, every time she came, my veins ran cold, As somebody were walking on my grave. At last I spoke to Lady Waldemar: ‘Could such an one be good to trust?’ I asked. Whereat the lady stroked my cheek and laughed Her silver-laugh—(one must be born to laugh, To put such music in it) ‘Foolish girl, ‘Your scattered wits are gathering wool beyond The sheep-walk reaches!—leave the thing to me.’ And therefore, half in trust, and half in scorn That I had heart still for another fear In such a safe despair, I left the thing. ‘The rest is short. I was obedient: I wrote my letter which delivered _him_ From Marian, to his own prosperities, And followed that bad guide. The lady?—hush,— I never blame the lady. Ladies who Sit high, however willing to look down, Will scarce see lower than their dainty feet: And Lady Waldemar saw less than I, With what a Devil’s daughter I went forth The swine’s road, headlong over a precipice, In such a curl of hell-foam caught and choked, No shriek of soul in anguish could pierce through To fetch some help. They say there’s help in heaven For all such cries. But if one cries from hell ... What then?—the heavens are deaf upon that side.