I, once, recurring to my youth, had said Of Elbert, that he soon, fulfilling plans Long form’d, would join me here in Germany. “Why,” Alice cried, “to think you know so well Our Elbert!” “Yours?” I ask’d. “Ours,” Edith said, “Ay, ay; our families have been friends for years.” But spite her careless tone, her eyes appear’d, Slipping through lashes long, to shun my own. And why was this?—And why, too, had she flush’d?— What subtle weapon had been used to cut Beneath the surface of her mien, and bring The heart-blood from its core? Then I recall’d How Elbert’s moods, of late, had hid themselves In strange far mists of fancy.—Could it be That Edith, she was his?—And he, my friend, Was he the one then that had caged her love, And placed it where my soul in reaching forth Could sense but bars of chill indifference?— I could not ask her nor her sister this; Nor even Elbert’s now, for in the week When first I met her, she had sail’d for home. But soon, like worms that would not wait for death, Fear-fretted jealousies clung round the form Of dying hope that now prized Edith more, To feel that Elbert too had prized her so. XXVI. A few days later, as we sat and talk’d, He on us burst, and brought a sudden light Illuminating her, and paling me, Blanch’d, ash-like, in the flame of that hot flush That warm’d her welcome. All my heart and breath Seem’d sunk in silence like the buzzing bees When autumn steals the sunlight from the flowers, And frost seals down their sweets. I heard them talk Like one who just has walk’d a glacier path With boist’rous friends; then, stumbling, slips away, Far suck’d through freezing fathoms down to death, Yet hears the cruel laughter crackling still. XXVII. This hardly tuned my mood for Elbert’s glee, When then we left the sisters. “Ah, good friend, So glad to see you! Such a desert, life! And friendship, such an oasis!—Your health! Our dusty throats need clearing first, and then Shall drafts drawn deeper clear our dusty souls.” Thus led he, hurrying on from thought to thought, Yet not one breath for Edith could he spare.— Why not? Could he not trust my friendship yet? Half anxious then, half curious to detect, Though wary still of love so subtly hid, My lips, bold-braced yet trembling at the deed, Essay’d a note to touch him,—Edith’s praise. XXVIII. “She looks well,” said he, somewhat absently. “She looks well!” cried I, half-way nettled now; Should Edith be abused, forsooth, to show What brutes men are who lose their trust! “She looks— For what then do you take her? for a frame, An empty effigy of human shape, Like what a shopman hangs his gowns upon?— Her soul is what I spoke of,—of her soul.”