Of Eldorado for one hour! Come back! I must go back and see her face again! I was not there, not there, the day she--died. You'll help me with the coffin. Not a soul Will know. Come back! One moment, only one!' I thought the man was mad, and plucked my hand Away from him. He caught me by the sleeve, And sank upon his knees, lifting his face Most piteously to mine. 'One moment! See! I loved her!' I saw the moonlight glisten on his tears, Great, long, slow tears they were; and then--my God-- As his face lifted and his head sank back Beseeching me--I saw a crimson thread Circling his throat, as though the headsman's axe Had cloven it with one blow, so shrewd, so keen, The head had slipped not from the trunk. I gasped; And, as he pleaded, stretching his head back, The wound, O like a second awful mouth, The wound began to gape. I tore my cloak Out of his clutch. My keys fell with a clash. I left them where they lay, and with a shout I dashed into the broad white empty road. There was no soul in sight. Sweating with fear I hastened home, not daring to look back; But as I turned the corner, I heard the clang Of those great doors, and knew he had entered in. Not till I saw before me in the lane The pedlar and my uncle did I halt And look at that which clasped my finger still As with a band of ice. My hand was bare! I stared at it and rubbed it. Then I thought I had been dreaming. There had been no ring! The poor man I had left there in the porch, Being a Frenchman, talked a little wild; But only wished to look upon her grave. And I--I was the madman! So I said Nothing. But all the same, for all my thoughts, I'd not go back that night to find the keys, No, not for all the rubies in the crown Of Prester John. * * * * The high State Funeral Was held on Lammas Day. A wondrous sight For Peterborough! For myself, I found Small satisfaction in a catafalque That carried a dummy coffin. None the less, The pedlar thought that as a Solemn Masque, Or Piece of Purple Pomp, the thing was good, And worthy of a picture in his rhymes; The more because he said it shadowed forth The ironic face of Death. The Masque, indeed Began before we buried her. For a host Of Mourners--Lords and Ladies--on Lammas eve Panting with eagerness of pride and place, Arrived in readiness for the morrow's pomp, And at the Bishop's Palace they found prepared A mighty supper for them, where they sat All at one table. In a Chamber hung With 'scutcheons and black cloth, they drank red wine And feasted, while the torches and the Queen Crept through the darkness of Northampton lanes.