I must tell you why and have done: 'T is said, On the brink of the marriage she fled the side Of the guests and the bridegroom there; she fled With a mischievous laugh,--"I'll hide! I'll hide! Seek! and be sure that you find!"--so led A long search after her; but defied All search for--a score and ten long years.... Well, the laughter of Yule was turned to tears For them and for us. We saw the glare Of torches that hurried from chamber to stair; And we heard the castle re-echo her name, But neither to them nor to us she came. And that was the last of Clara of Clare. That winter it was, a month thereafter, That the home of the Cliffords, roof and rafter, Burned.--I could swear 't was the Strongbow's doing, Were I sure that he knew of the Clifford's wooing His daughter; and so, by the Rood and Cross! Had burned Hugh's home to avenge his loss.-- So over the channel to France with his King, The Black Prince, sailed to the wars--to deaden The ache of the mystery--Hugh that spring, And fell at Poitiers; for his loss made leaden His heart; and his life was a weary sadness, So he flung it away in a moment's madness. And the Baron died. And the bridegroom?--well, Unlucky was he in truth!--to tell Of him there is nothing. The Baron died, The last of the Strongbows he--gramercy! And the Clare estate with its wealth and pride Devolved to the Bloets, Walter and Percy. And years went by. And it happened that they Ransacked the old castle; and so, one day, In a lonesome tower uprummaged a chest, From Flanders; of ebon, and wildly carved All over with things: a sinister crest, And evil faces, distorted and starved; Fast-locked with a spring, which they forced and, lo! When they opened it--Death, like a lady dressed, Grinned up at their terror!--but no, not so! A skeleton, jeweled and laced, and wreathed With flowers of dust; and a miniver Around it clasped, that the ruin sheathed Of a once rich raiment of silk and fur. I'd have given my life to hear him tell, The courtly Clifford, how this befell! He'd have known how it was: For, you see, in groping For the secret spring of that panel, hoping And fearing as nearer and nearer drew The search of retainers, why, out she blew The tell-tale taper; and, seeing this chest, Would hide her a minute in it, mayhap, Till the hurry had passed; but the death-lock, pressed By the lid's great weight, closed fast with a snap, Ere her heart was aware of the fiendish trap. The Water Witch See! the milk-white doe is wounded. He will follow as it bounds Through the woods. His horn has sounded. Echoing, for his men and hounds. But no answering bugle blew. He has lost his retinue For the shapely deer that bounded Past him when his bow he drew.