Broken hints of their sojourn and absence, Comfortless, vague, and slight,-- Like feathers wafted backwards From passage birds in flight.[4] The tale of a drunken sailor, In whose ship they went to sea; A traveller's evening story At a village hostelry, Of certain comrades sent him By our Lady, of her grace, To save his life from robbers In a lonely desert place; Word from the monks of a convent Of gentle comrades that lay One stormy night at their convent, And passed with the storm at day; The long parley of a peasant That sold them wine and food, The gossip of a shepherd That guided them through a wood; A boatman's talk at the ferry Of a river where they crossed, And as if they had sunk in the current All trace of them was lost; And so is an end of tidings But never an end of tears, Of secret and friendless sorrow Through blank and silent years. V. To the Marchioness in her chamber Sends word a messenger, Newly come from the land of Naples, Praying for speech with her. The messenger stands before her, A minstrel slender and wan: "In a village of my country Lies a Mantuan gentleman, "Sick of a smouldering fever, Of sorrow and poverty; And no one in all that country Knows his title or degree. "But six true Mantuan peasants, Or nobles, as some men say, Watch by the sick man's bedside, And toil for him, night and day, "Hewing, digging, reaping, sowing, Bearing burdens, and far and nigh Begging for him on the highway Of the strangers that pass by; "And they look whenever you meet them Like broken-hearted men, And I heard that the sick man would not If he could, be well again; "For they say that he for love's sake Was gladly banished, But she for whom he was banished Is worse to him, now, than dead,-- "A recreant to his sorrow, A traitress to his woe." From her place the Marchioness rises, The minstrel turns to go. But fast by the hand she takes him,-- His hand in her clasp is cold,-- "If gold may be thy guerdon Thou shalt not lack for gold; "And if the love of a mother Can bless thee for that thou hast done, Thou shalt stay and be his brother, Thou shalt stay and be my son." "Nay, my lady," answered the minstrel, And his face is deadly pale, "Nay, this must not be, sweet lady, But let my words prevail. "Let me go now from your presence, And I will come again, When you stand with your son beside you, And be your servant then." VI. At the feet of the Marquis Gonzaga Kneels his lady on the floor; "Lord, grant me before I ask it The thing that I implore." "So it be not of that ingrate."-- "Nay, lord, it is of him." 'Neath the stormy brows of the Marquis His eyes are tender and dim.