This June makes babes of men; last night I deemed When thou hadst wished me peace as I passed forth A footfall pressed behind me soft and fast, And turning toward it I beheld nought: thee I saw, and Almachildes hard at hand Turned back toward thee: nought stranger: yet my heart Sprang, and sank back. I laughed against myself, That manhood should be girlish, when the heat Burns life half out within us. Even thine eyes, Like stars before the wind that brings the cloud, Look fainter. Ere they fill the banquet full And bid the guests about us where we sit, Tell me if aught be worse than well with thee. ROSAMUND. Nought. ALBOVINE. Wilt thou swear it, sweet? ROSAMUND. By what thou wilt— By God and man—by hell and earth and heaven. I know what ails thy loyal heart of love And binds thy tongue for fear to bid me know. The cup we drank of when we feasted last Tastes bitter on it yet. Thou wilt not bid me Pledge thee therein again. If I bid thee, Pledge me thou shalt—and seal thy pardon. ALBOVINE. Be not Too sweet for woman. ROSAMUND. Cross me not in this. ALBOVINE. Mine old fast friend Narsetes hath my word Plighted. All funeral reverence shall inter The royal relic, and all thought therewith Of strife between thy father’s child and me Or less than love and honour. ROSAMUND. Nay, my lord, Let the dead thing live as a lifelong sign Of perfect plight in love and union. This Were no dishonour done to fatherhood But honour shown to wedlock. Here is spread The feast, the bride-feast of my love and thine, Whereat the cup of death shall serve our lips To drink forgetfulness of all but love. Herein thou shalt not thwart me. ALBOVINE. God forbid. ROSAMUND. God hath forbidden: and God shall be obeyed. Bid thy Narsetes play the cup-bearer, And I will pour the wine: my hand shall fill The sacramental draught of love that seals Our eucharist of wedlock. ALBOVINE. Yea, I know To drink with thee is even to drink with God. Thou art good as any God was ever. ROSAMUND. Ay? We know not till we die. ALBOVINE. Thou art wise and true As ever maid was born of the oldworld north In the oldworld years of legend. Bid Narsetes Bring thee the chalice: thou shalt mix the draught Whence we will drink life, if true love be life, Even from the lipless mouth of bone that speaks Death. ROSAMUND.