She laid her hand upon her brow, Then gazed upon the palm, as though She thought her forehead bled, and: No! She said, and turn'd her head away, As there were nothing else to say, And everything were settled: red Grew Godmar's face from chin to head: Jehane, on yonder hill there stands My castle, guarding well my lands; What hinders me from taking you, And doing that I list to do To your fair wilful body, while Your knight lies dead? A wicked smile Wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin, A long way out she thrust her chin: You know that I should strangle you While you were sleeping; or bite through Your throat, by God's help: ah! she said, Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid! For in such wise they hem me in, I cannot choose but sin and sin, Whatever happens: yet I think They could not make me eat or drink, And so should I just reach my rest. Nay, if you do not my behest, O Jehane! though I love you well, Said Godmar, would I fail to tell All that I know? Foul lies, she said. Eh? lies, my Jehane? by God's head, At Paris folks would deem them true! Do you know, Jehane, they cry for you: Jehane the brown! Jehane the brown! Give us Jehane to burn or drown! Eh! gag me Robert! Sweet my friend, This were indeed a piteous end For those long fingers, and long feet, And long neck, and smooth shoulders sweet; An end that few men would forget That saw it. So, an hour yet: Consider, Jehane, which to take Of life or death! So, scarce awake, Dismounting, did she leave that place, And totter some yards: with her face Turn'd upward to the sky she lay, Her head on a wet heap of hay, And fell asleep: and while she slept, And did not dream, the minutes crept Round to the twelve again; but she, Being waked at last, sigh'd quietly, And strangely childlike came, and said: I will not. Straightway Godmar's head, As though it hung on strong wires, turn'd Most sharply round, and his face burn'd. For Robert, both his eyes were dry, He could not weep, but gloomily He seem'd to watch the rain; yea, too, His lips were firm; he tried once more To touch her lips; she reached out, sore And vain desire so tortured them, The poor grey lips, and now the hem Of his sleeve brush'd them.