Ruth in a whirl of thought Wondered, 'Are these things all a wicked wile Of Simon's to entrap us here? Does she, Drusilla, too, collude? Or does she know Nothing of all? Or, knowing, does she fear Felix, and therefore leave us helpless thus? How far may I abiding true to her Involve Drusilla in a plea to him?' She stood, not stirring at the servant's beck, And spoke in tones held clear and firm with will: "It is my daughter, sir, the errand has With dame Drusilla. She shall go to her, And as the custom is between us twain We will together go, for twain with us Is one. Dismiss us, then, I pray, to go." "Thou art hard-hearted, madam," Felix said; "One surely is enough to meet the dame Drusilla, and the other might solace me. I pay my lady's taste a compliment In myself choosing for my company, As seems she chose for hers, thy daughter fair Rather than thee; for, without prejudice To thine own comeliness, thy daughter is, Thou wilt confess it, madam, nay, with pride, A trifle fresher in her youthful bloom." Eunicé standing by her mother glowed With an indignant shame sublimely fair; It kindled up her beauty into flame Dreadful to see, had he who saw it been But capable of awe from virtue shown Lovelier with noble wrath; Felix admired Only more fiercely and was not afraid. A flash of movement instant changed the scene. Stephen, who, through the door left open, caught Felix's first ominous words of insolence, Had, winging his feet with his suspicious fears, Fled out into the open--whither, scarce thought-- Yet with instinctive wish that went to Paul. He chanced on Aristarchus walking nigh, In solitary muse, after his wont; Him, with such instance as spared needless words, He hurried forth to find and fetch back Paul. Returning he dashed swiftly through the court, Avoiding who perhaps with servile sloth Reluctant might have moved to stay him there, And through the door where his Eunicé was Defenceless in that ruthless robber's den. The youth's ear, quivering quick with jealous love, Snatched Felix's last words, his ravening eye Seized on the splendid vision of his bride Betrothed, gleaming there in her loveliness Illumined so with virtue and with shame Beside her mother, facing such a foe! His instinct was far swifter than his thought; Counting not odds, not deeming there was odds, He like an arrow from a bow that twanged Shot into place between his bride and him, That spoiler, and there stood. His face he turned Defiantly on Felix, lightning of scorn In sheafs of flashes shooting from his eyes, Distended his fine nostrils with disdain, His right arm raised in gesture to forefend, And his light frame a-quiver with repose Of purpose to dare all and to prevail.