So pleased was I with what I'd seen him do, The trial of skill superfluous seemed; and so Was on the bare brink of announcing, when Out of the western heaven's deepening red,-- Like a white message dropped of scarlet lips,-- A wild dove clove the luminous winds and there, Upon that limb, a peaceful moment sat. Then I, "Thy rifle, Rudolf! pierce its head!" Cried pointing, "and chief-forester art thou!" Why did he falter with a face as strange And strained as terror's? did his soul divine What was to be, with tragic prescience?-- What a bad dream it all seems now!--Again I see him aim. Again I hear her cry, "My dove! O Rudolf, do not kill my dove!" And from the crowd, like some sweet dove herself, A fluttering whiteness, rushed our Ilsabe-- Too late! the rifle cracked.... The unhurt dove Rose, beating frightened wings--but Ilsabe!... My God! the sight!... fell smitten; sudden red, Sullying the whiteness of her bridal bodice, Showed where the ball had pierced her innocent heart. And Rudolf?--Ah, of him you still would know? --When he beheld this thing which he had done, Why, he went mad--I say--but others not. An hour he raved of how her life had paid For the unholy missiles he had used, And how his soul was three times lost and damned. I say that he went mad and fled forthwith Into the haunted Harz.--Some say, to die The prey of demons of the Dummburg ruin. I,--one of those less superstitious,--say, He in the Bodé--from that blackened rock,-- Whereon were found his hunting-cap and horn,-- The Devil's Dancing Place, did leap and die. THE MOATED MANSE I And now once more we stood within the walls Of that old manor near the riverside; Dead leaves lay rotting in its empty halls, And here and there the ivy could not hide The year-old scars, made by the Royalists' balls, Around the doorway, where so many died In that last effort to defend the stair, When Rupert, like a demon, entered there. II The basest Cavalier who e'er wore spurs Or drew a sword, I count him; with his grave Eyes 'neath his plumed hat like a wolf's whom curs Rouse, to their harm, within a forest cave; And hair like harvest; and a voice like verse For smoothness. Ay, a handsome man and--brave!-- Brave?--who would question it! yea! tho' 'tis true He warred with one weak woman and her few. III Lady Isolda of the Moated Manse, Whom here, that very noon, it happened me To meet near her old home. A single glance Showed me 'twas she. I marveled much to see How lovely still she was! as fair, perchance, As when Red Rupert thrust her brutally,-- Her long hair loosened,--down the shattered stair, And cast her, shrieking, 'mid his followers there. IV