O'er his heart The long blade paused and--then descended hard. Unfleshed, she flung it by her murdered lord, And watched the blood spread darkly through the sheet, And drip, a horror, at impassive feet Pooling the polished oak. Regretless she Stood, and relentless; in her ecstasy A lovely devil: demon crowned, that cried For Accolon, with passion that defied Control in all her senses; clamorous as A torrent in a cavernous mountain pass That sweeps to wreck and ruin; at that hour So swept her longing tow'rds her paramour. Him whom, King Arthur had commanded when Borne from the lists, she should receive again; Her lover, her dear Accolon, as was just, As was but due her for her love--and lust. And while she stood revolving if her deed's Secret were safe, behold! a noise of steeds, Arms, jingling stirrups, voices loud that cursed Fierce in the northern court. To her, athirst For him her lover, war and power it spoke, Him victor and so king. And then awoke Desire to see and greet him: and she fled, Like some wild spectre, down the stairs; and, red, Burst on a glare of links and glittering mail, That shrunk her eyes and made her senses quail. To her a bulk of iron, bearded fierce, Down from a steaming steed into her ears, "This from the King, O Queen!" laughed harsh and hoarse: Two henchmen beckoned, who pitched sheer, with force, Loud clanging at her feet, hacked, hewn, and red, Crusted with blood, a knight in armor--dead: Her Accolon, flung in his battered arms By what to her seemed fiends and demon forms, Wild-torched, who mocked; then, with the parting scoff, "This from the King!" phantoms in fog, rode off. * * * * *