Fell on it, and that moment the strong stay, Which held her from the instinct of her wrong, Broke, and therewith the whole device gave way, The grand ideal she had watched so long: As if a tower should fall, and on the plain Only a scathed and broken pile remain. But in its stead she would not measure yet The counter-chance, nor deem this sole attaint Made the Prince less than one in whom ’twas set To prove him man. “I held him as a saint,” She thought, “no other:—of all men alone My blameless one! Too high my faith had flown: “So be it!” With a sudden bitter scorn She said: “You were his plaything, then! the food Wherewith he dulled what appetite is born, Of the gross kind, in men. His nobler mood You knew not! How, shall I,—the fountain life Of yonder children,—his embosomed wife “Through all these years,—shall I, his Queen, for this Sin-smitten harlot’s gage of an hour’s shame, Misdoubt him?”—“Yes, I was his harlot,—yes, God help me! and had worn the loathly name Before the world, to have him in that guise!” “Thou strumpet! wilt thou have me of his prize “Rob Satan?” cried the Queen, and one step moved. “Queen, if you loved him, save me from your bane, As something that was dear to him you loved!” Then from beneath her serge she took the chain Which, long ago in that lone wood, the Prince Hung round her,—she had never loosed it since,— And gave therewith the face which, in its years Of youthful, sunniest grace, a limner drew; And unsigned letters, darkened with her tears, Writ in the hand that hapless sovereign knew Too well;—then told the whole, strange, secret tale, As if with Heaven that penance could avail, Or with the Queen, who heard as idols list The mad priest’s cry, nor changed her place nor moaned, But, clutching those mute tokens of each tryst, Hid them about her. But the other groaned: “The picture,—let me see it ere I die,— Then take them all! once, only!”—At that cry The Queen strode forward with an awful stride, And seized the dying one, and bore her down, And rose her height, and said, “Thou shouldst have died Ere telling this, nor I have worn a crown To hear it told. I am of God accurst! Of all his hated, may he smite thee first!” With that wild speech she fled, nor looked behind, Hasting to get her from that fearful room, Past the meek nuns in wait. These did not find The sick one’s eyes—yet staring through the gloom, While her hands fumbled at her heart, and Death Made her limbs quake, and combated her breath— More dreadful than the Queen’s look, as she thence Made through the court, and reached her own array She knew not how, and clamored, “Bear me hence!” And, even as her chariot moved away, High o’er the Abbey heard the minster toll Its doleful bell, as for a passing soul.