And the shy horses restive grew with fright When a wolf howled, and fear pursued our feet. Quietly rode we down the dusky ways; Till Merow paused and listened, and we heard Behind us, muffled, or ringing on the stones, The beat of many hoofs. Ah! then we rode With the keen sense of danger that is joy, Galloping down the steep and stony path, Abreast, where a false step would ruin all, As if we played a game of chance with Fate; And Merow smiled at me and I at him. “Soon the woods thinned where many trees lay felled, And slopes of pasture rolled toward the Loire, Enchanted with the moonlight; and we saw, Black on the silver sky, the new-built tower Of Tours unfinished, with its beacon fire. But ever closer drew our enemies, Till, on the level road toward the ford, Merow and I gave our brave horses rein And heard grow fainter the hoarse threats of those Hired murderers, and won the goal at last, Secure for night with wise old Gregory. “Long after matins, in the carven choir, Sweet with the scent of cedar, and the breath Of incense lingering like a ghost of prayer, Came Gregory, and spoke reproving me: ‘Brunhild, I know not whether temperate The heart of woman ever is, but thine Is all too quick, too passionate, untamed, Too rash in the pursuit of its desire, Too heedless of the motion of thy friends. Fredegonde feared and hated thee, but force Constrained her unto patience for a time: Since Gondovald had threatened her with war If she should harm thee, and her forces were Disheartened, and the land weighed down with dearth, Threatening famine if the harvest fail. She saw her throne secure and ’stablished firm As a sure heritage for her own son, Contemptuous of Merow, whose light heart, Unversed in intricate state subtilty, Was pleasured most in roaming through the woods, Or in an idle courtly dalliance With lute-players and poets of his train; Yet did she not intend that he should live Longer than those ephemeral, fair things, To whom the warmth of one delightful day, And fragrance of the flowers, are all life: When the time came she would be as a hawk To rend the singing-bird she so despised. Thou shouldst have fled alone to Gondovald, And Merow, then, have followed thee by stealth; But now the way is lost: thy passions ride Full-armoured through restraint, though careful hands And cunning might have lifted up the nets. Thy flight with Merow fans into a flame Passions of fear, dynastic jealousies. Merow alone were nothing, but with thee He is a danger in her path, a sword To be encountered ere Lothair may sit Throned above France.’ I rose and answered him: “‘I have been blinded by the tears of Love, Lulled into heavy slumber with his wine, Till life slipped by me, fugitive as dreams,