In a note at the end of the volume I have given some extracts from the _Histoire de France_, edited by M. Ernest Lavisse, which show the principal events of her life. F. M. THE VIGIL OF BRUNHILD Brunhild, with worn face framed in withered hands, Sate in her wounded royalty; and seemed Like an old eagle, taken in the toils, And fallen from the wide extended sway Of her dominion, whence the eye looks down On mountains shrunk to nothing, and the sea Fretting in vain against its boundaries. She sate, with chin thrust forward, listening To the loud shouting and the ring of swords On shields, that sounded from the crowded hall; Where all her ancient bards were emulous In praise, now, of her foes who feasted there. Her humid cell was strown with rotten straw, A roost of owls, and haunt of bats; the wind Blew the cold rain in, and made tremulous The smoking flame, on which her eyes were set; Her raiment was all torn, and stained with blood; Her hair had fallen, and she heeded not: She was alone and friendless, but her eyes Held something kingly that could outfrown Fate. Gray, haggard, wan, and yet with dignity, Which had been beauty once, and now was age, She sate in that foul cellar, as one sits To whom life owes no further injury, Whom no hopes cheat, and no despairs make pale; Though in her heart, and on her rigid face, Despair was throned in gaunt magnificence. A sound disturbed her thought; she turned her head, Waiting, while a strong hand unbarred the door, With hatred burning in her tearless eyes, Ready to front her foes. The huge door gave Creaking, unwillingly, to close again Behind a priest, whose melancholy eyes Were dropped before the anger of her own. “A priest!” she cried; “they send to me a priest! Mocking me, that my hand first helped these priests Till a priest’s hand was strong to strike me down.” He bent before her, swayed by grief and shame; Then spoke: “Brunhild, they sent me not to thee; But I came willingly, nor feared their wrath. Arnulf and Pippin feast their warriors In the high-raftered hall, and cheer the bards, Who sing of how they smote thee: so I crept Forth from the tumult. At the height of noon To-morrow they will tie thee to a horse That never has known bridle, to be dragged Over the stony ways till thou art dead; And I am come to shrive thee”: and he stayed His tongue; but sorrow filled his frightened eyes. “Go from me,” then she said; “thou knowest how My life has been as angry as a flame, Consumed with its own passions. Go from me: Thou couldst not bear the weight of all my sins. Yea, go. I will not call upon thy God; He is too far from me: could I again Have my old strength and beauty, I should waste