I came to reap their harvests with my sword; And hate to me was sweeter far than love. O priest, was that hate sin?” He answered not At once; but met her gaze with level eyes, Then answered: “Brunhild, thou must ask thy soul.” Perhaps she sought there, but no answer breathed Her unmoved lips, close shut with a strange smile; Then with a gesture, grave, magnificent, She spoke again: “What fools have done to me, Or enemies have planned; what shames and wounds Arnulf and Pippin keep for me, or gave: All that I do forgive. But answer, priest: I, who wrought wisely through long weary years To build a kingdom, where was turbulence, And mould a civil state out of this strife, Come at the last unto a shameful death; While Fredegonde, who wrought for her own lust, Died peacefully: has God been just to us? Bow not thy head; bear with my bitterness: Though God desert me in mine hour of need, Yet shall I carry a firm heart to death; Nor blame him, nor blame other than myself, Who never trusted other. These six years Of waiting over, Fredegonde and I Began our war; she, breaking out of bounds, And ravaging some parts of Aquitaine, Till some barbarians from Germany Came at the call of Sigebert, and slew And pillaged all the people up to Chartres, Turning aside to waste and burn the crops, Ploughing the fertile land with war, until Triumphant trumpets, through the startled night Carried our menaces, upon the wind, To Paris, safe among its flooded fields Of reeds, and purple irises, and gold Marsh-mallows, splendid in the light of noon. “Three years our storm of vengeance shook the land Ere Paris fell, and Sigebert in pomp Rode through the gateways, proudly triumphing, And bade me with our children follow him. Hilperik fled to Tournai; and his host Melted as snow in our sweet summer time. How like a bride I felt again that day! My little son beside me on his horse, Carrying high that royal head of his That the sun made more golden, smiled to see Crowding about us all my husband’s men, Who shouted as a welcome in mine ears: ‘Is Galswith now avenged? Have we done well?’ And the cry rippled on through all the ranks While I smiled gladly on them; but my heart Tormented me that Hilperik was fled, And Fredegonde in sanctuary safe, The church of God’s own mother sheltering her. “How thick the people pressed to gaze on me With sullen brows, or angry, wondering! Till suddenly a voice cried musical— _Lo, what a pearl Spain gave unto the world!_ Then, turning at the well-remembered words, I saw, above the shifting, changing crowd, The poet Fortunatus wave to me From a high window, and his maddened eyes, Before the bending street hid him again. “There is a doom on poets; their fond thought