To see me pass them; as I entered in I thought their frowns had faded. Then I took My way toward the room where Galswith died Suddenly, in that terror-stricken night, To tell her that her kingdom now was mine, If haply her pure spirit still might haunt That mildewed chamber, stained and sanctified By her own blood: but by the arras paused, And through my tears looked on the little room Where she had housed so meanly; and it was To me the temple of her shame and wrongs. Then that old lust for blood, unsatisfied, Dried up the gentle sources of my tears, And I turned back; nor thought to enter in While Hilperik still lived, or Fredegonde. Sleep fell upon mine eyes that night, as soft As snow in April on half-opened buds That usher in the many-coloured months, Unvext by dim anxieties and fears Of misadventures, which had troubled sleep These many nights; and Hildebert, my son, Slept the calm sleep of children by my side, His sweet, warm body nestled close to mine, Sharing the same enchanted realm of dreams. “Then seemed it as if rude and angry sounds Rippled our visions, as a pebble thrown In water blurs the cool reflections there, Till growing louder, more tumultuous, A rumour rose above the huddled roofs That clustered round the palace, shattering The crystal of our dreams, and then a voice Shouted to me: ‘Brunhild, awake and fly! For Sigebert is slain by treachery. Even as we raised him on the kingly shield, Fredegonde’s pages smote on either side With poisoned daggers: all our strength dissolves Into small companies of plunderers Laden with spoil, their horses homeward turned.’ “The harsh voice shuddered through the darkened room Ere torches came, and in their ruddy light I saw the angry eyes of Gondovald Blazing before me with their baffled hate. I trembled by the bed, but mine eyes too Mirrored the angry torches. ‘Take the boy,’ I said to him: ‘I should but hinder you; But leave me in the refuge of the church.’ There by the sleeping saints I sat and watched, Fearing the dawn. So all my work was hurled By ruinous chance to nothing in an hour.” “Brunhild, not chance it was, but punishment: The retribution followed on thy pride; And on thy lust, and hunger for revenge.” But Brunhild turned on him: “Would God destroy A nation newly wakened into life, Because of my one sin; and give the palm Of victory to Fredegonde, whose life Was sin in all its many changing forms? How poor and futile are the sophistries Of schools when one is drawing close to death, That lies before us, silent, shadowy, With veiled horizons and no guiding stars, A vast, unfathomable, empty sea, Broken by no white gleam of friendly sails, Untravelled, claiming all our company, More secret than our wisdom may explore;