The Duke had observed it, nor quitted her side, For even one moment, the whole of the ride.
Alfred smiled, as he thought, "he is jealous of her!"
And the thought of this jealousy added a spur To his firm resolution and effort to please.
He talk'd much; was witty, and quite at his ease.
X.
After noontide, the clouds, which had traversed the east Half the day, gather'd closer, and rose and increased.
The air changed and chill'd. As though out of the ground, There ran up the trees a confused hissing sound, And the wind rose. The guides sniff'd, like chamois, the air, And look'd at each other, and halted, and there Unbuckled the cloaks from the saddles. The white Aspens rustled, and turn'd up their frail leaves in fright.
All announced the approach of the tempest.
Erelong, Thick darkness descended the mountains among, And a vivid, vindictive, and serpentine flash Gored the darkness, and shore it across with a gash.
The rain fell in large heavy drops. And anon Broke the thunder.
The horses took fright, every one.
The Duke's in a moment was far out of sight.
The guides whoop'd. The band was obliged to alight;
And, dispersed up the perilous pathway, walk'd blind To the darkness before from the darkness behind.
XI.
And the Storm is abroad in the mountains!
He fills The crouch'd hollows and all the oracular hills With dread voices of power. A roused million or more Of wild echoes reluctantly rise from their hoar Immemorial ambush, and roll in the wake Of the cloud, whose reflection leaves vivid the lake.
And the wind, that wild robber, for plunder descends From invisible lands, o'er those black mountain ends;
He howls as he hounds down his prey; and his lash Tears the hair of the timorous wan mountain-ash, That clings to the rocks, with her garments all torn, Like a woman in fear; then he blows his hoarse horn And is off, the fierce guide of destruction and terror, Up the desolate heights, 'mid an intricate error Of mountain and mist.
XII.
There is war in the skies!
Lo! the black-winged legions of tempest arise O'er those sharp splinter'd rocks that are gleaming below In the soft light, so fair and so fatal, as though Some seraph burn'd through them, the thunderbolt searching Which the black cloud unbosom'd just now. Lo! the lurching And shivering pine-trees, like phantoms, that seem To waver above, in the dark; and yon stream, How it hurries and roars, on its way to the white And paralyzed lake there, appall'd at the sight of the things seen in heaven!
XIII.
Through the darkness and awe That had gather'd around him, Lord Alfred now saw, Reveal'd in the fierce and evanishing glare Of the lightning that momently pulsed through the air A woman alone on a shelf of the hill, With her cheek coldly propp'd on her hand,--and as still As the rock that she sat on, which beetled above The black lake beneath her.
All terror, all love Added speed to the instinct with which he rush'd on.
For one moment the blue lightning swathed the whole stone In its lurid embrace: like the sleek dazzling snake That encircles a sorceress, charm'd for her sake And lull'd by her loveliness; fawning, it play'd And caressingly twined round the feet and the head Of the woman who sat there, undaunted and calm As the soul of that solitude, listing the psalm Of the plangent and laboring tempests roll slow From the caldron of midnight and vapor below.
Next moment from bastion to bastion, all round, Of the siege-circled mountains, there tumbled the sound Of the battering thunder's indefinite peal, And Lord Alfred had sprung to the feet of Lucile.
XIV.
She started. Once more, with its flickering wand, The lightning approach'd her. In terror, her hand Alfred Vargrave had seized within his; and he felt The light fingers, that coldly and lingeringly dwelt In the grasp of his own, tremble faintly.
"See! see!
Where the whirlwind hath stricken and strangled yon tree!"
She exclaim'd, . . . "like the passion that brings on its breath, To the being it embraces, destruction and death!
Alfred Vargrave, the lightning is round you!"
"Lucile!
I hear--I see--naught but yourself. I can feel Nothing here but your presence. My pride fights in vain With the truth that leaps from me. We two meet again 'Neath yon terrible heaven that is watching above To avenge if I lie when I swear that I love,--
And beneath yonder terrible heaven, at your feet, I humble my head and my heart. I entreat Your pardon, Lucile, for the past--I implore For the future your mercy--implore it with more Of passion than prayer ever breathed. By the power Which invisibly touches us both in this hour, By the rights I have o'er you, Lucile, I demand--"
"The rights!" . . . said Lucile, and drew from him her hand.
"Yes, the rights! for what greater to man may belong Than the right to repair in the future the wrong To the past? and the wrong I have done you, of yore, Hath bequeath'd to me all the sad right to restore, To retrieve, to amend! I, who injured your life, Urge the right to repair it, Lucile! Be my wife, My guide, my good angel, my all upon earth, And accept, for the sake of what yet may give worth To my life, its contrition!"
XV.
He paused, for there came O'er the cheek of Lucile a swift flush like the flame That illumined at moments the darkness o'erhead.
With a voice faint and marr'd by emotion, she said, "And your pledge to another?"
XVI.
"Hush, hush!" he exclaim'd, "My honor will live where my love lives, unshamed.
'Twere poor honor indeed, to another to give That life of which YOU keep the heart. Could I live In the light of those young eyes, suppressing a lie?
Alas, no! YOUR hand holds my whole destiny.
I can never recall what my lips have avow'd;
In your love lies whatever can render me proud.
For the great crime of all my existence hath been To have known you in vain. And the duty best seen, And most hallow'd--the duty most sacred and sweet, Is that which hath led me, Lucile, to your feet.
O speak! and restore me the blessing I lost When I lost you--my pearl of all pearls beyond cost!
