XXXV.

Lo, in a crevice choked with ling

And fir, this man, not now the king,

This Sigismund, hath made a fire,

And by his wife in the dark night

He leans at watch, her guard and squire.

His wide eyes stare out for the light

Weary. He needs must chide on fate,

And she is asleep.‘ Poor brooding mate,

What! wilt thou on the mountain crest

Slippery and cold scoop thy first nest?

Or must I clear some uncouth cave

That laired the mother wolf, and save —

Spearing her cubs — the grey pelt fine

To be a bed for thee and thine?

It is my doing. Ay,’ quoth he,

‘ Mine; but who dares to pity thee

Shall pity, not for loss of all,

But that thou wert my wife perdie,

E'en wife unto a witch's thrall,—

A man beholden to the cold

Cloud for a covering, he being sold

And hunted for reward of gold.