VIII.

Last night he came to me,

His dark eyes grave and sweet —

( Eyes that I could not meet! )

To crave my pardon — mine!

With that kingly courtesy

Which makes his least deed fine.

What fiend took hold on me?

I would nor speak nor heed,

Tho’ he bent his pride to plead —

( He, all unused to sue! )

Though he sought full tenderly

For a pardon not his due.

Fool! to have played with fire —

Had I not full often heard

How when his wrath was stirred

It burst all bounds and leapt

Higher and ever higher

Like flames by the storm-wind swept?

Yet — tho’ his face was white

With a passion that shook his soul —

Not once did he waive control,

Tho’ his heart to its depths was stirred —

He leashed his wrath that night

Nor uttered one bitter word.

Pride held me stubbornly dumb,

Stilling what words I would say,

While I flung my heart's treasure away,

While I tampered with fire — to my cost;

Till I knew the ultimate end had come —

I had matched pride with love — and lost!