They were my balsam: for, ere autumn came, Weak still, but over eager to be gone, I took my leave of him. A little lame From that hip-wound, and somewhat thin and wan, I sought the village. Here I heard her name And shame's made one. How Rupert passed one dawn, And she among his troopers rode--astride Like any man--pale-faced and feverish-eyed.
Which way these took they pointed, and I went Like fire after. Oh, the thought was good That they were on before! And much it meant To know she lived still; she, whose image stood Ever before me, making turbulent Each heart-beat with her wrongs, that were fierce food Unto my hate that, "Courage!" cried, "Rest not! Think of her there, and let thy haste be hot!"
But months passed by and still I had not found: Yet here and there, as wearily I sought, I caught some news: how he had held his ground Against the Roundhead troops; or how he'd fought Then fled, returned and conquered. Like a hound, Questing a boar, I followed; but was brought Never to see my quarry. Day by day It seemed that Satan kept him from my way.
A woman rode beside him, so they said, A fair-faced wanton, mounted like a man-- Isolda!--my Isolda!--better dead, Yea, dead and damned! than thus the courtesan, Bold, unreluctant, of such men! A dread, That such should be, unmanned me. Doubt began To whisper at my heart.--But I was mad, To insult her with such thoughts, whose love I had.
At last one day I rested in a glade Near that same woodland which I lay in when Sore wounded; and, while sitting in the shade Of an old beech--what! did I dream, or men Like Rupert's own ride near me? and a maid-- Isolda or her spirit!--Wildly then I rose and, shouting, leapt upon my horse; Unsheathed my sword and rode across their course.
Mainly I looked for Rupert, and by name Challenged him forth:--"Dog! dost thou hide behind?-- Insulter of women! Coward! save where shame And rapine call thee! God at last is kind, And my sword waits!"--Like an upbeating flame, My voice rose to a windy shout; and blind I seemed to sit, till, with an outstretched hand, Isolda rode before me from that band.
"Gerald!" she cried; not as a heart surprised With gladness that the loved, deemed dead, still lives; But like the heart that long hath realized Only misfortune and to fortune gives No confidence, though it be recognized As good. She spoke: "Lo, we are fugitives. Rupert is slain. And I am going home." Then like a child asked simply, "Wilt thou come?...