THE GATE OF THE SANCTUARY. 
75 
I, his best sword, must fall, in earnest fight. 
The old despair was coward—he was right. 
Now, king, I pay your debt.  A purple stain 
Hides his laced throat—I sober at the sight. 
 
“ King, you are touched ! ”  “ Fight on, Earl Lecherer ! ” 
I cursed him to his face—the added spur 
Sticks venom in my lunge—a sudden thrust ! 
No cry, no gasp ;  but he is in the dust, 
Stark dead.  The queen—I hate the name of her ! 
So grew the mustard-seed, one moment’s lust. 
 
I too was wounded :  shameful runs the song. 
She nursed me through that melancholy long 
Month of despair :  she won my life from death. 
Ah God !  she won that most reluctant breath 
Out of corruption :  love !  ah !  love is strong ! 
What waters quench it ?  King Shalomeh saith. 
 
I am the king :  you know it, friend !  We wed. 
That is the tale of how my wooing sped. 
And oh !  the quest :  half won—incredible ? 
I am so brave, and pure—folk love me well. 
But oh !  my life, my being !  That is dead, 
And my whole soul—a whirlwind out of hell !