Arab custom; but both the caïd and Vertbois, after examining it carefully, exclaimed, 'It is useless.' It was an hour before she recovered her senses; and then she looked at us with a sort of vacant stare, her beautiful black eyes being covered with a kind of film. Ya, habibi!' she said, seizing my hand. 'O my friend, I am killed.' She made a second effort to make herself heard, and exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, 'He has killed me.' 'Yes,' said Vertbois, taking me on one side, he has killed her, and he intended to kill her. She was his wife. Every one says so here, and we should have known it before if we had taken the trouble to make inquiries. He murdered her first husband in order to be able to marry her, and she left him when she discovered that he was an assassin.' It was six o'clock when the fête was brought to this tragic end. As soon as it was dusk the diffa was served, after which there was dancing, a youth taking the place of Aïchouna. The horsemen returned to the camp between eleven and twelve o'clock at night, but without Ben-Arif, who had succeeded in escaping to the mountains. We visited the tent for the last time at four o'clock in the morning, while the stillness of death reigned over everything. The end of a candle was shedding forth its last rays and spreading a dim light in the interior. Aïchouna was asleep. Assra, worn out with fatigue, with her hair in disorder and her face disfigured with scratches, was crouched on the ground at her mistress's feet. Haoûa was dead. Her arms were stiff, her head was turned a little on one side, and her eyelids were closed in an everlasting sleep. Her forehead was covered with a bandage, and she wore a long string of flowers round her neck similar to the one she had given me the first time I visited her. We took a last look at her from the entrance to the tent, and then, mounting our horses, turned sadly towards home. I. SIR RUPERT An Essex Legend 'TWAS all in the leafy month o' June, Rode many a gallant youth in his train, Both proper young knights and tall, But Rupert de Vere of Hedingham Tower Was the knightliest of them all. O, black as the sloe were his laughing eyes, His teeth they were like to pearls, And his plumèd hat was saucily set O'er his bonnie bright raven curls. His hawking suit was of Lincoln green, Bedizen'd like to the spring, And he strode a milk-white charger rare, Was the gift of Harry the King. Of Harry the King at Agincourt, On good St. Crispin his day, When Rupert he won his knightly spurs In the thick o' the bloodsome fray. For Rupert hath foughten in many a He is known in chivalrie; [fight, In the tiltyard gay, or the tented field, Are few more fear'd than he. [now, But 'tis peace in our Merrie England From beautiful flower to flower. And 'tis whisper'd there's many a fair young maid Rueth the luckless day [mood, When he won her heart in an idlesse Then laughingly turn'd away. His days are spent in sport, and his In ribald and reckless cheer; [nights There are people who cross themselves and sigh At the name of Rupert de Vere. And so it comes in the leafy June, When the wild white roses blow, Sir Rupert rides out in the merrie greenA-hawking he would goe. [wood: And he dreamily thinks 'twere pleasant When he sees in his path a maiden fair Her startled eyes are soft as the fawn's, The rose and the lily softly blend She has gather'd a posy o' wild flowers sweet, Where the roses and violets blow, But the sweetest flower in the wood toIs her bonnie self, I trow. [day 'Now where are you going to, my pretty maid? Now what is your name, I pray? Are you queen o' the fairies or woodland sprite?' Sir Rupert he question'd gay. 'No queen o' the fairies am I, Sir Knight, 'Hast ever a sweetheart, Mabel fair? Ah! you blush and you shake your head. Why, where are the rustics' hearts and Sir Rupert he laughing said. [eyes?' 'Let me be your sweetheart, Mabel May! 'Twere pleasant, I trow, for both : One dainty kiss from these rosy lips Be the pledge of our plighted troth.' 'Nay, touch me not, Sir Knight !' she said; 'Nay, touch me not, I pray! Our Lady forbid that a simple maid Should trifle with gallants gay. Go back to your true love, Mistress Grace, Your high-born lover and dear : My kisses I keep for homelier lips Than those of Rupert de Vere !' Sir Rupert he bit his lip and he frown'd: 'Grace Hawkwood is naught to me; Though I walk and whisper with her at 'Tis only in courtesie. [times, Full many a bonnie young maid I've seen Whose beauty was passing rare, But I swear by my knighthood, Mabel May, You are fairest of all the fair! Love levels all ranks, sweet Mabel May, And if ever I marry a maid in my life Then wear this ring for your own sweet sake, And give me a rose for mine; The wild white rose you have in your hand, For a lover's token and sign!' 'Nay, keep your ring, Sir Rupert,' she said; 'Such tokens are not for me, But gin you care for a wild white rose, Here is one I will give to thee. But little care I for their monkish As my lordly father knows: [rhymes, Come Yorkist, or devil, or what you will, Here's "Hey for the bonnie white rose!" He mounts his steed, and his hand he waves To that simple maiden dear. Ah, Mabel May, 'twas a luckless day You met with Rupert de Vere. III. Mabel May, the forester's child, Few mote with her compare. The light and the joy of her father's heart, Her mother's darling and stay, Never was sweeter or daintier lass Than bonnie Mabel May. All gave her pleasant greeting, and fair The foresters blythe and brown; The abbey monks, and the trades folk kind Who lived in Hedingham town. And the black-veil'd Benedictine nuns, In their convent old and gray, Had ever a kindly word and smile For their little Mabel May. For this fresh, sweet, innocent, hopeful girl, With her sunny smile and glance, Seem'd to flush into their faded lives A touch of their old romance : The old romance of their early days When they'd dream of whisper and Vow, And life was as sunny and sweet to them As to bonnie Mabel now. But why is Mabel so pale of late? Why so silent and wistful grown? She carols no longer about the place, But sitteth brooding alone: Brooding over a secret rare Rich gift of our God above So new to her, yet old as the hills, Ever she thinks of a gay young knight, For Rupert has waited and watch'd forsooth, He has thrown himself in her way, And has vow'd that the only maid he Is bonnie Mabel May. [loves *The De Veres, Earls of Oxford, were conspicuous for their de otion to the Red-Rose party. THIRD SERIES, VOL. V. F.S. VOL. XXV. EE And she listens and loves, and loving believes, And longs for the happy hour When Mabel May, the forester's child, Shall be Lady of Hedingham Tower. For Rupert has pledged his knightly 'Lord Oxford is old and gray, [oath: And when he has pass'd to his rest, dear heart, There be none to say me nay. There be none who may dare to say me nay, When my father is laid to rest; Full many a baron and belted knight And, Mabel May, gin I play you false, But keep our secret a while, sweetheart, Or my father will part you, Mabel mine, And Mabel she keeps the secret well; Of her fresh young innocent heart. They meet by stealth in the summer woods Under the sun-touch'd boughs; And linger oft in the twilights sweet To whisper their tender vows. But Mabel is pale and wistful still; For it troubles her gentle mind To harbour a thought she may not tell To her mother so leal and kind. And ever she longs for the happy time When her parents proud shall hear How Mabel May is to be the wife Of the gallant Rupert de Vere. IV. The summer days, with their radiant Little they think that her cheek is palud For a lover who comes no more. She shrinks from her mother's tender love With a boding, passionate dread; But sadly she thinks o' the innocent time, Till there comes a time when her brain, poor child, Reels in its sick despair; And the burden of all she is and was One morn they call'd and sought her in vain, With wondering faces and wild : Empty and smooth was the wee white bed Where she'd slept from a little child. They sought her here, and they sought her there, Weeping and anguish-tost; Swiftly there spread the sorrowful news How Mabel May was lost. They sought her here, and they sought her there, All day until near the dark, When some tiny children were gathering flowers By the pool in the Little Park, And O, sweet Jesu, merciful Lord, What a pitiful sight was there! Ghostly and dank in her watery shroud Was the face of Mabel May. V. There's feasting at Heron Hall, I wot, And in Hedingham Tower brave cheer; For bonnie Maud Tyrrel weds to-day With the gallant Rupert de Vere. There be joust and tourney at Heron Revel and feasting gay; [Hall, And the poorest hind in Horndon vill Shall be jolly and blythe to-day. Never was braver wedding train Than that glittering cavalcade, As it windeth its way to Horndon church By woodland thicket and glade; By woodland thicket and open glade, And many a sunny lawn, Where the daisies bloom and the wild birds sing, [goe As fitteth a marriage morn. There be knights and ladies many a score, Of lofty lineage and race; And barefoot monks, who sing as they A hymn of our Lady's grace. Page and yeoman and jester gay, And foresters frank and free, Trooper and bowman and village folk, A motley companie. They bear in her litter the dark-hair'd Maud, In her wedding robes bedight; And there tends her a bevy of bridesmaids fair, Apparell'd in virgin white. And there rideth with Rupert threescore friends, Both proper young knights and tall; But Rupert de Vere of Hedingham Tower Is the knightliest of them all. His wedding suit is of cloth-of-gold, Bedizen'd like to the spring; And he rides his milk-white charger rare, Was the gift of Harry the King. O, black as the sloe are his merry eyes, And his laugh it is loud and clear; Never was blyther or bonnier groom Than the gallant Rupert de Vere. VI. Before the high altar in Horndon church Of knights and of ladyes fair; Sir Rupert has taken her hand, to place His face is blanch'd to a deathly white, Are an awesome sight to see. 'O, why is her hand so wet and cold? O, why does she clutch me so? See, her hair is changed to a golden brown, Was now as black as the sloe ! To a golden brown, all dripping and dank. Look, she beckons me hence away! And her face-O Heaven, that deadwhite face Is the face of Mabel May!' They gather about him with wond'ring looks, And hearts that quiver for fear: 'Sir Rupert, your brain must be distraught, There is no Mabel here. Here's only your true love, Mistress Maud, [sore; Whom you've frighted and startled Then take you her hand again, dear heart, And all will be well once more.' 'Nay, keep her from me!' Sir Rupert he cries; 'O, her eyes are stony and fell! And there's that in her dank and deathly clasp Would drag me down to hell! O God, was it true, our olden rhyme : "Beware, De Vere, the love That would plant the white where the red should be, And the eagle beside the dove"? What would you here? In the name of God, What would you, Mabel May? Hark! she speaks! What horrible Are these I hear her say? [words "Mabel May, gin I play you false, Be ruin and death my dole; If ever I marry a maid but you, May I perish body and soul !" My own words! God, how I gasp! reel! See, she beckons me stern and dumb And those horrible eyes are drawing me Mabel, I come! I come!' [on: He staggers forward a little space, Ah, well may she moan and wail! For when his brothers have lifted his head, With faces that blanch for fear, A weeping figure in ghostly white EDWIN COLLER. |