At the door the old negress was nodding her head
As he reach'd it. "My mistress awaits you," she said.
And up the rude stairway of creeking pine rafter
He follow'd her silent. A few moments after,
His heart almost stunned him, his head seem'd to reel,
For a door closed--Luvois was alone with Lucile.
IV.
In a gray travelling dress, her dark hair unconfined
Streaming o'er it, and tossed now and then by the wind
From the lattice, that waved the dull flame in a spire
From a brass lamp before her--a faint hectic fire
On her cheek, to her eyes lent the lustre of fever:
They seem'd to have wept themselves wider than ever,
Those dark eyes--so dark and so deep!
"You relent?
And your plans have been changed by the letter I sent?"
There his voice sank, borne down by a strong inward strife.
LUCILE.
Your letter! yes, Duke. For it threaten'd man's life--
Woman's honor.
Luvois.
The last, madam, NOT?
LUCILE.
Both. I glance
At your own words; blush, son of the knighthood of France,
As I read them! You say, in this letter . . .
"I know
Why now you refuse me: 'tis (is it not so?)
For the man who has trifled before, wantonly,
And now trifles again with the heart you deny
To myself. But he shall not! By man's last wild law,
I will seize on the right (the right, Duc de Luvois!)
To avenge for you, woman, the past, and to give
To the future its freedom.
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