FullReads

XIV.

AFTER SUPPER.

But now the potion proved its subtle power,
And Mahaud’s heavy eyelids ‘gan to lower.
Zeno, with finger on his lip, looked on–
Her head next drooped, and consciousness was gone.
Smiling she slept, serene and very fair,
He took her hand, which fell all unaware.

“She sleeps,” said Zeno, “now let chance or fate
Decide for us which has the marquisate,
And which the girl.”

Upon their faces now
A hungry tiger’s look began to show.
“My brother, let us speak like men of sense,”
Said Joss; “while Mahaud dreams in innocence,
We grasp all here–and hold the foolish thing–
Our Friend below to us success will bring.
He keeps his word; ’tis thanks to him I say,
No awkward chance has marred our plans to-day.
All has succeeded–now no human power
Can take from us this woman and her dower.
Let us conclude. To wrangle and to fight
For just a yes or no, or to prove right
The Arian doctrines, all the time the Pope
Laughs in his sleeve at you–or with the hope
Some blue-eyed damsel with a tender skin
And milkwhite dainty hands by force to win–
This might be well in days when men bore loss
And fought for Latin or Byzantine Cross;
When Jack and Rudolf did like fools contend,
And for a simple wench their valor spend–
When Pepin held a synod at Leptine,
And times than now were much less wise and fine.
We do no longer heap up quarrels thus,
But better know how projects to discuss.
Have you the needful dice?”

“Yes, here they wait
For us.”

“Who wins shall have the Marquisate;
Loser, the girl.”

“Agreed.”

“A noise I hear?”
“Only the wind that sounds like some one near–
Are you afraid?” said Zeno.

“Naught I fear
Save fasting–and that solid earth should gape.
Let’s throw and fate decide–ere time escape.”
Then rolled the dice.

“‘Tis four.”

‘Twas Joss to throw.
“Six!–and I neatly win, you see; and lo!
At bottom of this box I’ve found Lusace,
And henceforth my orchestra will have place;
To it they’ll dance. Taxes I’ll raise, and they
In dread of rope and forfeit well will pay;
Brass trumpet-calls shall be my flutes that lead,
Where gibbets rise the imposts grow and spread.”

Said Zeno, “I’ve the girl and so is best,”
“She’s beautiful,” said Joss.

“Yes, ’tis confess’d.”
“What shall you do with her?” asked Joss.

“I know.
Make her a corpse,” said Zeno; “marked you how
The jade insulted me just now! Too small
She called me–such the words her lips let fall.
I say, that moment ere the dice I threw
Had yawning Hell cried out, ‘My son, for you
The chance is open still: take in a heap
The fair Lusace’s seven towns, and reap
The corn, and wine, and oil of counties ten,
With all their people diligent, and then
Bohemia with its silver mines, and now
The lofty land whence mighty rivers flow
And not a brook returns; add to these counts
The Tyrol with its lovely azure mounts
And France with her historic fleurs-de-lis;
Come now, decide, what ’tis your choice must be?’
I should have answered, ‘Vengeance! give to me
Rather than France, Bohemia, or the fair
Blue Tyrol, I my choice, O Hell! declare
For government of darkness and of death,
Of grave and worms.’ Brother, this woman hath
As marchioness with absurdity set forth
To rule o’er frontier bulwarks of the north.
In any case to us a danger she,
And having stupidly insulted me
‘Tis needful that she die. To blurt all out–
I know that you desire her; without doubt
The flame that rages in my heart warms yours;
To carry out these subtle plans of ours,
We have become as gypsies near this doll,
You as her page–I dotard to control–
Pretended gallants changed to lovers now.
So, brother, this being fact for us to know
Sooner or later, ‘gainst our best intent
About her we should quarrel. Evident
Is it our compact would be broken through.
There is one only thing for us to do,
And that is, kill her.”