i went to my maiden who waited for me at the dew-ponds. there was a lamb to be killed. i cut it in two halves with my knife, and told her all my tale. she said, “it is the work of a god.” i laughed, but she pushed me away, and being on my blind side, ran off before i could kiss her. i went to the men of the sheepguard at watering-time. there was a sheep to be killed for their meat. i cut it in two halves with my knife, and told them all my tale. they said, "it is the work of a god." i said, "we talk too much about gods. let us eat and be happy, and tomorrow i will take you to the children of the night, and each man will find a magic knife. "
he excused himself from visiting on the ground of his occupations, his habits, and his health, which latter did not allow him, he said, to return at night along a road which led by the foggy banks of the thune.
these bold insinuations have been rebutted by no rebuke, no resentment, no chiding, scarce even by the usual female protestation that she would live and die a virgin princess. her words have been more courteous than ever, though she knows such rumours are abroad--her actions more gracious, her looks more kind--nought seems wanting to make me king of england, and place me beyond the storms of court-favour, excepting the putting forth of mine own hand to take that crown imperial which is the glory of the universe! and when i might stretch that hand out most boldly, it is fettered down by a secret and inextricable bond!
at last we turned back, and under the walls of some outbuildings i heard a smothered, wailing cry, so stifled that it was scarcely audible. the sound seemed to come from a place that might have been a granary. i went in at all risks, and there we found juliette. with the instinct of despair, she had buried herself deep in the hay, hiding her face in it to deaden those dreadful cries--pudency even stronger than grief. she was sobbing and crying like a child, but there was a more poignant, more piteous sound in the sobs. there was nothing left in the world for her.
daughters of calumny, i summon you!
you shall decide if this a portrait prove,
or fond creation of the muse and love. --
attend, ye virgin critics, shrewd and sage,
ye matron censors of this childish age,
whose peering eye and wrinkled front declare
a fixt antipathy to young and fair;
by cunning, cautious; or by nature, cold,
in maiden madness, virulently bold! --
attend! ye skilled to coin the precious tale,
creating proof, where innuendos fail!
living hungrily through the morning, at two o'clock i used to experience definite relief in the knowledge that now at any moment i could have my meal.