Might you repair, such wealth you have of charms Rather the contrast than the counterpart. Artevelde. Elena. Artevelde. Wear only that of love. my fortunes, Wear it not; Of love? alas ! And this foolhardy heart would brave-nay court, Yea, like a witch, would whistle for a whirlwind. Have tamed and taught me: I have suffered much. And may not love be tranquil? Love breaks anew beneath the gathering clouds That for such brief and bounded space of time. Take back those words; I cannot bear them; no, 2 D2 Tell Tell me you're sure to conquer, as you are. Elena. Artevelde. you Nay, sweetest, why these tears? I want to be alone-let me retire Dear Artevelde, for God's love let me go!' Elena retires; and Artevelde, after a pause, thus soliloquizes :---- Of cloud with ragged edges, like a mound Wherein the light lies ambushed, dawn were near.— Was it well spent? Successfully it was. How little flattering is a woman's love!— The few hours left are precious-who is there? And propped with most advantage; outward grace And ridicules the very name of choice. Ho! Nieuverkerchen!-what, then, do we sleep? The world says Philip is a famous man— What is there women will not love, so taught? Ho! Ellert! by your leave though, you must wake.’ -vol. ii. pp. 100-106. How perfect in its kind is this little snatch of verse which we find Elena singing shortly afterwards at the door of the tent of Artevelde 6 Quoth tongue of neither maid nor wife To heart of neither wife nor maid, Lead we not here a jolly life Betwixt the shine and shade? Quoth heart of neither maid nor wife To tongue of neither wife nor maid, Thou wagg'st, but I am worn with strife And feel like flowers that fade.'-vol. ii. p. 177. We We should be sorry to anticipate too largely the pleasure of our reader in following the action of the sequel through the skilfully diversified scenes in which war, treason, and guilty but passionate love are made to play their part. We extract, however, the regent's vision the night before the fatal field of Rosebecque • Elena. You are not like yourself. What took you from your bed ere break of day? Where have you been? I know you're vexed with something. Artevelde. Be at rest. Elena. It is of such that love most needs to know. The loud transactions of the outlying world Tell to your masculine friends: tell me your thoughts. Elena. You stole away so softly Elena. I shall not smile; And And if I did, you would not grudge my lips (kissing his brow) How should it make me smile? What followed, say, Artevelde. I'll tell it, but I bid you not believe it; For I am scarce so credulous myself As to believe that was which my eyes saw— A visual not an actual existence. Elena. What was it like? Wore it a human likeness? Or painted by a brainish fantasy Upon the inner sense, not once nor twice, Elena. Today? Last nightThis morning-when you sat upon the bridge. Artevelde. "Twas a fantastic sight. Elena. What sort of sight? Artevelde. Man's grosser attributes can generate Elena. The semblance of a human creature? Elena. What was it? Yes. Most like; The Lady Adriana? Artevelde. Elena. Oh God! how strange! Of her! My dead wife. And wherefore?-wherefore strange? Why should not fancy summon to its presence Elena. This shape as soon as any? And were you not afraid? Artevelde. Gracious Heaven! I felt no fear. Elena. I did not mark. I cannot tell: And what was that appearance You say was so unsightly? Artevelde. She appeared In white, as when I saw her last, laid out After her death; suspended in the air She seemed, and o'er her breast her arms were crossed; And rigid was her form and motionless. From near her heart, as if the source were there, A stain of blood went wavering to her feet. So she remained inflexible as stone And I as fixedly regarded her. Then suddenly, and in a line oblique, Thy figure darted past her, whereupon, Though rigid still and straight, she downward moved, Descending steadily, the streak of blood Peeled off upon the water, which, as she vanished, I am to hear them. Go not near that bridge ;— Artevelde. The river cannot otherwise be passed.'-vol. ii. p. 228. All this is, of course, pure invention; but the romancer avails himself also of Froissart's picturesque account of certain portents that marked, according to the general credence of the time, this same eventful night-the crisis of the fate of Artevelde. For these things we have, unfortunately for ourselves, no room; and |