And then (I know not how nor why)
A subtle flame in the lady's eye--
Unseen by the courtiers standing by--
Burned through his lace and titled wreath,
Burned through his body's jeweled sheath,
Till it touched the steel of the man beneath!
(And yet, mayhap, no more was meant
Than to point a well-worn compliment,
And the lady's beauty, her worst intent.)
Howbeit, the Marquis bowed again:
"Who rules with awe well serveth Spain,
But best whose law is love made plain."
Be sure that night no pillow prest
The seneschal, but with the rest
Watched, as was due a royal guest,--
Watched from the wall till he saw the square
Fill with the moonlight, white and bare,--
Watched till he saw two shadows fare
Out from his garden, where the shade
That the old church tower and belfry made
Like a benedictory hand was laid.
Few words spoke the seneschal as he turned
To his nearest sentry: "These monks have learned
That stolen fruit is sweetly earned.
"Myself shall punish yon acolyte
Who gathers my garden grapes by night;
Meanwhile, wait thou till the morning light."
Yet not till the sun was riding high
Did the sentry meet his commander's eye,
Nor then till the Viceroy stood by.
To the lovers of grave formalities
No greeting was ever so fine, I wis,
As this host's and guest's high courtesies!
The seneschal feared, as the wind was west,
A blast from Morena had chilled his rest;
The Viceroy languidly confest
That cares of state, and--he dared to say--
Some fears that the King could not repay
The thoughtful zeal of his host, some way
Had marred his rest.
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