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Page 35
"But I was aflame
With thrice fanned wrath, because he spattered me
With his own mud-blots, flung his sin at me,
Making it my sin: and I started back,
Out of the reach of his hand seeking mine,
As though her touch were on it like a slime.
"But he cried on me for forgiveness, talked
Of loving me, 'Why have I been,' he urged,
'Impatient so of exile, fretting so
To take you to my Naples, but for thought
Of flying her?'
"Then his word 'exile' struck
A doubt and made it ring: for I had mused
Why, time by time, he said 'We must go soon,
My father soon must know you,' yet the day
Of going came no nearer. For in truth
Though I had told him that it made me glad
Still to be near my father, I had made
No pleading for delay to hinder him...
Since he too had a father. On that day
I thought I had discerned the secret bar,
The watchful knotgrass thrown across his path
By that abhorrent woman. Now, he spoke
A riddle not so answered. So I drove
My questions at him, edo not ask' he said,
And then I pressed the more. And so I learned
The lie put on my father, dear old man,
Who stood so proud and honest& - 'Nay, my girl
Is worthy of the noblest of your names
In all your Italy from north to south,
But yet I'll have your father's word on it
That she is welcome, or the matter ends.
Write to him, tell him she is very poor
In purse and friends, can neither make nor mar;
Tell him what else you like, but tell him that:
Then we go by the answer.'
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