XII.
Heaven halt thy footsteps, Luralai!
Do not from thy destiny so fly!
In thy quest to save thy heart from pain
Thou couldst lose much more than thou wouldst gain!
...Down she runs, down paths that twist and turn
Down long lanes fringed thick with flax and fern,
Past the orchard, grove and garden row
Down unto the servants' floor below.
In the dim-lit kitchen, Luralai
Finds her cloak of furs, concealed nearby,
Quickly doth she seize and don the same
Throwing it around her slender frame.
But Prince Faravel hath made close chase -
There's no time to soot her hands or face,
Nor to bind her shining golden hair,
Ere the prince doth suddenly appear.
"Thou! - Again!" cries he with kindled ire.
"Truly, doth my bride with thee conspire?
'An I lose her, thou art ever there!
Ragged waif, in place of princess fair!"
Sharp words can cut deeper than sharp blades.
Lura turns away, her colour fades.
"Ah, then I perceive," the girl replies,
"'Tis her wealth and beauty thou dost prize."
Faravel is chastened. "Nay! I swear,
'Tis her heart and soul for which I care.
Please it God, I'd offer her my hand
Were she lowest subject in this land.
If thou art her confidante, indeed,
Tell me how to find her, do - I plead!"
Catching up her hand in plaintive hold
Faravel sees there - - - a flash of gold!