lodging quittance royal repaid.

* * * * *

It was the day of the Passaggio:
Ashore the war-steeds champed the burnished bit;
Afloat the galleys tugged the mooring-chain:
The town was out; the Lombard armourers--
Red-hot with riveting the helmets up,
And whetting axes for the heathen heads--
Cooled in the crowd that filled the squares and street:
To speed God's soldiers. At the none that day
Messer Torello to the gate came down,
Leading his lady;--sorrow's hueless rose
Grew on her cheek, and thrice the destrier
Struck fire, impatient, from the pavement-squares,
Or ere she spoke, tears in her lifted eyes,
"Goest thou, lord of mine?" "Madonna, yes!"
Said Torel, "for my soul's weal and the Lord
Ride I to-day: my good name and my house
Reliant I intrust thee, and--because
It may be they shall slay me, and because,
Being so young, so fair, and so reputed,
The noblest will entreat thee--wait for me,
Widow or wife, a year, and month, and day;
Then if thy kinsmen press thee to a choice,
And if I be not come, hold me for dead;
Nor link thy blooming beauty with the grave
Against thine heart." "Good my lord!" answered she,
"Hardly my heart sustains to let thee go;
Thy memory it can keep, and keep it will,
Though my one lord, Torel of Istria,
Live, or----" "Sweet, comfort thee! San Pietro speed!
I shall come home: if not, and worthy knees
Bend for this hand, whereof none worthy lives,
Least he who lays his last kiss thus upon it,
Look thee, I free it----" "Nay!" she said, "but I,
A petulant slave that hugs her golden chain,
Give that gift back, and with it this poor ring:
Set it upon thy sword-hand, and in fight
Be merciful and win, thinking of me."
Then she, with pretty action, drawing on
Her ruby, buckled over it his glove--
The great steel glove--and through the helmet bars
Took her last kiss;--then let the chafing steed
Have its hot will and go.
But Saladin,
Safe back among his lords at Lebanon,
Well wotting of their quest, awaited it,
And held the Crescent up against the Cross,
In many a doughty fight Ferrara blades
Clashed with keen Damasc, many a weary month
Wasted afield; but yet the Christians
Won nothing nearer to Christ's sepulchre;
Nay, but gave