barred the passage to his bride;
It was Enguerrand the dauntless, but with staring eyes and hair
Blowing wild about a forehead pale as snow in moonlit glare.

"Ah my master, we have held her, we have guarded her," he said,
"Not a shadow of dishonor has so much as touched her head.
Twenty wretches lie below there with the brothers of Germain,
Twenty foemen of her honor that I, Enguerrand, have slain.

"But one other foe remaineth, one remaineth yet," he cried,
"Which it fits this hand to punish ere you cross unto your bride.
It is I, Enguerrand!" shrieked he; "and as I have slain the rest,
So I smite this foeman also!"--and his sword plunged through his
breast.

O the horror of that moment! "Art thou mad my Enguerrand?"
Cried his master, striving wildly to withdraw the fatal brand.
But the stern youth smiling sadly, started back from his embrace,
While a flash like summer lightning, flickered direful on his face.

"Yes, a traitor worse than Sassard;" and he pointed down the stair,
"For my heart has dared to love her whom my hand defended there.
While the others fought for honor, I by passion was made strong,
Set your heel upon my bosom for my soul has done you wrong.

"But," and here he swayed and faltered till his knee sank on the floor,
Yet in falling turned his forehead ever toward that silent door;
"But your warrior hand my master, may take mine without a stain,
For my hand has e'er been loyal, and your enemy is slain."

A short silence followed the last word, then a burst of applause
testified to the appreciation of her audience, and Paula crept away to
hide her blushing cheeks in the comparative darkness of a little
vine-covered balcony that jutted out from the ante-room. What were her
thoughts as she leaned there! In the subsidence of any great
emotion--and Paula had felt every word she uttered--there is more or
less of shock and tumult. She did not think, she only felt. Suddenly a
hand was laid on her arm and a low voice whispered in her ear,

"Did you write that poem yourself?"

Turning, she encountered the shadowy form of a woman leaning close at
her side and appearing in the dim light that shone on her from the lamps
beyond, an eager image of expectancy.

"Yes," returned Paula, "why do you ask?"

The woman, whoever she was, did not answer. "And you believe in such
devotion as that!" she murmured. "You c