"I am here to time, you see;
The glade is well-screened—eh?—against alarm;
    Fit place to vindicate by my arm
    The honour of my spotless wife,
    Who scorns your libel upon her life
        In boasting intimacy!

    "'All hush-offerings you'll spurn,
My husband. Two must come; one only go,'
She said. 'That he'll be you I know;
To faith like ours Heaven will be just,
And I shall abide in fullest trust
        Your speedy glad return.'"

    "Good. Here am also I;
And we'll proceed without more waste of words
    To warm your cockpit. Of the swords
    Take you your choice. I shall thereby
    Feel that on me no blame can lie,
        Whatever Fate accords."

    So stripped they there, and fought,
And the swords clicked and scraped, and the onsets sped;
    Till the husband fell; and his shirt was red
     With streams from his heart's hot cistern. Nought
    Could save him now; and the other, wrought
        Maybe to pity, said:
    "Why did you urge on this?
Your wife assured you; and 't had better been
    That you had let things pass, serene
    In confidence of long-tried bliss,
    Holding there could be nought amiss
        In what my words might mean."

    Then, seeing nor ruth nor rage
Could move his foeman more—now Death's deaf thrall -
    He wiped his steel, and, with a call
    Like turtledove to dove, swift broke
    Into the copse, where under an oak
        His horse cropt, held by a page.

    "All's over, Sweet," he cried
To the wife, thus guised; for the young page was she.
    "'Tis as we hoped and said 't would be.
    He never guessed . . . We mount and ride
    To where our love can reign uneyed.
        He's clay, and we are free."