VIII.

"For lovers there are many eyes, And such there were on us; the Devil On such occasions should be civil-- 320 The Devil!--I'm loth to do him wrong, It might be some untoward saint, Who would not be at rest too long, But to his pious bile gave vent-- But one fair night, some lurking spies Surprised and seized us both. The Count was something more than wroth-- I was unarmed; but if in steel, All cap-à-pie from head to heel, What 'gainst their numbers could I do? 330 'Twas near his castle, far away From city or from succour near, And almost on the break of day; I did not think to see another, My moments seemed reduced to few; And with one prayer to Mary Mother, And, it may be, a saint or two, As I resigned me to my fate, They led me to the castle gate: Theresa's doom I never knew, 340 Our lot was henceforth separate. An angry man, ye may opine, Was he, the proud Count Palatine; And he had reason good to be, But he was most enraged lest such An accident should chance to touch Upon his future pedigree; Nor less amazed, that such a blot His noble 'scutcheon should have got, While he was highest of his line; 350 Because unto himself he seemed The first of men, nor less he deemed In others' eyes, and most in mine. 'Sdeath! with a _page_--perchance a king Had reconciled him to the thing; But with a stripling of a page-- I felt--but cannot paint his rage.