X.

Home gain'd, he asks--they tell him--her retreat: He winds the stairs, and midway halts to meet His rival passing from that mystic room, With a changed face, half sarcasm and half gloom. Writhed Ruthven's lip--his hands he clench'd;--his breast Heaved with man's natural wrath; the wrath the man supprest. "Her name, at least, I will not make the gage Of that foul strife whose cause a husband's rage." So, with the calmness of his lion eye, He glanced on Harcourt, and he pass'd him by.