Chapter VI

Ruth, as she walked the pebbled garden lanes, Or daily in her hundred household cares, Thought of the dark face and noble heart Of Karagwe, and truly pitied him.

He, when the labor of the day was done, Moved through the dusk, among the dewy leaves, And, darker than the shadows, scaled the wall, And waited in the garden, crouching down Among the foliage of the fragrant trees, Hoping that she again might come that way. He saw her through the window of the house, Pass and repass, and heard her sweetly sing A tender song of love and pity blent; But would not call to her, nor give a sign That he was there; to see her was enough. Perhaps, if those about her knew he came To meet her in the garden, they would place Some punishment upon her, some restraint, That she, though innocent, might have to bear. So he passed back again to his low cot, And on his poor straw pallet, dreamed of her, As loyally perhaps as Chastelard, Lying asleep upon his palace couch, Dreamed of Queen Mary, and the love he gave.

VII.

Ruth was but tinged with shade, and always seemed Some luscious fruit, with but the slightest hint Of something foreign to the grafted bough Whereon it grew. Her eyes were black, and large, And passionate, and proved the deathless soul, That through their portals looked upon the world, Was capable of hatred and revenge. Her long black lashes hung above their depths, Like lotus leaves o'er some Egyptian spring. And they were dreamy, too, at intervals, And glowed with tender beauty when she loved. Her grace made for her such appropriate wear, That, though her gown was of the coarsest cloth, And though her duty was the lowest kind, It seemed apparel more desirable Than trailing robes of velvet or of silk. Her voice was full, and sweet, and musical, Soft as the low breathings of an instrument Touched by the unseen fingers of the breeze.

VIII.

The large plantation, next to Dalton Earl's, Was owned by Richard Wain, a hated man-- Hated among his slaves and in the town. Uncouth, revengeful, and a drunkard he. Two miles up by the river ran his lands; And here, within a green-roofed kirk of woods, The slave found that seclusion he desired. His only treasure was a Testament Hid in the friendly opening of a tree. Often the book was kept within his cot, At times lay next his heart, nor did its beat Defile the fruity knowledge on the leaves. The words were sweet as wine of Eshcol grapes To his parched lips. He saw the past arise. Vague were the people, and the pageant moved, Uncertain as the figures in the dusk; Yet One there was, who stood in bold relief; A lovely, noble face with sweeping beard, And hair that trailed in beauty round his neck; A patient man, whose deeds were always good. Whose words were brave for freedom and mankind.

IX.

In passing through the grounds of Richard Wain, Karagwe found, upon a plat of grass, Some sheets of paper fastened at the ends, Blown from the house, he thought, or thrown away. The sheets were closely written on and sealed. Here was a long-sought opportunity To learn the older letters of the pen. That night the writings, wrapped about the Book, Were safe within the hollow of the tree.

X.

All day he dreamed, "What token shall I give. That she will know my thought and understand." He caught at last a velvet honey-bee, Weighed down with its gold treasure in its belt, And killed it; then, when morning came again, Bore it to Ruth beneath the fragrant trees. "I bring you, Ruth, a dead bee for a sign. For if to-day you wear it in your hair, When once again you come to walk the lane, I then shall know that you are truly mine, Willing to be my wife, and share my lot, And let me toil with you like any bee; But if you do not wear it, then I shall care No more for anything; but waste my life, A bee without a queen." Then not one word Spoke Ruth; but when the sunset came, and she Went from the house again to walk alone, The dead bee glittered gem-like in her hair. And him she met for whom the sign was meant, And in his hand she laid her own, and smiled.