Chapter V

Beneath a rustic arbor, near her house, Linked with sweet converse, sit two shadowed forms. The new sword moon against the violet sky Is held aloft, by one white arm of cloud Raised from the sombre shoulder of a hill. My Grace and I are sitting in the bower, And down upon my breast and girdling arm Is strewn pure gold--no alloy mixes it-- The pure ore of her lovable gold hair. The cunning weavers of Arabia, Who seek to shuttle sunshine in their silk, Would give its weight in diamonds for this hair, Whereof to make a fabric for their king.

I see the trees that skirt the yonder vale, And where the road dents down between their arms, I see a figure passing to and fro. Now he comes near, and striding up the path Enters the arbor, and discovers us. It is Gianni; to his flashing eyes A fierce deep hatred leaps up from his heart, As lightning, which forebodes the nearing storm, Leaps luridly above the midnight hills. With some excuse Gianni passes on, While Grace, with sweetly growing confidence, Whispers with lips which slightly touch my ear, "I never loved him, I was always yours."