Chapter XI

They were my balsam: for, ere autumn came,
Weak still, but over eager to be gone,
I took my leave of him. A little lame
From that hip wound, and somewhat thin and wan,
I sought the village. Here I heard her name
And shame's made one. How Rupert passed one dawn;
How she among his troopers rode--astride
Like any man--pale-faced and feverish-eyed.