Chapter XVII

"Gerald!" she cried; not as a soul surprised
With gladness that the loved, deemed dead, still lives;
But like the soul that long hath realized
Only misfortune and to fortune gives
No confidence, though it be recognized
As good. She spoke: "Lo, we are fugitives.
Rupert is slain. And I am going home."
Then like a child asked simply, "Wilt thou come?...