Chapter XXXVI

Then in the night a trumpet; and the dull
Close thud of horse and clash of spurs and arms;
And glimmering helms swept by me.--Sorrowful
I stood and waited till against the storm's
Black breast, the Manse,--a burning carbuncle,--
Blazed like a battle-beacon, and alarms
Of onslaught clanged around it.--Then, like one,
Who bears with him God's curse, I galloped on.

AN OLD TALE RETOLD

From the terrace here, where the hills indent,
You can see the uttermost battlement
Of the castle there: the Clifford's home
Where the seasons go and the seasons come
And never a footstep else doth fall
Save the prowling fox's; the ancient hall
Echoes no voice save the owlet's call:
Its turret chambers are homes for the bat;
And its courts are tangled and wild to see;
And where in the cellar was once the rat,
The viper and toad move stealthily.
Long years have passed since the place was burned,
And he sailed to the wars in France and earned
The name that he bears of the bold and true
On his tomb.--Long years, since my lord, Sir Hugh,
Lived, and I was his favorite page,
And the thing then happened; and he of an age
When a man will love and be loved again,
Or off to the wars or a monastery;
Or toil till he deaden his heart's hard pain;
Or drink and forget it and finally bury.

I was his page. And often we fared
Through the Clare demesne, in autumn, hawking--
If the Baron had known, how they would have glared,
'Neath their bushy brows, those eyes of mocking!--
That last of the Strongbows, Richard, I mean--
And growling some six of his henchmen lean
To mount and after this Clifford and hang
With his crop-eared page to the nearest oak,
How he would have cursed us while he spoke!
For Clare and Clifford had ever a fang
In the other's side.... And I hear the clang
Of his rage in the hall when the hawker told--
If he told!--how we met on the autumn wold
His daughter, sweet Clara of Clare, the day
Her hooded tiercel its brails did burst,
And trailing its jesses, came flying our way--
An untrained haggard the falconer cursed
While he tried to secure:--as the eyas flew
Slant, low and heavily over us, Hugh,--
Who saw it coming, and had just then cast
His peregrine hawk at a heron quarry,--
In his saddle rising thus, as it passed
By the jesses caught, and to her did carry,
Where she stood near the wood. Her face flushed rose
With the glad of the meeting.--No two foes
Her eyes and my lord's, I swear, who saw
'Twas love from the start.--And I heard him speak;
Dismount, then kneel--and the sombre shaw,
With the sad of the autumn waste and bleak,
Grew spring with her smile, as the hawk she took
On her slender wrist, where it pruned and shook
Its callowness. Then I saw him seize
The hand that she reached to him, long and white,
As she smilingly bade him rise from his knees--
When he kissed her fingers her eyes grew bright.
But her cheeks were pallid when, lashing through
The thicket there, his face a-flare
With the sting of the wind, and his gipsy hair
Flying, the falconer came, and two
Or three of the people of Castle Clare.
And the leaves of the autumn made a frame
For the picture there in the morning's flame.

What was said in that moment I do not know,
That moment of meeting between those lovers:
Whatever it was, 'twas whispered low,
Soft as a leaf that swings and hovers,
A twinkling gold, when the woods are yellow.
And her face with the joy was still aglow
When out of the wood that burly fellow
Came with his frown, and made a pause
In the pulse of their words.--My lord, Sir Hugh,
Stood with the soil on his knee. No cause
Had he, but his hanger he partly drew,
Then clapped it sharp in its sheath again,
And bowed to my lady, and strode away;
And vaulting his horse, with a loosened rein
Rode with a song in his heart all day.

He loved and was loved, I knew; for, look!
All other sports for the chase he forsook.
And strange that he never went to hawk,
Or hunt, but Clara would meet him there
In the Strongbow forest!--I know the rock,
With its ferns and its moss, by the bramble lair,
Where oft and often he met--by chance,
Shall I say?--the daughter of Clare; as fair
Of face as a queen in an old romance,
Who waits expectant and pale; her hair
Night-deep; and eyes dove-gray with dreams;--
By the fountain-side where the statue gleams
And the moonbeam lolls in the lily white,--
For her knightly lover who comes at night.

Heigh-ho! they ceased, those meetings. I wot,
Betrayed to the Baron by some of his crew
Of menials who followed and saw and knew.
For she loved too well to have once forgot
The time and the place of their trysting true.
"Why and when?" would ask Sir Hugh
In the labored letters he used to lock
--The lovers' post--in a coigne of that rock.
She used to answer, but now did not.
But, nearing Yule, love gat them again
A twilight tryst--through frowardness sure!--
They met. And the day was gray with rain,
And snow: and the wind did ever endure
A long bleak moaning through the wood,
That chapped i' the cheek and smarted the blood;
And a burne in the forest went throb and throb,
And over it all was the wild-beast sob
Of the rushing boughs like a thing pursued.
And then it was that he learned how she,
(God's blood! how it makes my old limbs quiver
To think what a miserable tyrant he--
The Baron Richard--aye and ever
To his daughter was!) forsooth! _must_ wed
With an eastern earl--a Lovell: to whom
(Would God o' His mercy had struck him dead!)
Clara of Clare when merely a child,--
With a face like a flower, that blows in the wild
Of the hills, and a soul like its soft perfume,--
Was given--say, sealed--to strengthen some ties
Of power and wealth--say bartered, then,
Like the veriest chattel. With tearful eyes
And lips a-tremble she spoke. And when
My lord, her lover, had learned and heard,--
He'd have had her flee with him then, 'sdeath!
In spite of them all! Let her say the word,
They would fly together: the baron's men
Might follow; and if ... and he touched his sword--
_It_ should answer! But she, while she seemed to stay,
With a hand on her bosom, her heart's quick breath,
Replied to his heat: "They would take and slay
Thee who art life of my life!--Not thus
Will we fly!--There's another way for us;
A way that is sure; an only way;
I have thought on it this many a day."--
The words that she spake how well I remember!
As well as the mood o' that day of December,
That bullied and blustered and seemed in league,
Like a spiteful shrew, with the wind and the snow,
To drown the words of their sweet intrigue,
With the boom of the boughs tossed to and fro,
That the storm swept through with its wild-beast low.
Her last words these, "By curfew sure,
On Christmas eve, at the postern door."

* * * * *

And we were there; with a led horse too;
Armed for a journey--I hardly knew
Whither, but why, you well may guess.
For often he whispered a certain name,
The talisman dear of his happiness,
That warmed his blood like a Yule-log's flame.
While we waited there, till its owner came,
We saw how the castle's baronial girth,
Like a giant's, loosed for revelling more,
Shone; and we heard the wassail and mirth
Where the mistletoe hung in the hearth's red roar,
And the holly brightened the weaponed wall
Of carven oak in the banqueting hall.
And the spits, I trow, by the scullions turned
O'er the snoring logs, rich steamed and burned,
Where the whole wild-boar and the deer were roasted,
And the half of an ox and the roe-buck's haunches;
While tuns of ale, that the cellars boasted,
And casks of sack, were broached for paunches
Of vassals who revelled in stable and hall.
The song of the minstrel; the yeomen's quarrel
O'er the dice and the drink; and the huntsman's bawl
In the baying kennels, its hounds a-snarl
O'er the bones of the feast; now loud, now low,
We could hear where we crouched in the drifting snow.

Was she long? did she come?... By the postern we
Like shadows waited. My lord, Sir Hugh,
Spoke, pointing a tower: "That casement, see?
When a stealthy light in its slit burns blue
And signals thrice slowly, thus--'tis she."
And close to his breast his gaberdine drew,
For the wind it whipped and the snow beat through.
Did she come?--We had waited an hour or twain,
When the taper flashed in the central pane,
And flourished three times and vanished so.
And under the arch of the postern's portal,
Crouched down by the horses we stood in the snow,
Stiff with the cold.--Ah, me! immortal
Minutes we waited, breath-bated, and listened
Shivering there in the hurl of the gale:
The parapets whistled, the angles glistened,
And the night around seemed one black wail
Of death, whose ominous presence over
The snow-swept battlements seemed to hover.
Said my lord, Sir Hugh,--to himself he spoke,--
"She feels for the spring in the sliding panel
'Neath the arras, hid in the carven oak.
It opens. The stair, like a well's dark channel,
Yawns, and the draught makes her taper slope.
Wrapped deep in her mantle of fur, she puts
One foot on the stair: now a listening pause
As nearer and nearer the mad search draws
Of the thwarted castle. No smallest hope
That they find her now that the panel shuts!
If the wind, that howls like a tortured thing,
Would throttle itself with its cries, then I
Might hear how her hurrying footsteps ring
Down the secret ... there! 'tis her fingers try
The postern's bolts that the rust makes cling."--
But 'twas only some whim of the wind that shook
A clanging ring on a creaking hook
In the buttress or wall. And we waited, numb
With the cold, till dawn--but she did not come.

I must tell you why and have done: 'Tis said,
On the eve of the marriage she fled the side
Of the guests and the bridegroom there: she fled
With a mischievous laugh,--"I'll hide! I'll hide!
A kiss for the one who shall find!"--and led
A long search after her; but defied
All search for--a score and ten long years.
Well, the laughter of Yule was turned to tears
For them as for us. We saw the glare
Of torches that hurried from chamber to stair;
And we heard the castle reëcho her name,
But she laughed no answer and never came,
And that was the last of Clara of Clare.

That winter it was, a month thereafter,
That the home of the Cliffords, roof and rafter,
Burned.--I could swear 'twas the Strongbow's doing,
Were I sure that he knew of the Clifford's wooing
His daughter; and so, by the Rood and Cross!
Made a torch of Hugh's home to avenge his loss.--
So over the Channel to France with his King,
The Black Prince, sailed to the wars--to deaden
The ache of the mystery--Hugh that spring
And fell at Poitiers; for his loss lay leaden
O' his heart; and his life was a weary sadness,
So he flung it away in a moment's madness.
And the baron died. And the bridegroom?--well,
Unlucky was he in truth!--to tell
Of him there is nothing.--The baron died,
The last of the Strongbows he--gramercy!
And the Clare estate with its wealth and pride
Devolved to the Bloets, Walter and Percy.

And years went by. And it happened that they
Ransacked the old castle; and so, one day,
In a lonesome tower uprummaged a chest,
From Flanders; of ebon, and wildly carved
All over with masks: a sinister crest
'Mid gargoyle faces distorted and starved:
Fast-fixed with a spring, which they forced and, lo!
When they opened it--Death, like a lady dressed,
Grinned up at their terror!--but no, not so!
Fantastic a skeleton, jeweled and wreathed
With flowers of dust; and a miniver
Around it clasped, that the ruin sheathed
Of a once rich raiment of silk and of fur.

I'd have given my life to hear him tell,
The courtly Clifford, how this befell!
He'd have known how it was: For, you see, in groping
For the secret spring of that panel, hoping
And fearing as nearer and nearer drew
The search of retainers, why, out she blew
The tell-tale taper; and seeing this chest,
Would hide her a minute in it, mayhap,
Till the hurry had passed; but the death-lock, pressed
By the lid's great weight, shut down with a snap,
And her life went out in the hellish trap.

MY LADY OF VERNE

It all comes back as the end draws near;
All comes back like a tale of old!
Shall I tell you what? Will you lend an ear?
You, with your face so stern and cold;
You, who have found me dying here....

Lady Valora's villa at Verne--
You have walked its terraces, where the fount
And statue gleam and the fluted urn;
Its world-old elms, that are avenues gaunt
Of shadow and flame when the west is a-burn.

'Tis a lonely region of tarns and trees,
And hollow hills that circle the west;
Haunted of rooks and the far-off sea's
Immemorial vague unrest;
A land of sorrowful memories.

A gray sad land, where the wind has its will,
And the sun its way with the fruits and flowers;
Where ever the one all night is shrill,
And ever the other all day brings hours
Of glimmering hush that dead dreams fill.

A gray sad land, where her girlhood grew
To womanhood proud, that the hill-winds seemed
To give their moods, like melody, to;
And the stars, their thoughts, like dreams love dreamed--
The only glad thing that the sad land knew.

My Lady, you know, how nobly born!
Greatly born, with a head that rose
Like a dream of empire; love and scorn
Made haunts of her eyes; and her lips--twin bows
Of bloom, where wit was a pleasant thorn.

And I--oh, I was nobody: one
Her worshiper merely; who chose to be
Silent, seeing that love alone
Was his only badge of nobility,
Set in his heart's escutcheon.

How long ago does the springtime look,
When we wandered away to the hills! the hills,--
Like the land in the tale in the Fairy-book,--
Gold with the gold of the daffodils,
And gemmed with the crocus by bank and brook!

When I gathered a branch from a hawthorn tree,
For her hair or bosom, from boughs that hung
Odorous of Heaven and purity;
She thanked me smiling; then merrily sung
This song while she laughingly looked at me:--

"_There dwelt a princess over the sea--
Oh fair was she, right fair was she--
Who loved a squire of low degree,
Of low degree,
But wedded a king of Brittany--
Ah, woe is me! is me!_

"_And it came to pass on the wedding day--
So people say, I have heard say--
That they found her dead in her bridal array,
Her bridal array,
And dead her lover beside her lay--
Ah, well-away! away!_

"A sour stave for your sweets," she said,
Pressing the blossoms against her lips:
Then petal by petal the branch she shred,
Snowing the blooms from her finger-tips,
Tossing them down for her feet to tread.

What to her was the look I gave
Of love despised!--Though she seemed to start,
Seeing; and said, with a quick hand-wave,
"Why, one would think that _that_ was your heart,"
While her face with a sudden thought grew grave.

But I answered nothing. And so to her home
We came in the eve; slow-falling, clear
With a few first stars and a crescent of foam,
The twilight dusked; and we heard from the mere
The distant boom of a bittern come.

Would you think that she loved me?--Who could say?--
What a riddle unread was she to me!--
When I kissed her fingers and turned away
I wanted to speak, but--what cared she,
Though her eyes looked soft and she bade me stay!

Though she lingered to watch me--That might be
A slim moonbeam or a shred of haze,--
But never my Lady's drapery
Or wistful face!--in the woodbine maze.
Valora of Verne--why, what cared she!

* * * * *

So the days went by, and the Summer wore
Its hot heart out; and, a mighty slayer,
The Autumn harried the land and shore,
And the world grew red with its wrecks; then grayer
Than ghosts of the dreams of the nevermore.

The sheaves of the Summer had long been bound;
The harvests of Autumn had long been past;
And the snows of the Winter lay deep around,
When the hard news came and I knew at last;
And the reigning woe of my heart was crowned.

So I sought her here: the old Earl's bride:
In the ancient room, at the oriel dreaming,
Pale as the blooms in her hair; and, wide,
The dented satin, flung stormily, gleaming
Like beaten silver, twilight-dyed.

I marked as I stole to her side that tears
Were vaguely large in her beautiful eyes;
That the loops of pearls on her throat, and years--
Old lace on her bosom were heaved with sighs:
And I said to her softly:--"It appears"--

Then stopped with, it seemed, my soul in my eyes--
"That you are not happy, Valora of Verne!
There is that at your heart which--well, denies
These mocking mummeries.--Live and learn!--
And is it the truth or only lies?--

"You must hear me now! whom I oft with my heart,--
In words of the soul, that are silent in speech,--
Whispered my love; too sacred for art;
But yours never heard--for I could not reach
Yours in that world of which you are part.

"That world, where I saw you as one afar
Sees palms and waters, and knows that sands,
Pitiless sands, before him are;
Yet follows ever with reaching hands
Till he sinks at last.--You were my star,

"My hope, my heaven!--I loved you!... Life
Is less than nothing to me!"... She turned,
With a wild look, saying--"Now I am his wife
You come and tell me!--Indeed you are learned
In the unheard language of hearts!"... A knife,

As she ceased and leaned on a cabinet,--
A curve of scintillant steel keen, cold,--
Fell, icily clashing: a curio met
Among Asian antiques, bronze and gold,
Mystical; curiously graven and set.

A Bactrian dagger, whose slightest prick,
Through its ancient poison, was death, I knew.--
If true that she loved me--then!--And quick
To the unspoken thought she replied, "'Tis true!
I have loved you long, and my soul was sick,

"Sick for the love that has made me weak,
Weak to your will even now!"--And more
She said, in my arms, that I will not speak--
And the dagger there on the polished floor
Ever her eyes, while she spoke, would seek.

"'And it came to pass on the wedding-day'"--
Then my lips for a moment were crushed to hers--
"'That they found her dead in her bridal array,'"
She sang; then said, "_You_ finish the verse!
Finish the song, for you know the way."

And I whispered "yes," for my heart had thought
Her own thought through--that life were a hell
To us so asunder.--And the blade I caught
With a sudden hand; and she leaned; and--well,
What a little wound, and the blood it brought

To crimson her bosom!--I set her there
In that carven chair; then turned the blade,--
With its white-gold handle thick with the glare,
Barbaric, of jewels, wildly inlaid,--
To my breast, for the poisonous point rent bare.

A stain of blood on her breast, and one
Black red o'er my heart, you see.--'Tis good
To die with her here!... Does the sinking sun,
Through the dull deep west burst, banked with blood?--
Or is it that life will at last have done?...

So _you_ are her husband? and--well, you see,
You see she is dead ... and her face--how white!
Fate bungled the cards!--did this _have_ to be?--
What matters it now!--For at last the night
Falls and the darkness covers me.

GERALDINE

Ah, Geraldine, my Geraldine,
That night of love when last we met,
You have forgotten, Geraldine--
I never dreamed you would forget.

Ah, Geraldine, my Geraldine,
More lovely than that Asian queen,
Scheherazade, the beautiful,
Who in her orient palace cool
Of India, for a thousand nights
And one, beside her monarch lay,
Telling--while sandal-scented lights
And music stole the soul away--
Love tales of old Arabia,
Full of enchantments and emprise--
But no enchantments like your eyes.

Ah, Geraldine, loved Geraldine,
Less lovely were those maids, I ween,
Pampinea and Lauretta, who,
In gardens old of dusk and dew,
Sat with their lovers, maid and man,
In stately days Italian,
And in quaint stories, that we know
Through grace of good Boccaccio,
Told of fond loves,--some false, some true,--
But, Geraldine, none false as you.

Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine,
That night of love, when last we met,
You have forgotten, Geraldine--
I never dreamed you would forget.
'Twas summer; and the moon swam high,
A great pale pearl within the sky:
And down that purple night of love
The stars, concurrent spark on spark,
Seemed moths of flame that swarmed above:
And through the roses, o'er the park,
Star-like the fireflies sowed the dark:
A mocking-bird in some deep tree,
Drowsy with dreams and melody,--
Like a magnolia bud, that, dim,
Opens and pours its soul in musk,--
Gave to the moonlight and the dusk
Its heart's pure song, its evening hymn.
Oh, night of love! when in the dance
Your heart thrilled rapture into mine,
As, in a state of necromance,
A mortal hears a voice divine.
Oh, night of love! when from your glance
I drank sweet death as men drink wine.

You wearied of the waltz at last.
I led you out into the night.
Warm in my hand I held yours fast.
Your face was flushed; your eyes were bright.
The moon hung like a shell of light
Above the lake, the tangled trees;
And borne to us with fragrances
Of roses that were ripe to fall,
The soul of music from the hall
Beat in the moonlight and the breeze,
As youth's wild heart grown weary of
Desire and its dream of love.

I held your arm and, for a while,
We walked along the balmy aisle
Of blossoms that, like velvet, dips
Unto the lake which lilies tile
With stars; and hyacinths, with strips
Of heaven. And beside a fall,
That down a ferned and mossy wall
Fell in a lake,--deep, woodbine-wound,--
A latticed summer-house we found;
A green kiosk; through which the sound
Of waters and of zephyrs swayed,
And honeysuckle bugles played
Soft serenades of perfume sweet,--
Around which ran a rustic seat.
And seated in that haunted nook,--
I know not how it was,--a word,
A touch, perhaps, a sigh, a look,
Was father to the kiss I took;
Great things grow out of small I've heard.
And then it was I took between
My hands your face, loved Geraldine,
And gazed into your eyes, and told
The story ever new though old.
You did not look away, but met
My eyes with eyes whose lids were wet
With tears of truth; and you did lean
Your cheek to mine, my Geraldine.--
I never dreamed you would forget.

The night-wind and the water sighed:
And through the leaves, that stirred above,
The moonbeams swooned with music of
The dance--soft things in league with love:
I never dreamed that you had lied.
How all comes back now, Geraldine!
The melody; the glimmering scene;
Your angel face; and ev'n,--between
Your lawny breasts,--the heart-shaped jewel,--
To which your breath gave fluctuant fuel,--
A rosy star of stormy fire;
The snowy drift of your attire,
Lace-deep and fragrant: and your hair,
Disordered in the dance, held back
By one gemmed pin,--a moonbeam there,
Half-drowned within its night-like black.--
And I who sat beside you then
Seemed blessed above all mortal men.

I loved you for the way you sighed;
The way you said, "I love but you;"
The smile with which your lips replied;
Your lips, that from my bosom drew
The soul; your looks, like undenied
Caresses, that seemed naught but true:
I loved you for the violet scent
That clung about you as a flower;
Your moods, where grief and gladness blent,
An April-tide of sun and shower;
You were my creed, my testament,
Wherein I met with God's high power.
Was it because the loving see
Only what they desire shall be
There in the well-belovéd's soul,
Passion and heart's affinity,
That I beheld in you the whole
Of my love's image? and believed
You loved as I loved? nor perceived
Yours was a mask, a mockery!

Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine,
That night of love, when last we met,
You have forgotten, Geraldine--
I never dreamed you would forget.

AT THE CORREGIDOR'S

_The young advocate Don Sebastian Lopez, between three pinches of snuff, lays the facts of the case before his friend, Don Emanuel de Cordova, chief magistrate of the City of Valladolid._

To Don Odora said Donna De Vine,
"I yield to thy long endeavor!--
At my balcony be on the stroke of nine,
And, Señor, I'm thine forever!"...

This beauty at first had the Don descried
As she quit the confessional: followed:
"What a face! what a form! what a foot!" he sighed,
And more that he, smiling, swallowed.

And with vows as soft as his oaths were sweet
Her heart he barricaded;
And pressed this point with a present meet,
And that point serenaded.

What else could the enemy do but yield
To such handsome importuning?
A gallant blade with a lute for shield
All night at her lattice mooning!

"_Que es estrella!_ thou star of all girls!
Here's that for thy fierce duenna:
A purse of pistoles and a rosary o' pearls,
And gold as yellow as henna.

"She will drop from thy balcony's rail, my sweet,
My seraph! this silken ladder:
And then--sweet then!--my soul at thy feet,
What angel in Heaven gladder!"

And the end of it was--But I will not say
How he won to the room of the lady.--
Ah! to love is to live! and with youth--why, hey!
For the rest,--a maravedi!

Now comes her betrothed from the wars; and he,
A Count of the Court Castilian,
A Don Diabolus! sword at knee,
And face and hair--vermilion.

And his is a jealous love; and--for
The story grows sadder and sadder--
He watches, and sees--a robber? to her,
Or gallant? ascend a ladder.

So he pushes inquiry into her room;
With his naked sword demanding:
An alguazil, with a face like doom,
Sure of a stout withstanding.

And weapon to weapon they foined and fought:
The Count's first thrusts were vicious:
Three thrusts to the floor Odora had brought:
And one through the white, capricious.

The naked bosom of Donna De Vine--
And this is the Count's condition....
Was he right? was he wrong?--the question is mine;--
To judge--for the Inquisition.

AN EPISODE

_A woman speaks. Year 1218; war of the Albigenses._

I

Saint Dominick, Pope Innocent,
Thou holy host Lyons once bent
On Languedoc, may God the Father
Plunge you in everlasting Hell!
And may the blood of those who fell
At Béziers together gather
In torrents of eternal pain,
And on your souls beat boiling rain!

II

And Mountfort!--it was given me,
(For I had prayed incessantly),
To be the David to this giant.--
An Albigensian warrior
My husband was. He, in the war,
The Pope had thundered on defiant
Thoulouse and outlawed Languedoc,
Stood with Earl Raymond like a rock.

III

The walls of Béziers cried loud,
And Carcassonne's, red in their cloud
Of blood, disease, and conflagration,
For vengeance!--When he left me here,
With my two babes, I felt no fear.
The crusade's excommunication
Poured down its holy Catholics
To crush and burn us heretics.

IV

At Carcassonne he fell. And there
My babes died famished. And despair
And hell were mine within their prison,
Till Mother of our God portrayed
This Mountfort's death. On me were laid
Blessed hands of power in a vision.
A call, my soul could not refuse,
Compelled me to besieged Thoulouse.

V

No arrow mine, no arbalist;
A sling, a stone, a woman's wrist
God and His virgin Mother aided.--
Their engines rocked our walls. I felt
The time had come and, praying, knelt;
Then, from the sling my hair had braided,
Launched at De Mountfort's bassinet
The rock where eyebrow eyebrow met.