"In words alone I am not wont to chafe:
"Look to thyself—nor deem thy falsehood safe!" 1360
He rose—and slowly, sternly thence withdrew.
Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu:
Ah! little reck'd that chief of womanhood—
Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued;
And little deem'd he what thy heart—Gulnare!
When soft could feel, and when incens'd could dare.
His doubts appeared to wrong—nor yet she knew
How deep the root from whence compassion grew—
She was a slave—from such may captives claim
A fellow-feeling—differing but in name; 1370
Still half unconscious—heedless of his wrath.
Again she ventured on the dangerous path,
Again his rage repell'd—until arose
That strife of thought—the source of woman's woes!
Meanwhile—long anxious—weary—still—the same
Roll'd day and night—his soul could terror tame—
This fearful interval of doubt and dread,
When every hour might doom him worse than dead,