Towards it he moved, a scarcely closing door
Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. 1570
With hasty step a figure outward past,
Then paused—and turn'd—and paused—'tis She at last!
No poignard in that hand—nor sign of ill—
"Thanks to that softening heart—she could not kill!"
Again he looked, the wildness of her eye
Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully.
She stopp'd—threw back her dark far-floating hair,
That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair:
As if she late had bent her leaning head
Above some object of her doubt or dread. 1580
They meet—upon her brow—unknown—forgot—
Her hurrying hand had left—'twas but a spot—
Its hue was all he saw—and scarce withstood—
Oh! slight but certain pledge of crime—'tis blood!
He had seen battle—he had brooded lone
O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown—
He had been tempted—chastened—and the chain
Yet on his arms might ever there remain—