XVIII.
Whether the maid would publish, in her pride,
That she was single in the world, for might;
Or whether by that symbol signified,
That she would live, exempt from bridal rite.
Her closely Aymon’s martial daughter eyed;
When seeing not those features, her delight,
She craves the damsel’s name before they move,
And hears that it is she who joys her love:
XIX.
Or rather she, that gentle lady thought,
Had joyed her love; and whom she hated so,
Her to Death’s door her anger would have brought,
Unless she venged her sorrow on the foe.
She wheeled her courser round, with fury fraught,
Less with desire to lay her rival low,
Than with the lance to pierce her in mid breast,
And put her every jealousy at rest.
XX.
Parforce to ground must go the royal maid,
To prove if hard or soft the listed plain,
And be with such unwonted scorn appaid,
That she is nearly maddened by disdain.
Scarce was she thrown, before her trenchant blade
She bared, and hurried to avenge the stain.
Cried Aymon’s daughter, no less proud of heart,
“What art thou doing? Thou my prisoner art.”
