216 A. MARY F. ROBINSON
��BELGIUM THE BAR-LASS
The night was still. The King sat with the Queen. She sang. Her maidens spun. A peaceful scene.
Sudden, wild echoes shake the castle wall. Their foes come crashing through the outer hall.
They rush like thunder down the gallery floor . . . . . . Someone has stolen the bolt that bars the door!
No pin to hold the loops, no stick, no stave. Nothing ! An open door, an open grave !
Then Catherine Bar-lass thrust her naked arm (A girl's arm, white as milk, alive and warm)
Right through the loops from which the bolt was
gone : " 'Twill hold (she said) until they break the bone —
My King, you have one instant to prepare!" She said no more, because the thrust was there.
��Oft have I heard that tale of Scotland's King The Poet, and Kate the Bar-lass. (Men will sing
�� �
