Part II, Madoc in Aztlan: XVII

Madoc, meantime, in bonds and solitude,
Lay listening to the tumult. How his heart
Panted! how, then, with fruitless strength, he strove
And struggled for enlargement, as the sound
Of battle, from without the city, came ;
While all things near were still, nor foot of man,
Nor voice, in that deserted part, were heard.
At length one light and solitary step
Approached the place ; a woman crossed the door.
From Madoc's busy mind her image passed,
Quick as the form that caused it ; but not so
Did the remembrance fly from Coatel,
That Madoc lay in bonds. That thought possessed
Her soul, and made her, as she garlanded
The fane of Coatlantona with flowers,
Tremble in strong emotion.

It was now
The hour of dusk ; the Pabas all were gone,
Gone to the battle ; . . none could see her steps ;
The gate was nigh. A momentary thought
Shot through her; she delayed not to reflect,
But hastened to the Prince, and took the knife
Of sacrifice, that by the altar hung,
And cut his bonds, and, with an eager eye,
Motioning haste and silence, to the gate
She led him. Fast along the forest way,
And fearfully, he followed to the chasm.
She beckoned, and descended, and drew out,
From underneath her vest, a cage, or net
It rather might be called, so fine the twigs
Which knit it, where, confined, two fire-flies gave
Their lustre. By that light did Madoc first
Behold the features of his lovely guide ;
And through the entrance of the cavern gloom,
He followed in full trust.

Now have they reached
The abrupt descent ; there Coatel held forth
Her living lamp, and turning, with a smile,
Sweet as good Angels wear when they present
Their mortal charge before the throne of Heaven,
She showed where little Hoel slept below.
Poor child ! he lay upon that very spot,
The last whereto his feet had followed her ;
And, as he slept, his hand was on the bones
Of one, who, years agone, had perished there ;
There, on the place where last his wretched eyes
Could catch the gleam of day. But when the voice,
The well-known voice, of Madoc wakened him, . .
His Uncle's voice, . . he started, with a scream
That echoed through the cavern's winding length,
And stretched his arms to reach him. Madoc hushed
The dangerous transport, raised him up the ascent,
And followed Coatel again, whose face,
Though tears of pleasure still were coursing down,
Betokened fear and haste. Adown the wood
They went ; and, coasting now the lake, her eye
First what they sought beheld, a light canoe,
Moored to the bank. Then in her arms she took
The child, and kissed him with maternal love,
And placed him in the boat ; but when the Prince,
With looks and gestures and imperfect words,
Such as the look, the gesture, well explained,
Urged her to follow, doubtfully she stood ;
A dread of danger, for the thing she had done,
Came on her, and Lincoya rose to mind.
Almost she had resolved ; but then she thought
Of her dear father, whom that flight would leave
Alone in age ; how he would weep for her,
As one among the dead, and to the grave
Go sorrowing ; or, if ever it were known
What she had dared, that on his head the weight
Of punishment would fall. That dreadful fear
Resolved her; and she waved her head, and raised
Her hand, to bid the Prince depart in haste,
With looks, whose painful seriousness forbade
All farther effort. Yet unwillingly,
And boding evil, Madoc from the shore
She off his little boat. She on its way
Stood gazing for a moment, lost in thought,
Then struck into the woods.

Swift through the lake
Madoc's strong arm impelled the light canoe.
Fainter and fainter, to his distant ear,
The sound of battle came ; and now the Moon
Arose in heaven, and poured o'er lake and land
A soft and mellowing ray. Along the shore
Llaian was wandering, with distracted steps,
And groaning for her child. She saw the boat
Approach ; and as on Madoc's naked limbs,
And on his countenance, the moonbeam fell,
And as she saw the boy in that dim light,
It seemed as though the Spirits of the dead
Were moving on the waters; and she stood
With open lips, that breathed not, and fixed eyes,
Watching the unreal shapes: but when the boat
Drew nigh, and Madoc landed, and she saw
His step substantial, and the child came near,
Unable then to move, or speak, or breathe,
Down on the sand she sunk.

But who can tell,
But who can feel, her agony of joy,
When, by the Prince's care restored to sense,
She knew her child, she heard once more the name
Of mother from that voice, which, sure, she thought
Had poured upon some Priest's remorseless ear
Its last vain prayer for life. No tear relieved
The insupportable feeling, that convulsed
Her swelling breast. She looked, and looked, and felt
The child, lest some delusion should have mocked
Her soul to madness ; then the gushing joy
Burst forth, and with caresses and with tears
She mingled broken prayers of thank to heaven.

And now the Prince, when joy had had its course,
Said to her, Knowest thou the mountain path ?
For I would to the battle. But at that,
A sudden damp of dread came over her, . .
O leave us not! she cried; lest haply ill
Should have befallen! for I remember now,
How in the woods I saw a savage band
Making toward Caermadoc, and I hid,
Lest they should stop my going. God forefend
The evil that I fear! .. What! Madoc cried,
Were ye then left defenceless ? . . She replied,
All fled to arms: there was no time for thought,
Wot Nor counsel, in that sudden ill; nor one
Of all thy people, who could, in that hour,
Have brooked home-duty, when thy life or death
Hung on the chance.

Now God be merciful !
Cried he; . . for of Goervyl did he think,
And the cold sweat started at every pore. ..
Give me the boy! . . he travels all too slow.
Then in his arms he took him, and sped on,
Suffering more painful terrors, than, of late,
His own near death provoked. They held their way
In silence up the heights ; and when, at length,
They reached the valley entrance, there the Prince
Bade her remain, while he went on, to spy
The footsteps of the spoiler. Soon he saw
Men, in the moonlight, stretched upon the ground ;
And quickening then his pace, in worse alarm,
Along the shade, with cautious step, he moved
Toward one, to seize his weapons : 'twas a corpse ;
Nor whether, at the sight, to hope or fear
Yet knew he. But anon, a steady light,
As of a taper, seen in his own home,
Comforted him ; and, drawing nearer now,
He saw his sister on her knees, beside
The rushes, ministering to a wounded man.
Safe that the dear one lived, then back he sped,
With joyful haste, and summoned Llaian on,
And in loud talk advanced. Erillyab first
Came forward at the sound ; for she had faith
To trust the voice. .. They live! they live! she cried;
God hath redeemed them! . . Nor the Maiden yet
Believed the actual joy: like one astound,
Or as if struggling with a dream, she stood,
Till he came close, and spread his arms, and called,
Goervyl! . . . and she fell in his embrace.

But Madoc lingered not ; his eager soul
Was in the war ; in haste he donned his arms ;
And, as he felt his own good sword again,
Exulting played his heart. .. Boy, he exclaimed
To Mervyn, arm thyself, and follow me!
For, in this conquest, we shall break the power
Of our blood-thirsty foe: and, in thine age,
Wouldst thou not wish, when young men crowd around,
To hear thee chronicle their fathers' deeds,
Wouldst thou not wish to add, . . And I, too, fought
In that day's conflict ?

Mervyn's cheek turned pale
A moment, then, with terror all suffused,
Grew fever-red. Nay, nay! Goervyl cried,
He is too young for battles! . . But the Prince,
With erring judgment, in that fear-flushed cheek
Beheld the glow of enterprizing hope,
And youthful courage. I was such a boy,
Sister! he cried, at Counsyllt ; and that day,
In my first field, with stripling arm, smote down
Many a tall Saxon. Saidst thou not but now,
How bravely, in the fight of yesterday,
He fleshed sword wouldst thou keep him here,
And rob him of his glory ? See his cheek !
How it hath crimsoned at the unworthy thought !
Arm! arm! and to the battle !

How her heart
Then panted ! how, with late regret, and vain,
Senena wished Goervyl then had heard
The secret, trembling on her lips so oft,
So oft by shame withheld. She thought that now
She could have fallen upon her Lady's neck,
And told her all; but when she saw the Prince,
Imperious shame forbade her, and she felt
It were an easier thing to die than speak.
A Availed not now regret or female fear !
She mailed her delicate limbs ; beneath the plate
Compressed her bosom ; on her golden locks
The helmets overheavy load she placed ;
Hung from her neck the shield; and, though the sword
Which swung beside her lightest she had chosen,
Though in her hand she held the slenderest spear,
Alike unwieldy, for the maiden's grasp,
The sword and ashen lance. But as she touched
The murderous point, an icy shudder ran
Through every fibre of her trembling frame ;
And, overcome by womanly terror then,
The damsel to Goervyl turned, and let
Her breast-plate fall, and on her bosom placed
The Lady's hand, and hid her face, and cried
Save me! The warrior, who beheld the act,
And heard not the low voice, with angry eye
Glowed on the seemly boy of feeble heart.
But, in Goervyl, joy had overpowered
The wonder ; joy, to find the boy she loved
Was one, to whom her heart with closer love
Might cling ; and to her brother she exclaimed,
She must not go! We women in the war
Have done our parts.

A moment Madoc dwelt
On the false Mervyn, with an eye from whence
Displeasure did not wholly pass away.
Nor loitering to resolve Love's riddle now,
To Malinal he turned, where, on his couch,
The wounded youth was laid. .. True friend, said he,
And brother mine, . . for, truly, by that name
I trust to greet thee, .. if, in this near fight,
My hour should overtake me, . . as who knows
The lot of war? .. Goervyl hath my charge
To quite thee, for thy service, with herself ;
That so thou mayest raise up seed to me
Of mine own blood, who may inherit here
The obedience of thy people and of mine. ... .
Malinal took his hand, and to his lips
Feebly he prest it, saying, One boon more,
Father and friend, I ask! . . if thou shouldst meet
Yuhidthiton in battle, think of me.