  Here is Kit Logan with her love-child come To Lady Helen's gate: Then down sweeps Helen from the Italian room, She, with her child of hate. Kit's boy was born of violent hot desire, Helen's of hate and dread: Poor girl, betrayed to union with the Squire, Loathing her marriage bed. Kit Logan, who is father to your boy? But Helen knows, too well: Listen what biting taunts they both employ, Watch their red anger swell. Yet each would give her undying soul to be Changed to the other's place. Kit from the wet road's tasking cruelty Looks up to silk and lace, Helen looks down at rags, her fluttering pride Caught in this cage of glass, Eager to trudge, thieve, beg by the road-side, Or starving to eat grass ... Silence. Wrath dies. For Woman's old good name Each swears a sister's oath; Weeping, they kiss; to the Squire's lasting shame, Who broke the heart in both. |
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