Alone, as was her wont, she sate,—within her bower alone;—
Alone, and very desolate, Solisa made her moan,
Lamenting for her flower of life, that it should pass away,
And she be never wooed to wife, nor see a bridal day.

Thus said the sad Infanta—"I will not hide my grief,
I'll tell my father of my wrong, and he will yield relief."—
The King, when he beheld her near, "Alas! my child," said he,
"What means this melancholy cheer?—reveal thy grief to me."—

"Good King," she said, "my mother was buried long ago,
She left me to thy keeping, none else my griefs shall know;
I fain would have a husband, 'tis time that I should wed,—
Forgive the words I utter, with mickle shame they're said."—

'Twas thus the King made answer,—"This fault is none of mine,
You to the Prince of Hungary your ear would not incline;
Yet round us here where lives your peer?—nay, name him if you can,—
Except the Count Alarcos, and he's a married man."—

"Ask Count Alarcos, if of yore his word he did not plight
To be my husband evermore, and love me day and night?
If he has bound him in new vows, old oaths he cannot break—
Alas! I've lost a loyal spouse, for a false lover's sake."—

The good King sat confounded in silence for some space,
At length he made this answer, with very troubled face,—
"It was not thus your mother gave counsel you should do;
You've done much wrong, my daughter; we're shamed, both I and you.

"If it be true that you have said, our honour's lost and gone;
And while the Countess is in life, remeed for us is none.
Though justice were upon our side, ill-talkers would not spare—
Speak, daughter, for your mother's dead, whose counsel eased my care."

"How can I give you counsel?—but little wit have I;
But certes, Count Alarcos may make this Countess die;
Let it be noised that sickness cut short her tender life,
And then let Count Alarcos come and ask me for his wife.
What passed between us long ago, of that be nothing said;
Thus none shall our dishonour know, in honour I shall wed."—

The Count was standing with his friends, thus in the midst he spake—
"What fools we be! what pains men dree for a fair woman's sake!
I loved a fair one long ago;—though I'm a married man,
Sad memory I can ne'er forego, how life and love began."—

While yet the Count was speaking, the good King came full near;
He made his salutation with very courteous cheer.
"Come hither, Count Alarcos, and dine with me this day,
For I have something secret I in your ear must say."—

The King came from the chapel, when he had heard the mass;
With him the Count Alarcos did to his chamber pass;
Full nobly were they servÈd there, by pages many a one;
When all were gone, and they alone, 'twas thus the King begun.—

"What news be these, Alarcos, that you your word did plight,
To be a husband to my child, and love her day and night?
If more between you there did pass, yourself may know the truth,
But shamed is my grey-head—alas!—and scorned Solisa's youth.

"I have a heavy word to speak—a lady fair doth lie
Within my daughter's rightful place, and certes! she must die—
Let it be noised that sickness cut short her tender life,
Then come and woo my daughter, and she shall be your wife:—
What passed between you long ago, of that be nothing said,
Thus, none shall my dishonour know—in honour you shall wed."

Thus spake the Count Alarcos—"The truth I'll not deny,
I to the Infanta gave my troth, and broke it shamefully;
I feared my King would ne'er consent to give me his fair daughter;
But, oh! spare her that's innocent—avoid that sinful slaughter."—

"She dies, she dies," the King replies; "from thine own sin it springs,
If guiltless blood must wash the blot which stains the blood of kings:
Ere morning dawn her life must end, and thine must be the deed,
Else thou on shameful block must bend: thereof is no remeed."

"Good King, my hand thou mayst command, else treason blots my name!
I'll take the life of my dear wife—(God! mine be not the blame!)
Alas! that young and sinless heart for others' sin should bleed!
Good King, in sorrow I depart."——"May God your errand speed!"—

In sorrow he departed, dejectedly he rode
The weary journey from that place, unto his own abode;
He grieved for his fair Countess, dear as his life was she;
Sore grieved he for that lady, and for his children three.

The one was yet an infant upon its mother's breast,
For though it had three nurses, it liked her milk the best;
The others were young children, that had but little wit,
Hanging about their mother's knee while nursing she did sit.

"Alas!" he said, when he had come within a little space,
"How shall I brook the cheerful look of my kind lady's face?
To see her coming forth in glee to meet me in my hall,
When she so soon a corpse must be, and I the cause of all!"

Just then he saw her at the door with all her babes appear—
(The little page had run before to tell his lord was near)
"Now welcome home, my lord, my life!—Alas! you droop your head
Tell, Count Alarcos, tell your wife, what makes your eyes so red?"—

"I'll tell you all—I'll tell you all: It is not yet the hour;
We'll sup together in the hall—I'll tell you in your bower."
The lady brought forth what she had, and down beside him sate;
He sat beside her pale and sad, but neither drank nor ate.

The children to his side were led (he loved to have them so),
Then on the board he laid his head, and out his tears did flow:—
"I fain would sleep—I fain would sleep,"—the Count Alarcos said:—
Alas! be sure, that sleep was none that night within their bed.

They came together to the bower where they were used to rest,
None with them but the little babe that was upon the breast:
The Count had barred the chamber doors, they ne'er were barred till then;
"Unhappy lady," he began, "and I most lost of men!"

"Now, speak not so, my noble lord, my husband and my life,
Unhappy never can she be, that is Alarcos' wife."—
"Alas! unhappy lady, 'tis but little that you know,
For in that very word you've said is gathered all your woe.

"Long since I loved a lady,—long since I oaths did plight,
To be that lady's husband, to love her day and night;
Her father is our lord the King, to him the thing is known,
And now, that I the news should bring! she claims me for her own.

"Alas! my love, alas! my life, the right is on their side;
Ere I had seen your face, sweet wife, she was betrothed my bride;
But, oh! that I should speak the word—since in her place you lie,
It is the bidding of our Lord, that you this night must die."—

"Are these the wages of my love, so lowly and so leal?—
O, kill me not, thou noble Count, when at thy foot I kneel!—
But send me to my father's house, where once I dwelt in glee,
There will I live a lone chaste life, and rear my children three."—

"It may not be—mine oath is strong—ere dawn of day you die!"—
"O! well 'tis seen how all alone upon the earth am I—
My father is an old frail man,—my mother's in her grave,—
And dead is stout Don Garcia—Alas! my brother brave!

"'Twas at this coward King's command they slew my brother dear,
And now I'm helpless in the land:—It is not death I fear,
But loth, loth am I to depart, and leave my children so—
Now let me lay them to my heart, and kiss them ere I go."—

"Kiss him that lies upon thy breast—the rest thou mayst not see."—
"I fain would say an Ave."—"Then say it speedily."—
She knelt her down upon her knee: "O Lord! behold my case—
Judge not my deeds, but look on me in pity and great grace."—

When she had made her orison, up from her knees she rose—
"Be kind, Alarcos, to our babes, and pray for my repose—
And now give me my boy once more upon my breast to hold,
That he may drink one farewell drink, before my breast be cold."—

"Why would you waken the poor child? you see he is asleep—
Prepare, dear wife, there is no time, the dawn begins to peep."—
"Now hear me, Count Alarcos! I give thee pardon free—
I pardon thee for the love's sake wherewith I've lovÈd thee.

"But they have not my pardon, the King and his proud daughter—
The curse of God be on them, for this unchristian slaughter!—
I charge them with my dying breath, ere thirty days be gone,
To meet me in the realm of death, and at God's awful throne!"—

He drew a kerchief round her neck, he drew it tight and strong,
Until she lay quite stiff and cold her chamber floor along;
He laid her then within the sheets, and, kneeling by her side,
To God and Mary Mother in misery he cried.

Then called he for his esquires:—oh! deep was their dismay,
When they into the chamber came, and saw her how she lay;—
Thus died she in her innocence, a lady void of wrong,
But God took heed of their offence—his vengeance stayed not long.

Within twelve days, in pain and dole, the Infanta passed away,
The cruel King gave up his soul upon the twentieth day;
Alarcos followed ere the Moon had made her round complete.—
Three guilty spirits stood right soon before God's judgment-seat.