The Count of Mirandel

Said the Count of Mirandel,
"If it's truth that the Fathers tell,
(And who would question a priest?)
I am just as sure of Hell
As the Bishop is of his feast
When the long, lean Lent has ceased.
So, for a little leaven,
To ease my bed in Hell
I must filch somewhat of Heaven!"

At the mass he would not bow,
The Count of Mirandel;
And he stood with lifted brow
At the raising of the Host;
So the wrathful Bishop swore
By the Rood and the Holy Ghost,
And all of the saints as well,
He would brook the mien no more
Of the Count of Mirandel.

He was the doughtiest blade
That dwelt at the Bishop's court;
And you could not say his forte
Was the sword-thrust, or the dance,
Or the couching of a lance,
Or the witching way he played
The lute, or sang, or yet
The manner in which he made
Ballade and chansonette;
For he did them all so well
Each seemed the veriest sport
To the Count of Mirandel.

One deathless creed he had —
The passionate creed of Love;
And the shining text thereof
Was the Bishop's flower-like niece,
The Demoiselle Avice.
And, forsooth, his heart was sad
If the round of a day went by
When he might not feel the spell
Of the love-light of her eye;
And she—no tongue can tell
How she answered sigh for sigh
To the Count of Mirandel.

Now into the Bishop's brain
There had drifted never a gleam
Of the love that bound these twain,
Or their golden summer dream
Had been closed by a dungeon-cell
Long, long before for the swain—
For the Count of Mirandel.

It chanced on the very day
When the angry Bishop swore
That the count, with his scoffing way,
Should darken his court no more
(Despite his pressing needs
Of a man of fearless deeds),
Gossip, the prying dame,
To the Bishop's chamber came;
And if for the youth before
It had boded far from well,
Faith, now there was danger sore
For the Count of Mirandel!

Danger—it was no bar,
For he loved it next to Love!
He scented it afar,
As the questing hawk the dove.
He could gaze upon its face
With a suave and steady smile;
He could meet it with a grace
That was cloak to a subtle wile,
He looked upon it now,
And his laugh rang like a bell;
There was no cloud on the brow
Of the Count of Mirandel!

There came grim guards to his room,
With halberd and helmet plume;
"In the Bishop's name!" they cried,
And entered. Naught but gloom,
And the casement open wide!
There was scurrying to and fro,
Clamor and torchlight's glow,
And the Bishop raged: "My niece,
The Demoiselle Avice,
Bid her be brought below;
She shall answer, mark me well,
For this monstrous, mad caprice—
For this Count of Mirandel!"

Fate laughs at kings, 'tis said,
And it laughs at bishops, too!
To the roof-tree's very lead
The women, a trembling crew,
Searched all of the palace through;
But they found no hair of the head
Of the flower-fair Demoiselle;
And they told the Bishop dread—
(There was nothing else to do,
Though they shook as under a spell!)
"We fear, your Grace, she has fled
With the Count of Mirandel!"

Said the Count of Mirandel,
Sitting within his tower,
To the lovely Demoiselle,
At the shut of the sunset hour,
"They had doomed my soul, Ma Belle,
(They who wield the rod,
So they deem, of the great Lord God!)
So, for a little leaven,
To ease my path to Hell,
I have filched somewhat of Heaven!"