When they to harry foreign folk are boune,
Taking their own lives in their reckless hands.

XXXV.

But still in Paris did his anger burn,
And still his sword was lifted up to slay,
When, like a lot leap'd forth of Fate's own urn,
He mark'd the graven tokens where they lay,
'Mid Helen's hair in golden disarray,
And looking on them, knew what he had done,
Knew what dire thing had fallen on that day,
Knew how a father's hand had slain a son.

XXXVI.

Then Paris on his face fell grovelling,
And the night gather'd, and the silence grew
Within the darkened chamber of the king.
But Helen rose, and a sad breath she drew,
And her new woes came back to her anew:
Ah, where is he but knows the bitter pain
To wake from dreams, and find his sorrow true,
And his ill life returned to him again!

XXXVII.

She needed none to tell her whence it fell,
The thick red rain upon the marble floor:
She knew that in her bower she might not dwell,