I Am Here To Time, You See; The Glade Is Well-Screened - Eh? - Against Alarm; Fit Place To Vindicate By My Arm The Honour Of My Spotless Wife, Who Scorns Your Libel Upon Her Life In Boasting Intimacy! 'All Hush-Offerings You'll Spurn, My Husband. Two Must Come; One Only Go,' She Said. 'That He'll Be You I Know; To Faith Like Ours Heaven Will Be Just, And I Shall Abide In Fullest Trust Your Speedy Glad Return.'" "Good. Here Am Also I; And We'll Proceed Without More Waste Of Words To Warm Your Cockpit. Of The Swords Take You Your Choice. I Shall Thereby Feel That On Me No Blame Can Lie, Whatever Fate Accords." So Stripped They There, And Fought, And The Swords Clicked And Scraped, And The Onsets Sped; Till The Husband Fell; And His Shirt Was Red With Streams From His Heart'S Hot Cistern. Nought Could Save Him Now; And The Other, Wrought Maybe To Pity, Said: "Why Did You Urge On This? Your Wife Assured You; And 'T Had Better Been That You Had Let Things Pass, Serene In Confidence Of Long-Tried Bliss, Holding There Could Be Nought Amiss In What My Words Might Mean." Then, Seeing Nor Ruth Nor Rage Could Move His Foeman More - Now Death'S Deaf Thrall - He Wiped His Steel, And, With A Call Like Turtledove To Dove, Swift Broke Into The Copse, Where Under An Oak His Horse Cropt, Held By A Page. "All'S Over, Sweet," He Cried To The Wife, Thus Guised; For The Young Page Was She. "'Tis As We Hoped And Said 'T Would Be. He Never Guessed . . . We Mount And Ride To Where Our Love Can Reign Uneyed. He's Clay, And We Are Free."