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 And the great scene— (That, maybe, never happened!) Beaten at last, Before the hard old king: "Your son, ah, since he died My wit and worth are cobwebs brushed aside In the full flare of grief. Do what you will."

Take the whole man, and ravel out the story. He loved this lady in castle Montaignac? The castle flanked him—he had need of it. You read to-day, how long the overlords of Perigord, The Talleyrands, have held the place, it was no transient fiction. And Maent failed him? Or saw through the scheme?

And all his net-like thought of new alliance? Chalais is high, a-level with the poplars. Its lowest stones just meet the valley tips Where the low Dronne is filled with water-lilies. And Rochecouart [sic] can match it, stronger yet, The very spur's end, built on sheerest cliff, And Malemort keeps its close hold on Brive, While Born his own close purse, his rabbit warren, His subterranean chamber with a dozen doors, A-bristle with antennae to feel roads, To sniff the traffic into Perigord.