The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1 - George MacDonald

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        Julian.

        No, Lilia; he's at liberty and safe,

        And far from this ere now.

        Lilia.

                           You have done this,

        My noble Julian! I will go with you

        To sunset, if you will. My father gone!

        Julian, there's none to love me now but you.

        You will love me, Julian?—always?

        Julian.

                                   I but fear

        That your heart, Lilia, is not big enough

        To hold the love wherewith my heart would fill it.

        Lilia.

        I know why you think that; and I deserve it.

        But try me, Julian. I was very silly.

        I could not help it. I was ill, you know;

        Or weak at least. May I ask you, Julian,

        How your arm is to-day?

        Julian.

                               Almost well, child.

        Twill leave an ugly scar, though, I'm afraid.

        Lilia.

        Never mind that, if it be well again.

        Julian.

        I do not mind it; but when I remember

        That I am all yours, then I grudge that scratch

        Or stain should be upon me—soul, body, yours.

        And there are more scars on me now than I

        Should like to make you own, without confession.

        Lilia.

        My poor, poor Julian! never think of it;

      [Putting her arms round him.]

        I will but love you more. I thought you had

        Already told me suffering enough;

        But not the half, it seems, of your adventures.

        You have been a soldier!

        Julian.

                         I have fought, my Lilia.

        I have been down among the horses' feet;

        But strange to tell, and harder to believe,

        Arose all sound, unmarked with bruise, or blood

        Save what I lifted from the gory ground.

      [Sighing.]

      My wounds are not of such.

        [LILIA, loosening her arms, and drawing back a little with a kind of shrinking, looks a frightened interrogation.]

                                 No. Penance, Lilia;

        Such penance as the saints of old inflicted

        Upon their quivering flesh. Folly, I know;

        As a lord would exalt himself, by making

        His willing servants into trembling slaves!

        Yet I have borne it.

        Lilia

        (laying her hand on his arm).

                            Ah, alas, my Julian,

        You have been guilty!

        Julian.

                            Not what men call guilty,

        Save it be now; now you will think I sin.

        Alas, I have sinned! but not in this I sin.—

        Lilia, I have been a monk.

        Lilia.

                               A monk?

      [Turningpale.]

      I thought—

      [Faltering.]

      Julian,—I thought you said…. did you not say…?

      [Very pale, brokenly.]

      I thought you said …

      [With an effort.]

      I was to be your wife!

      [Covering her face with her hands, and bursting into tears.]

        Julian

        (speaking low and in pain).

        And so I did.

        Lilia

        (hopefully, and looking up).

        Then you've had dispensation?

        Julian.

        God has absolved me, though the Church will not.

        He knows it was in ignorance I did it.

        Rather would he have men to do his will,

        Than keep a weight of words upon their souls,

        Which they laid there, not graven by his finger.

        The vow was made to him—to him I break it.

        Lilia

        (weeping

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