I care not if from shoulder now to feetThey strip my poor rags of pretence away --Torn lace of pride that once seemed very meet,Bedraggled crest that in the lists shone gay,And, with strange darker scarlet soaking through,The soiled wet scarlet of a tattered shoe.
One will say, "See -- a wound got in no fight,The ash-white kiss of some old venomed knife,And not across his breast, as it were right --Draining his honour pale, but not his life."And one, "A little scar stands well apart,Flame-crooked just above a coward's heart."
"See, on his wrists the fresh marks of the gyves --Slave was he to some Thing unholy, suchAs would weave cobweb strands about our livesAnd prison us, should we Its servant touch."Presently they will go. I lie as stillAs the small scent of grasses on the hill.
Their pebbles cannot sting; not when they say,"There is no surgeon who would think to healA serf not worth the healing." For the swayOf tender grass against my breast I feel ...Nor care I when one murmurs, very low,"That hand had swung a right sword, long ago."
So -- they were gone. A little noiseless windTouched my scarred wrists. "See, knight, how you are free.No dark enchantments can your poor hands bind --They were so strong . . ." She sought to comfort me,And one white star over the black pines stole --I think her joy was to make sick men whole.
