"But I have been a mother," she replied
In tones so strange he roused to look at her,
And saw his sorrow's kinship in her eyes.
He drew her arm beneath his head, and slept.
They noursled him to outward show of strength,
With care and love, the best of medicines.
A brighter day now dawned for Noël-garde
With his home-coming, notwithstanding grief.
What tales there were to tell of the great court,
Of his long service with Sir Kathanal,
To which Greane listened with quick, bated breath,
Sharing each feat and play with Christalan
As he relived it for her.
"List ye, Greane,"
He said one day with ardour of brave youth
Aglow for bravery; "I met a man
Who once had seen the great Sir Launcelot,
And told me of him. How he prayed and prayed
Within the cloister; all his deeds of war,
Of prowess, and renown, were naught to him,
Though men bowed low in goodly reverence
As he walked by; and some, 'the foolish ones,'
The man said, yet they seem not so to me,
Stooped down and kissed the footprints that he left.
Although he wore but simple gown of serge,
With girdle at the waist, like any monk,
One felt, with passing glance, he had a power
Unconquerable in reserve, to swift
O'ercome whate'er approached him, if he would.
And, Greane, bend down and let me speak to you:
I saw at Camelot the great white tomb
Of sweet Elaine, and not in all the court
Saw I a maiden half so fair as she.
She lies there carved in marble, pure and white;
And, by our blessed Lord, my heart is sure
That, were she living, I should love her well."
"O Christalan! you would not love a maid
That lost her maiden pride and dignity,
Giving her love unasked?" said Greane, in scorn.
"Alas, Greane! have you, hidden from the world,
Learned the world's jargon and false estimates?
Do you not know that love is more than pride,
And beating heart more than cold dignity?
Men die for glory, and you all applaud.
Elaine's love was her glory; honour her
That she did die for it. That she could tell
Her story fearlessly to all the court
But proves her high, unconscious purity."
"Well," said fair Greane, with laughter in her eyes,
"I straight will die for the next noble knight
Who comes to Noël-garde to rest awhile,
And you shall put me on a gilded barge,—
I will not have a solemn bed of black!—
And our old servitor shall deck—"
"Peace, Greane!"
Said Christalan, in tones that frightened her,
Who knew no sound from him but tenderness.
"Dare not to jest about that holy maid,
Too pure to fear, too true to hide her heart."
Then there were tales to tell of the great King
Who passed in such a wondrous mystery
From out the realm; and of King Constantine,
"Who may not be like great King Arthur, Greane,
But who deservedly has right to wear
The crown he wore; for he is brave and strong,
Mighty in battle, bountiful in peace,
To each brave knight a friend, and to the weak
As I, who never knew a father, think
A father might be.
"When I saw him first,
He asked, 'Are you Sir Noël's son—the knight
Who, with the mighty King (peace to his soul!),
Landed at Dover, and there fought so well?'
Abashed I answered, 'Yea, my liege'; but he
Laid his great hand, that has a jagged scar
Half-way across it, on my arm and said,
'Be not afraid; I was your father's friend,
And will be yours, if you are worthy him.'
"Often thereafter would he speak to me
So graciously, I for a time forgot
He was a king, and answered him as free
From fear or shyness as I answer you,
Told him my thirst for knighthood and for fame,
To which he listened with that strange grim smile,
So like a sunbeam in a rocky place
Then, straightway, as I watched him, in his eyes
There came the look that made me want to kneel,
Remembering he was a king indeed.
I love him, Greane, I—"