Christalan turned quick
His face away, and strove to hide the pain
That held him in its sharp and sudden grasp,
Pain of the flesh, that was but less than pain
Of heart, that it should keep him from his King,
And knightly service worthy of his name
Greane spoke not, but she understood, and crept
Close to his side, finding his cold white hand,—
The laughter turned to tears within her eyes.
Great was his love for Greane, but greater far
His love for Agathar Born of his pain,
A strange dependence tinged pathetically
The proud possession of his trust as guard
Of her reft life and lonely widowhood.
He waited for her coming in the morn
With flowers he had gathered ere she woke;
At night he led her to her chamber door,
With boyish homage touched with stately grace,
And Agathar said to her widowed heart,
"How like his father in his courtesy'"
Often she kissed him, whispering the while,
"Beloved Christalan, my more than knight,
You bear your bitter lot so patiently.
Thank God you are so valiant and so true'"
Slowly the shadow on his way grew less
Eclipsing, the brave spirit that was ripe
For doing deeds came to fulfil itself
In the far harder task of doing naught,
The courage ready for activity
But changed its course, as he forebore and smiled
And yet he oft would hasten from the sight
Of Greane and Agathar, and seek the wood,
Where he was hidden from the tender eyes
So quick to see his struggle. Lying prone
Upon the grass, he stretched his fragile form
Its fullest length to cheat himself with thought
That he was stalwart, then he closed his eyes
To generous summer's lavish golden glow
Of shimmering sunshine playing everywhere,
And the fair world of beauty, flowering;
Shut from his hearing caroling of bird,
The liquid rhythm of rivulet, the song
Of wind amid the tree-tops, all the notes
Of nature's melody; and heard alone,
With inward ear, the clanging clash of arms
And shouts of victory Through the long hours
He lay and fought his fight imaginary,
To rise, more wan, to wage his war with pain.
One morning, when the sun rose, he was far
From Noël-garde. He had gone out to seek
The wayside lilies, fresh with early dew.
From the deep shadow of the wood he heard
A troop of mailed horsemen cry a halt
Just in the path before him. In low tones
They talked of a dark plot to kill the King.
The heart of Christalan, that beat so faint,
And oft so wearily, beat fast and strong
In anxious listening. It was a band
Of outlawed robbers, rebels to the King,
Who planned to lay at the great undern hunt
A trap for the brave, unsuspecting King,
Spring on him unawares, and take his life,
And have revenge for justice done to them.
His King! they spoke about his noble King,
Then in the old court castle near his home,
For a brief resting on his journey north.
He leaned against a gnarled and twisted oak,
His soul a listening intensity,
And all his strength, seemed leaving him; he drew
A quick and stifled breath of sharpest pain,
As they rode on, and thought of Agathar,
Watching and waiting for his coming home.
"Yes, I can save him; God be thanked for that.
I now may do one valiant deed and die."
It was a long way to the court, through dense
Unbroken forest, with a single path
Trodden between the trees; he had no horse,
No strength, and little time before the deed—
The dreadful deed—be done. Not since his hurt
Had he walked fast, or far, without great pain;
Now it will follow every step he takes—
But what is that, he goes to save his King!
Prepared to brave the pain, all stealthily
He started from the shadow of the trees;
When suddenly two of the bandit band
Came riding back again, ere he could hide—
The one had dropped his javelin and returned
To seek it. Heavy coats of mail incased
The stalwart frames scarce needing a defense,
So strong they were.