But yet more cold on Christine's heart there lay
The winter-clutch of grief, as, far away,
She saw him ride, and in the stirrup rise
And, turning, wave to her a last farewell.
Beyond the ridge he vanished, and her eyes
Caught the far flashing of the helm of gold
One moment as it glanced with mocking light;
Then naught but tossing pine-trees filled her sight.
Yet darker gloomed the woodlands 'neath the drench
Of pillared showers; colder and yet more cold