Chapter III

As some new jest was tossed from tongue to tongue, Light laughter rippled round the midday board, Beneath the bannered rafters: dame and lord And maid and squire with merry chattering Sat feasting; though no motley humour wrung A smile from Hild, where she, beside the King, Watched pale and still. She saw on Geoffrey's face Grave wonder that he caught not anywhere Among the maids the dusk of Christine's hair, Or sunlight of her glance. His eyes, between The curtained doorway and her empty place, Kept eager, anxious vigil for Christine. But when, at last, the lingering meal nigh o'er, The waking harp-notes trembled through the hush, Like the light, fitful prelude of the thrush Ere his full song enchant the domed elm; The arras parting, through the open door She came. Before her borne, the golden helm Within the dim-lit hall shone out so bright, That lord and dame in rustling wonder rose, And squire and maiden sought to gather close, With questioning lips, about the love-bright maid. Christine, unheeding, turned nor left nor right; With lifted head and eager step unstayed, She strode to Geoffrey, while he stood alone, Radiant with wondering love--as one who sees The light of high, eternal mysteries Illume awhile the mortal shade that moves From out oblivion unto night unknown, Hugging a little grace of joys and loves. Before him now she came and, kneeling, spake, With slow, clear-welling voice: "In ages old This helm was wrought from elfin-hammered gold, For one who, in the after-days, should be Supreme above his kind, as, in the brake Of branching fern, the solitary tree That crests the fell-top. Unto you I bring The gift of destiny, that, as the sun New-risen of your knighthood, newly-won, The wondering world may see its glory shine." As Christine spake, with questioning glance the King Turned to the Queen, who gave no answering sign. Then, stretching forth his arm, he cried: "Sir knight, I know not by what evil chance this maid Has climbed the secret newell-stair unstayed And reached the casket-chamber, and has borne From thence the Helm of Strife, whereon the light Of day has never fallen, night or morn, For seven hundred years; but, ere you take The doomful gift, know this: he who shall dare To don the golden helm must ever fare Upon the edge of peril, ever ride Between dark-ambushed dangers, ever wake Unto the thunderous crash of battle-tide. Oh, pause before you take the fateful helm. Will you, so young, forego, for evermore, The sheltered haven-raptures of the shore, To strive in ceaseless tempest, till, at last, The fury-crested wave shall overwhelm Your broken life on death's dark crag upcast?" He ceased, and stood with eyes of hot appeal; An aching silence shuddered through the hall; None stirred nor spake, though, swaying like to fall, Christine, in mute, imploring agony, Wavered nigh death. As glittering points of steel Queen Hild's eyes gleamed in bitter victory. But all were turned to Geoffrey, where he stood In pillared might of manhood, very fair; His face a little paled beneath his hair, Though bright his eyes with all the light of day. At length he spake: "For evil or for good, I take the Helm of Strife; let come what may."