Chapter II: Part 2

Between the bronze-brown of his eyes and her, There sudden came a faint and misty veil; Through the wide-open window a sun's beam Flashed on it, making o'er her bowed head A halo from his own unfallen tears. He rose and lifted her, loosed her sweet hands, And fell upon his knees low at her feet. "Leorre, my love, my queen, my woman-saint, I am not worthy, but I take your quest; I will not falter and I will not swerve Until I see the Grail, or pass to where I see the glory it but symbols here, In Paradise. Beloved, all the world Is better for your living, all the air Is sweeter for your breathing, and all love Is holier, purer, that you may be loved."

"Rise, Kathanal, stand still and let me gaze Upon you with that purpose in your face! So brave, so resolute! I love you, Kathanal! Nay! do not touch me, listen to my words! Surely it cannot be a sin to speak, Perchance it is a debt I owe my knight For his life's consecration, once to say To him, as I have said to my own heart, Just how I love him.

"I would follow you Across the world, if it might be, a slave, To serve you at your bidding night and day; Or I would rouse me to my highest pride That I might be your queen, and lead you on To glory. I am strong to do and bear The uttermost my mind can think, for you, To cheer you, help you, strengthen you; and yet-- I am a woman, and my senses thrill If you but touch the border of my robe, And if you take my hand, before the court, And raise it to your lips, I faint, I die, With the vast tide of my unconquered love."

"Great Christ! how can I hear you and depart? I did not know you loved me. O my sweet, Here by your side I stay; my quest shall be The love-light dawning in your shining eyes."

"Is this your answer, Kathanal," she sighed, "To the unveiling of my heart of hearts? No! now, if ever, you will surely go On the sole quest that makes that action right."

"Leorre, come once to me!" he said with arms Outstretched to her. Quickly she backward drew With one swift whispered "Kathanal!"

"Leorre, You cannot love and be so calm and still; My soul would sacrifice both earth and heaven For one full, rapturous kiss from those sweet lips That lure me on to madness by their spell."

"It is my love that keeps me calm," she said; "Love makes us strong for what is bitterest; Were we faint-hearted through imperfect love We could not part; but loving perfectly We are full strong for that, and all things else.

"Farewell, my Kathanal, take as you go This spotless scarf, the girdle from my robe, And put it where the purple plume has been, And wear it as my favour in your helm. If that lost plume was darksome omen ill, Let this defy it with an omen fair, A prophecy to spur you on your quest. My heart says it is better as it is; I joy me that you flung into the sea That purple plume my loving, longing gaze Has often followed in the tournament. Remember, purple doth betoken pain, And white betokens conquest, purity; Look, Kathanal, beloved, in my eyes! I _know_ that you will find the Holy Grail."

She stood immaculate, and from those eyes That oft had kindled passionate desire He drew an inspiration high and pure, A prescient sense of victory and peace, And falling on his knees once more, he bowed, Kissed her white robe, and left her standing there.

Then followed days of struggle and dark gloom. Far from the court he found a lonely cell, Where morn and night he prayed, and, praying, wrought A score of earnest, unrecorded deeds To purify and cleanse himself from sin.

Oft the old passion would arise and sweep His spirit bare of every conquest Once The longing and the yearning were so great, So strong beyond all thought of holiness, He sprang up from his bed at dead of night And stopped not, night nor day, until he reached His old home by the sea, and saw Leorre. Her hair had its untarnished golden glow, Her beauty was unchanged, but her sweet mouth Had caught a touch of pathos in its smile; She wore a purple robe, and stood in state Beside Sir Reginault,--who greeted him With tender, grave, and kind solicitude,-- And lifted eyes that smote upon his heart With a long gaze of passionate appeal That held a pain at bay deep in their depths.

"So weak," he whispered to his heart, "for self, I will be strong for her, she needs my strength."

Again he hurried from her sight, half glad For the remembered pain within her eyes; Ashamed of his own soul that it was glad.

For years he struggled, prayed, and fought his fight; And sometimes when his soul was desolate And he was weary from his eager quest, When such a sense of deep humility Would fall upon his praying, watching heart That he would fain forego all in despair, A marvellous ray of light, mysterious, Would slant athwart the darkness of his cell, Then he would rouse him to his quest once more And say, "Perchance the Holy Grail is near!"

One night at midnight came the ray again, And with it came a strange expectancy Of spirit as the light waxed radiant. The cell was filled with spicy odours sweet, And on the midnight stillness song was borne As sweet as heaven's harmony--the words,-- The same Sir Launcelot had heard of old,-- "Honour and joy be to the Father of Heaven." With wide eyes searching his lone cell for cause He waited: as the ray became more clear And more effulgent than the mid-day sun, He trembled with that chill of mortal flesh Beholding spiritual things. At last-- Now vaguely as though veiled by light, and then With shining clearness, perfectly--he saw _The sight unspeakable, transcending words_.

Forth from his barren cell came Kathanal, Strong and inspired, born anew for deeds. Straightway he grew to be the bravest knight Under King Constantine, since Sir Sanpeur; The boldest in the battles for the right; The kindest in his judgment of the wrong. His eyes that held the vision of the Grail Were ever clear to see and know the truth; His lips that had been touched by holy chrism Were strong to utter holy living words; He sang of life in life, and life in death, And taught the lesson that his heart had learned-- All love should be a glory, not a doom; Love for love's sake, albeit bliss-denied.

To his old home beside the sapphire sea Floated his songs and his far-reaching fame; For in the land no name was loved so well As Kathanal the peerless Minstrel Knight.

Lone in her chamber sat Leorre, and heard The songs of Kathanal by courtiers sung-- Arousing words, like a clear clarion call To truth and virtue, purity and faith. She clasped her hands and bent her head, and wept In silent passion pent-up tears, for joy; For now she knew--far off, beyond her sight-- Her love had seen the sacred Holy Grail. And, as she listened, inspiration came, Irradiating all her spirit, lifting it Beyond her sorrow and her daily want Of Kathanal. Soft through her soul there crept The echo of a benedicite, Enwrapping her in calm, triumphant peace.

Then she arose, put on her whitest robe, And went out radiant, strong, and full of joy.

Note to text beginning "A marvellous ray of light, mysterious,..." [Transcriber's Note: "Note to Page 88" in the original text]

"_In the midst of the blast entred a sunne beame more clear by seaven times then ever they saw day, and all they were alighted of the grace of the holy Ghost_"

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"_Then there entred into the hall the holy grale covered with white samite, but there was none that might see it, nor who beare it, and there was all the hall fulfilled with good odours_."

* * * * *

"_Then he listned, and heard a voice which sung so sweetly, that it seemed none earthly thing, and him thought that the voice said, 'Joy and honour be to the Father of heaven._'"

SIR THOMAS MALORY, "_La Mort d'Arthure_"

CHRISTALAN.

The yellow sunlight, coming from the east, Through the great Minster windows, arched and high, That tell the story of our blessed Lord In colours royal with significance, Takes many hues, and falls upon the head Of a fair boy before the altar-rail. It is the son of the brave knight Noël, Cut off, alas! too early in his prime, Now lying dead beneath yon sculptured stone, But living in the hearts of the small group In the old Minster on this sunny morn. The proud young head is bowed in reverence Before the holy priest of God, whose face Is glowing with paternal love that shines Through dignity of the official calm. Who loves not Christalan for his blithe grace?-- For his dear eyes, so true, so fathomless, So full of tenderness, his mother thought They were the reflex of the steadfast love She bore her lord Noël? Who loves him not For his bright joyance and his laughter sweet?

But now he stands, all merry laughter stilled By awe that groweth slowly in his eyes, In silent quietude, a knightly lad, Clad in a doublet of unspotted white, Embroidered at the breast with these two words, Wrought by his mother's hand, _Valiant and True_. He hears at last the stirring words that move His soul as it has never yet been moved; Words that have haunted his imagining For days and nights, making his young heart yearn With restless longing for this present hour; Words that presage the glory of his life, The consecrated purpose of his youth In its fulfilment and accomplishment; The holy, sacred, solemn, early vow Of future knighthood for the noble lad. And now his father's sword is shown to him; His daring spirit, of a knightly race, Leaps out to grasp it, though his hand may not Until he grows to manhood. O the years That he must wait, and serve, and work for that! Why is it not to-morrow? He is strong, And, never having seen the great, wide world, With boyish confidence, that is the germ All undeveloped of man's later strength, He feels he is its master. For a space The altar and the holy man of God Are veiled before his earnest, searching gaze, By sudden picture which his fancy paints: He sees a tournament, himself a knight--

"God's peace be with thee, valiant boy and true; In the name of God the Father, and of the Son And of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

No tilt Nor tournament before his vision now,-- Swift in his boyish heart, so full of dreams Of fame, there springs a new, intense resolve Of consecration, an unconscious prayer For God's peace, though he knows not what it means.

The Lady Agathar stands, robed in black, Behind the buoyant boy she loves so well. She still has youth, and beauty, and desire; But each full throb of her true, wifely heart Beats for her lord, though he be gone,--all else In life is naught to her but Christalan, And Greane, the winsome maiden by her side.

Sweet Greane's heart thrills with pride of Christalan, And with the spirit of the solemn scene; But, also, with a fierce rebellious pang, That she is but a useless, silly girl. She wishes she too had been born a lad, To take the knightly vow, and leave the home, And go forth to the world and its delight.

Now Christalan turns from the altar-rail To see the love upon his mother's face. Back to the castle, in a goodly train, They take their way, in joyous merriment And festal cheer.

A banquet for the lad Is given in the hall, where gather soon The Noël-garde retainers, come to greet The noble boy, and say a long farewell.

The Lady Agathar still smiles, and fills The moment with all pleasure and delight, No shadow of her sorrow or her pain Shall fall upon her Christalan to-day, But deep within her heart she maketh moan, "My Christalan goes forth to-morrow morn."

Amid the revel Greane and Christalan Are missing for a time from the gay feast, And Agathar's quick eyes have followed them To where they sit apart, the two young heads, Of golden beauty and of softest brown, Forming a picture that for evermore Her memory will hold to solace grief, Or make it greater, as her mood may be.

"O Christalan how can I let you go?" Says sweet Greane, weeping "Who will climb with me The rocks to find the bird's nest? who will play At arms, forgetting that I am a girl, And helping me forget it?"

Christalan, Lifting the nut-brown curl to find her ear, Low whispers tenderly, "I love you, Greane, A hundred times more than were you a boy, And always have, e'en when I laughed at you."

Greane nestles to him, lays her pretty head Upon his breast, her slender shapely hand, Sun-browned and thorn scratched, wanders lovingly Over his face and hair,--then to the words Upon his doublet, tracing thoughtfully Their broidered curving with her forefinger,

"_Valiant and True_" she says: "My Christalan, When you are great and famous in the world, Which would you be, could you be only one?"

"Why, Greane, they go together, like the light And morning: no knight could be really true And not be valiant to the death; and yet, No valiant knight could live and not be true."

"But if you _could_ be only one?" says Greane, With child's persistency.

Quickly he starts, Throws back his head impatiently, replies, "I would be valiant, could I be but one."

"O Christalan, _I_ would be true," says Greane.

"Well, Greane, you teased me into saying it, So do not look so scornful! I should die If I could not exalt my father's name In valiant deeds of knighthood and of war. You have to choose, for you are but a girl; I need not choose, thank God! I will be both."

When the gray morning dawned at Noël-garde, The Lady Agathar went to her son; It was the last good-morrow they would say For many years to come. At the sun's rise He was to leave his home, to take his way To the brave knight Sir Kathanal, to whom Sir Noël, dying, had bade Agathar Send the young Christalan, in time, to learn The code of chivalry and knighthood. Back She drew the curtains of his bed, and watched Him sleeping, bent and kissed him:

"Christalan, Awake!" she said, "the day is breaking! Soon You leave your home where now you rule as lord, Boy though you are, and go as servitor; You must fulfil my heart's desire, my son, And, by God's help, bring answer to my prayers; You must be true and valiant, Christalan."

"Why, mother mine, is it not wrought in gold Upon my doublet?"

"Ah, my son," she said, "It must be wrought upon your heart as well As on your doublet."

Quick he answered her, "How can I help be valiant and most true, With such a father and your peerless self My mother? No, I will not fail, be sure. Some day I shall come riding home to you With honour, prizes, fame, and dignity, That shall befit my father's noble name, And all the court as I pass by will cry, 'Sir Christalan, the Valiant and the True!'"

"But, Christalan, first comes a time when you Must serve, and work, and cheer for other knights; No knight is fully worthy to command Until he knows the lesson to obey; No ruler can be great unless he learns With dignity to be a servitor. The least shall be the greatest, the most true In all things, howe'er small, shall be at last Most valiant. Will you serve as well, my son, As now you hope to conquer?"

"Mother mine, Nothing will be too hard for me, I know, With knighthood at the end. If that should fail, I could not bear it! It will come at last! When I shall hear the cry, that in our play Sweet Greane is ever calling through the wood, From all the court, and even from the King, 'Sir Christalan, the Valiant and the True!'"

Eight years had passed. The Lady Agathar, Unaged, unchanged, in her plain robe of black, Sat in her tower, watching for her son. Fair Greane was with her, tall, and full of grace, Right glad at last that she was born a maid.

They talked together of that day, gone by, When Christalan first left them They had heard How nobly, to the pride of Noël-garde, He bore his days of service, how, as squire, He was the favoured of Sir Kathanal, How keen and living his ambition was To prove the motto of his boyish choice And it was near, the mother's heart was glad That, ere the week was ended, Christalan Would be the knight his heart had longed to be. His maiden shield, waiting his valour's right To grave it as his doublet had been wrought, And his bright armour were in readiness For the long vigil by his arms, alone Before the altar in that sacred place, The holy Minster, where his father slept First he would come, that she might bless her son. Well did she comprehend the happiness In his brave heart to day, the early vow That stirred the boy so deeply, long ago, Was near its confirmation! His intense And solemn longing for the watch at night, His ardent joy in knighthood, won at last,-- She shared before she saw him, with that sense Of subtle sympathy a mother, only, knows. She spoke her thoughts aloud in pride-thrilled tones--

"Almost a knight, my Greane, is Christalan; How valiant, faithful, noble he has been, And will be ever, my true-hearted son!"

"Greane! Greane! they come! I see a dusty cloud That hides and heralds the approach of men. Look, is it Christalan? They come more near, Nearer and nearer! God in Heaven! Greane, What is it that they bring? Not Christalan? O no; that silent form they bear so slow Can not, and must not, be my Christalan! Come, Greane, and contradict my eyes for me."

Greane's answer was a swift, confirming swoon. Up through the gates they bore her Christalan, Dressed in the garments of the neophyte, That erst were spotless white, but then were soiled, Bedraggled and dust-stained. His golden hair A matted mass, of sunny curls unkempt,-- And yet how beautiful he was withal! Into the hall they brought and laid him down, While Agathar gave thanks, from her despair, That death had not yet conquered him. He lived, Although he spoke not, moved not, scarcely breathed.

They told her, in few words, of his brave deed. In some lone mountain way, far from the court, He saw a knight almost unhorsed by fraud, And springing quickly to the knight's relief, Unarmed, unready, without thought of self, He had been trampled by the maddened horse, Whose master he had saved unfair defeat. The leech had tended him with greatest care, Promised him life, but never more, alas! The power to wield his sword, or wear his arms, The strength to walk, or run, or live the life Of manhood as men prize it. Some deep hurt, Beyond the sight, would ever foil his strength, And make bold effort perilous to life. They told her how he whiter grew, at this, And, with the one word, "Noël-garde," had passed Into the trance, like death, that held him thus Through all the journey they had carried him. "My valiant boy," said Lady Agathar; And hushed her heart, to minister to him.

Slowly, at last, the lovely eyes unclosed The speaking beauty of their dark-blue depths, To meet his mother's with beseeching gaze. "I can be true, but never valiant now," He said in faltering accents. "Mother mine, There is no knight for you and my sweet Greane. God help me!" and he turned him to the wall.

"O Christalan! my son," she answered him, "Knighthood is in the spirit and the soul; The deeds that show the knighthood to the world Are but the chance and circumstance of fate; And no knight could be truer than you proved Yourself in self-forgetting, nor more brave Than in foregoing knighthood for a knight. You will be far more valiant, if you bear This sorrow without murmur or complaint, Than you could prove in any battle won. The meanest varlet often wins by chance. It needeth valour like our blessed Lord's To forfeit glory, and to suffer pain Unhonoured and unknown--ah, Christalan, True knight within my heart I hold you, dear."

"Yea, mother mine, but now my father's name Remains without fresh glory; his last prayer And dying wishes must be unfulfilled."

"Sweet Christalan, when you were scarce a lad, You saw the King and thought his shining crown His royalty, which now you know is naught But symbol of it. Thus your father, dear, In larger life of knowledge of the truth, Knows that the boon he prayed was but the sign. 'Tis yours, now, to fulfil the higher prayer; 'Tis yours to gain the inward grace, and leave The outward sign, great in its way, but less."

"Your words are like the first flush of the dawn In the dark night, my mother, bringing light To show more plain the lingering dark. O God, It is so dark and bitter! How can you, Yea, even you, begin to understand? You never were a man--almost a knight."

"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--"

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.

Silent stood Christalan And faced their coming, not a trace of fear Or tremor in his bearing, slight and frail In his white doublet, holding in his hand The wayside lilies he forgot to drop, Which to the Lady Agathar shall come, Alas! without his greeting or his kiss.

"Ho!" cried the bandits. "Eavesdropping? By hell And all the devils! we will slash his tongue Too fine to tell our secrets, if he heard! Speak, man, or die! Heard you our converse now?"

"Strike, ye base cowards," answered Christalan. "I am unarmed, alone, and weaponless: I cannot wield the sword, nor wear my helm, But God is with me to defend me now, So strike against His power, if you dare!"

The sunlight, slanting westward through the trees, Fell first upon his lifted, golden head, Making a shining helmet of his curls, And then upon the lilies in his hand; His eyes had a defiant, fearless glow; Against the sombre background of the wood, He looked scarce human.

"Mother of our Lord!" In frightened breath, the bandit rebels cried. "It is a spirit; no mere mortal man Would stand and face us boldly so, unarmed. Look at the Virgin's lilies in his hand! Great God, preserve us, save us from our doom!"

And turning in a panic of swift fear, They vanished quickly through the shadowed wood, While Christalan sped on to save his King.

He sees the castle, and he hears the horn That calls the court together for the hunt; His strength is failing, and his heart grows faint. Quick, ere it cease to beat! Faster, more fast! O but to save his noble lord! One swift, Last run, and he has reached them; breathlessly He stands before the charger of the King, With arms uplifted and imploring eyes, Until words come, between sharp gasps of pain. "Go not, my liege, upon the hunt to-day, I pray you, for the glory of the realm."

With cheeks that paled and flushed, and panting breath, He told his story in disjointed words, And, with unconscious frank simplicity, The tale of his high courage on the way, To prove, what it had proved to his own heart, The care of God to shield his lord the King. Then he fell prostrate at the great King's feet, And tired life ebbed fast to leave him rest.

He lies amid the hushed and silent court, The faded lilies still within his hand; And with his weary, dying eyes he sees The sword of Constantine above his head, Giving, at last, the royal accolade, While the King's face is full of yearning love; And with his dying ears he hears the words, That he has bravely striven to resign, "Sir Christalan, my True and Valiant knight,"

And then the murmur from the assembled court, "Sir Christalan, the Valiant and the True; God speed the soul of our beloved knight, Sir Christalan, the Valiant and the True."