And so at last he came, led on by her Into a hall wherein a fair throne was, And hand in hand thereto the twain did pa.s.s; And there she bade him sit, and when alone He took his place upon the double throne, She cast herself before him on her knees, Embracing his, and greatly did increase The shame and love that vexed his troubled heart: But now a line of girls the crowd did part, Lovelier than all, and Ogier could behold One in their midst who bore a crown of gold Within her slender hands and delicate; She, drawing nigh, beside the throne did wait Until the Queen arose and took the crown, Who then to Ogier's lips did stoop adown And kissed him, and said, "Ogier, what were worth Thy miserable days of strife on earth, That on their ashes still thine eyes are turned?"

Then, as she spoke these words, his changed heart burned With sudden memories, and thereto had he Made answer, but she raised up suddenly The crown she held and set it on his head, "Ogier," she cried, "those troublous days are dead; Thou wert dead with them also, but for me; Turn unto her who wrought these things for thee!"

Then, as he felt her touch, a mighty wave Of love swept o'er his soul, as though the grave Did really hold his body; from his seat He rose to cast himself before her feet; But she clung round him, and in close embrace The twain were locked amidst that thronging place.

Thenceforth new life indeed has Ogier won, And in the happy land of Avallon Quick glide the years o'er his unchanging head; There saw he many men the world thought dead, Living like him in sweet forgetfulness Of all the troubles that did once oppress Their vainly-struggling lives--ah, how can I Tell of their joy as though I had been nigh?

Suffice it that no fear of death they knew, That there no talk there was of false or true, Of right or wrong, for traitors came not there; That everything was bright and soft and fair, And yet they wearied not for any change, Nor unto them did constancy seem strange.

Love knew they, but its pain they never had, But with each other's joy were they made glad; Nor were their lives wasted by hidden fire, Nor knew they of the unfulfilled desire That turns to ashes all the joys of earth, Nor knew they yearning love amidst the dearth Of kind and loving hearts to spend it on, Nor dreamed or discontent when all was won; Nor need they struggle after wealth and fame; Still was the calm flow of their lives the same, And yet, I say, they wearied not of it-- So did the promised days by Ogier flit.

Think that a hundred years have now pa.s.sed by, Since ye beheld Ogier lie down to die Beside the fountain; think that now ye are In France, made dangerous with wasting war; In Paris, where about each guarded gate, Gathered in knots, the anxious people wait, And press around each new-come man to learn If Harfleur now the pagan wasters burn, Or if the Rouen folk can keep their chain, Or Pont de l'Arche unburnt still guards the Seine?

Or if 'tis true that Andelys succour wants?

That Vernon's folk are fleeing east to Mantes?

When will they come? or rather is it true That a great band the Constable o'erthrew Upon the marshes of the lower Seine, And that their long ships, turning back again, Caught by the high-raised waters of the bore Were driven here and there and cast ash.o.r.e?

Such questions did they ask, and, as fresh men Came hurrying in, they asked them o'er again, And from scared folk, or fools, or ignorant, Still got new lies, or tidings very scant.

But now amidst these men at last came one, A little ere the setting of the sun, With two stout men behind him, armed right well, Who ever as they rode on, sooth to tell, With doubtful eyes upon their master stared, Or looked about like troubled men and scared.

And he they served was noteworthy indeed; Of ancient fashion were his arms and weed, Rich past the wont of men in those sad times; His face was bronzed, as though by burning climes, But lovely as the image of a G.o.d Carved in the days before on earth Christ trod; But solemn were his eyes, and grey as gla.s.s, And like to ruddy gold his fine hair was: A mighty man he was, and taller far Than those who on that day must bear the war The pagans waged: he by the warders stayed Scarce looked on them, but straight their words obeyed And showed his pa.s.s; then, asked about his name And from what city of the world he came, Said, that men called him now the Ancient Knight, That he was come midst the king's men to fight From St. Omer's; and as he spoke, he gazed Down on the thronging street as one amazed, And answered no more to the questioning Of frightened folk of this or that sad thing; But, ere he pa.s.sed on, turned about at last And on the wondering guard a strange look cast, And said, "St. Mary! do such men as ye Fight with the wasters from across the sea?

Then, certes, are ye lost, however good Your hearts may be; not such were those who stood Beside the Hammer-bearer years agone."

So said he, and as his fair armour shone With beauty of a time long pa.s.sed away, So with the music of another day His deep voice thrilled the awe-struck, listening folk.

Yet from the crowd a mocking voice outbroke, That cried, "Be merry, masters, fear ye nought, Surely good succour to our side is brought; For here is Charlemaine come off his tomb To save his faithful city from its doom."

"Yea," said another, "this is certain news, Surely ye know how all the carvers use To carve the dead man's image at the best, That guards the place where he may lie at rest; Wherefore this living image looks indeed, Spite of his ancient tongue and marvellous weed, To have but thirty summers."

At the name Of Charlemaine, he turned to whence there came The mocking voice, and somewhat knit his brow, And seemed as he would speak, but scarce knew how; So with a half-sigh soon sank back again Into his dream, and shook his well-wrought rein, And silently went on upon his way.

And this was Ogier: on what evil day Has he then stumbled, that he needs must come, Midst war and ravage, to the ancient home Of his desires? did he grow weary then, And wish to strive once more with foolish men For worthless things? or is fair Avallon Sunk in the sea, and all that glory gone?

Nay, thus it happed--One day she came to him And said, "Ogier, thy name is waxen dim Upon the world that thou rememberest not; The heathen men are thick on many a spot Thine eyes have seen, and which I love therefore; And G.o.d will give His wonted help no more.

Wilt thou, then, help? canst thou have any mind To give thy banner once more to the wind?

Since greater glory thou shalt win for this Than erst thou gatheredst ere thou cam'st to bliss: For men are dwindled both in heart and frame, Nor holds the fair land any such a name As thine, when thou wert living midst thy peers: The world is worser for these hundred years."

From his calm eyes there gleamed a little fire, And in his voice was something of desire, To see the land where he was used to be, As now he answered: "Nay, choose thou for me, Thou art the wisest; it is more than well Within this peaceful place with thee to dwell: Nor ill perchance in that old land to die, If, dying, I keep not the memory Of this fair life of ours." "Nay, nay," said she, "As to thy dying, that shall never be, Whiles that thou keep'st my ring--and now, behold, I take from thee thy charmed crown of gold, And thou wilt be the Ogier that thou wast Ere on the loadstone rock thy ship was cast: Yet thou shalt have thy youthful body still, And I will guard thy life from every ill."

So was it done, and Ogier, armed right well, Sleeping, was borne away by some strong spell, And set upon the Flemish coast; and thence Turned to St. Omer's, with a doubtful sense Of being in some wild dream, the while he knew That great delight forgotten was his due, That all which there might hap was of small worth.

So on he went, and sometimes unto mirth Did his attire move the country-folk, But oftener when strange speeches from him broke Concerning men and things for long years dead, He filled the listeners with great awe and dread; For in such wild times as these people were Are men soon moved to wonder and to fear.

Now through the streets of Paris did he ride, And at a certain hostel did abide Throughout that night, and ere he went next day He saw a book that on a table lay, And opening it 'gan read in lazy mood: But long before it in that place he stood, Noting nought else; for it did chronicle The deeds of men of old he knew right well, When they were living in the flesh with him: Yea, his own deeds he saw, grown strange and dim Already, and true stories mixed with lies, Until, with many thronging memories Of those old days, his heart was so oppressed, He 'gan to wish that he might lie at rest, Forgetting all things: for indeed by this Little remembrance had he of the bliss That wrapped his soul in peaceful Avallon.

But his changed life he needs must carry on; For ye shall know the Queen was gathering men To send unto the good King, who as then In Rouen lay, beset by many a band Of those who carried terror through the land, And still by messengers for help he prayed: Therefore a mighty muster was being made, Of weak and strong, and brave and timorous, Before the Queen anigh her royal house.

So thither on this morn did Ogier turn, Some certain news about the war to learn; And when he came at last into the square, And saw the ancient palace great and fair Rise up before him as in other days, And in the merry morn the bright sun's rays Glittering on gathering helms and moving spears, He 'gan to feel as in the long-past years, And his heart stirred within him. Now the Queen Came from within, right royally beseen, And took her seat beneath a canopy, With lords and captains of the war anigh; And as she came a mighty shout arose, And round about began the knights to close, Their oath of fealty there to swear anew, And learn what service they had got to do.

But so it was, that some their shouts must stay To gaze at Ogier as he took his way Through the thronged place; and quickly too he gat Unto the place whereas the Lady sat, For men gave place unto him, fearing him: For not alone was he most huge of limb, And dangerous, but something in his face, As his calm eyes looked o'er the crowded place, Struck men with awe; and in the ancient days, When men might hope alive on G.o.ds to gaze, They would have thought, "The G.o.ds yet love our town And from the heavens have sent a great one down."

Withal unto the throne he came so near, That he the Queen's sweet measured voice could hear; And swiftly now within him wrought the change That first he felt amid those faces strange; And his heart burned to taste the hurrying life With such desires, such changing sweetness rife.

And yet, indeed, how should he live alone, Who in the old past days such friends had known?

Then he began to think of Caraheu, Of Bellicent the fair, and once more knew The bitter pain of rent and ended love.

But while with hope and vain regret he strove, He found none 'twixt him and the Queen's high seat, And, stepping forth, he knelt before her feet And took her hand to swear, as was the way Of doing fealty in that ancient day, And raised his eyes to hers; as fair was she As any woman of the world might be Full-limbed and tall, dark haired, from her deep eyes, The snare of fools, the ruin of the wise, Love looked unchecked; and now her dainty hand, The well-knit holder of the golden wand, Trembled in his, she cast her eyes adown, And her sweet brow was knitted to a frown, As he, the taker of such oaths of yore, Now unto her all due obedience swore, Yet gave himself no name; and now the Queen, Awed by his voice as other folk had been, Yet felt a trembling hope within her rise Too sweet to think of, and with love's surprise Her cheek grew pale; she said, "Thy style and name Thou tellest not, nor what land of thy fame Is glad; for, certes, some land must be glad, That in its bounds her house thy mother had."

"Lady," he said, "from what far land I come I well might tell thee, but another home Have I long dwelt in, and its name have I Forgotten now, forgotten utterly Who were my fellows, and what deeds they did; Therefore, indeed, shall my first name be hid And my first country; call me on this day The Ancient Knight, and let me go my way."

He rose withal, for she her fingers fair Had drawn aback, and on him 'gan to stare As one afeard; for something terrible Was in his speech, and that she knew right well, Who 'gan to love him, and to fear that she, Shut out by some strange deadly mystery, Should never gain from him an equal love; Yet, as from her high seat he 'gan to move, She said, "O Ancient Knight, come presently, When we have done this muster, unto me, And thou shalt have thy charge and due command For freeing from our foes this wretched land!"

Then Ogier made his reverence and went, And somewhat could perceive of her intent; For in his heart life grew, and love with life Grew, and therewith, 'twixt love and fame, was strife.

But, as he slowly gat him from the square, Gazing at all the people gathered there, A squire of the Queen's behind him came, And breathless, called him by his new-coined name, And bade him turn because the Queen now bade, Since by the muster long she might be stayed, That to the palace he should bring him straight, Midst sport and play her coming back to wait; Then Ogier turned, nought loath, and with him went, And to a postern-gate his steps he bent, That Ogier knew right well in days of old; Worn was it now, and the bright hues and gold Upon the shields above, with lapse of days, Were faded much: but now did Ogier gaze Upon the garden where he walked of yore, Holding the hands that he should see no more; For all was changed except the palace fair, That Charlemaine's own eyes had seen built there Ere Ogier knew him; there the squire did lead The Ancient Knight, who still took little heed Of all the things that by the way he said, For all his thoughts were on the days long dead.

There in the painted hall he sat again, And 'neath the pictured eyes of Charlemaine He ate and drank, and felt it like a dream; And midst his growing longings yet might deem That he from sleep should wake up presently In some fair city on the Syrian sea, Or on the brown rocks of the loadstone isle.

But fain to be alone, within a while He gat him to the garden, and there pa.s.sed By wondering squires and damsels, till at last, Far from the merry folk who needs must play, If on the world were coming its last day, He sat him down, and through his mind there ran Faint thoughts of that day, when, outworn and wan, He lay down by the fountain-side to die.

But when he strove to gain clear memory Of what had happed since on the isle he lay Waiting for death, a hopeless castaway, Thought failing him, would rather bring again His life among the peers of Charlemaine, And vex his soul with hapless memories; Until at last, worn out by thought of these, And hopeless striving to find what was true, And pondering on the deeds he had to do Ere he returned, whereto he could not tell, Sweet sleep upon his wearied spirit fell.

And on the afternoon of that fair day, Forgetting all, beneath the trees he lay.

Meanwhile the Queen, affairs of state being done, Went through the gardens with one dame alone Seeking for Ogier, whom at last she found Laid sleeping on the daisy-sprinkled ground, Dreaming, I know not what, of other days.

Then on him for a while the Queen did gaze, Drawing sweet poison from the lovely sight, Then to her fellow turned, "The ancient Knight-- What means he by this word of his?" she said; "He were well mated with some lovely maid Just pondering on the late-heard name of love."

"Softly, my lady, he begins to move,"

Her fellow said, a woman old and grey; "Look now, his arms are of another day; None know him or his deeds; thy squire just said He asked about the state of men long dead; I fear what he may be; look, seest thou not That ring that on one finger he has got, Where figures strange upon the gold are wrought: G.o.d grant that he from h.e.l.l has not been brought For our confusion, in this doleful war, Who surely in enough of trouble are Without such help;" then the Queen turned aside Awhile, her drawn and troubled face to hide, For lurking dread this speech within her stirred; But yet she said, "Thou sayest a foolish word, This man is come against our enemies To fight for us." Then down upon her knees Fell the old woman by the sleeping knight, And from his hand she drew with fingers light The wondrous ring, and scarce again could rise Ere 'neath the trembling Queen's bewildered eyes The change began; his golden hair turned white, His smooth cheek wrinkled, and his breathing light Was turned to troublous struggling for his breath, And on his shrunk lips lay the hand of death; And, scarce less pale than he, the trembling Queen Stood thinking on the beauty she had seen And longed for but a little while ago, Yet with her terror still her love did grow, And she began to weep as though she saw Her beauty e'en to such an ending draw.

And 'neath her tears waking he oped his eyes, And strove to speak, but nought but gasping sighs His lips could utter; then he tried to reach His hand to them, as though he would beseech The gift of what was his: but all the while The crone gazed on them with an evil smile, Then holding toward the Queen that wondrous ring, She said, "Why weep'st thou? having this fair thing, Thou, losing nought the beauty that thou hast, May'st watch the vainly struggling world go past, Thyself unchanged." The Queen put forth her hand And took the ring, and there awhile did stand And strove to think of it, but still in her Such all-absorbing longings love did stir, So young she was, of death she could not think, Or what a cup eld gives to man to drink; Yet on her finger had she set the ring When now the life that hitherto did cling To Ogier's heart seemed fading quite away, And scarcely breathing with shut eyes he lay.

Then, kneeling down, she murmured piteously, "Ah, wilt thou love me if I give it thee, And thou grow'st young again? what should I do If with the eyes thou thus shalt gain anew Thou shouldst look scorn on me?" But with that word The hedge behind her, by the west wind stirred, Cast fear into her heart of some one nigh, And therewith on his finger hastily She set the ring, then rose and stood apart A little way, and in her doubtful heart With love and fear was mixed desire of life.

But standing so, a look with great scorn rife The elder woman, turning, cast on her, Pointing to Ogier, who began to stir; She looked, and all she erst saw now did seem To have been nothing but a hideous dream, As fair and young he rose from off the ground And cast a dazed and puzzled look around, Like one just waked from sleep in some strange place; But soon his grave eyes rested on her face, And turned yet graver seeing her so pale, And that her eyes were pregnant with some tale Of love and fear; she 'neath his eyes the while Forced her pale lips to semblance of a smile, And said, "O Ancient Knight, thou sleepest then?

While through this poor land range the heathen men, Unmet of any but my King and Lord: Nay, let us see the deeds of thine old sword."

"Queen," said he, "bid me then unto this work, And certes I behind no wall would lurk, Nor send for succour, while a scanty folk Still followed after me to break the yoke: I pray thee grace for sleeping, and were fain That I might rather never sleep again Than have such wretched dreams as I e'en now Have waked from."

Lovelier she seemed to grow Unto him as he spoke; fresh colour came Into her face, as though for some sweet shame, While she with tearful eyes beheld him so, That somewhat even must his burnt cheek glow, His heart beat faster. But again she said, "Nay, will dreams burden such a mighty head?

Then may I too have pardon for a dream: Last night in sleep I saw thee, who didst seem To be the King of France; and thou and I Were sitting at some great festivity Within the many-peopled gold-hung place."

The blush of shame was gone as on his face She gazed, and saw him read her meaning clear And knew that no cold words she had to fear, But rather that for softer speech he yearned.

Therefore, with love alone her smooth cheek burned; Her parted lips were hungry for his kiss, She trembled at the near approaching bliss; Nathless, she checked her love a little while, Because she felt the old dame's curious smile Upon her, and she said, "O Ancient Knight, If I then read my last night's dream aright, Thou art come here our very help to be, Perchance to give my husband back to me; Come then, if thou this land art fain to save, And show the wisdom thou must surely have Unto my council; I will give thee then What charge I may among my valiant men; And certes thou wilt do so well herein, That, ere long, something greater shalt thou win: Come, then, deliverer of my throne and land, And let me touch for once thy mighty hand With these weak fingers."

As she spoke, she met His eager hand, and all things did forget But for one moment, for too wise were they To cast the coming years of joy away; Then with her other hand her gown she raised And led him thence, and o'er her shoulder gazed At her old follower with a doubtful smile, As though to say, "Be wise, I know thy guile!"

But slowly she behind the lovers walked, Muttering, "So be it! thou shalt not be balked Of thy desire; be merry! I am wise, Nor will I rob thee of thy Paradise For any other than myself; and thou May'st even happen to have had enow Of this new love, before I get the ring, And I may work for thee no evil thing."

Now ye shall know that the old chronicle, Wherein I read all this, doth duly tell Of all the gallant deeds that Ogier did, There may ye read them; nor let me be chid If I therefore say little of these things, Because the thought of Avallon still clings Unto my heart, and scarcely can I bear To think of that long, dragging useless year, Through which, with dulled and glimmering memory, Ogier was grown content to live and die Like other men; but this I have to say, That in the council chamber on that day The Old Knight showed his wisdom well enow, While fainter still with love the Queen did grow Hearing his words, beholding his grey eyes Flashing with fire of warlike memories; Yea, at the last he seemed so wise indeed That she could give him now the charge, to lead One wing of the great army that set out From Paris' gates, midst many a wavering shout Midst trembling prayers, and unchecked wails and tears, And slender hopes and unresisted fears.

Now ere he went, upon his bed he lay, Newly awakened at the dawn of day, Gathering perplexed thoughts of many a thing, When, midst the carol that the birds did sing Unto the coming of the hopeful sun, He heard a sudden lovesome song begun 'Twixt two young voices in the garden green, That seemed indeed the farewell of the Queen.

SONG.

HaeC.

_In the white-flowered hawthorn brake, Love, be merry for my sake; Twine the blossoms in my hair, Kiss me where I am most fair-- Kiss me, love! for who knoweth What thing cometh after death?_

ILLE.

_Nay, the garlanded gold hair Hides thee where thou art most fair;_ _Hides the rose-tinged hills of snow-- Ah, sweet love, I have thee now!

Kiss me, love! for who knoweth What thing cometh after death?_

HaeC.

_Shall we weep for a dead day, Or set Sorrow in our way?

Hidden by my golden hair, Wilt thou weep that sweet days wear?

Kiss me, love! for who knoweth What thing cometh after death?_

ILLE.

_Weep, O Love, the days that flit, Now, while I can feel thy breath; Then may I remember it Sad and old, and near my death.

Kiss me, love! for who knoweth What thing cometh after death_?

Soothed by the pleasure that the music brought And sweet desire, and vague and dreamy thought Of happiness it seemed to promise him, He lay and listened till his eyes grew dim, And o'er him 'gan forgetfulness to creep Till in the growing light he lay asleep, Nor woke until the clanging trumpet-blast Had summoned him all thought away to cast: Yet one more joy of love indeed he had Ere with the battle's noise he was made glad; For, as on that May morning forth they rode And pa.s.sed before the Queen's most fair abode, There at a window was she waiting them In fair attire with gold in every hem, And as the ancient Knight beneath her pa.s.sed A wreath of flowering white-thorn down she cast, And looked farewell to him, and forth he set Thinking of all the pleasure he should get From love and war, forgetting Avallon And all that lovely life so lightly won; Yea, now indeed the earthly life o'erpast Ere on the loadstone rock his ship was cast Was waxing dim, nor yet at all he learned To 'scape the fire that erst his heart had burned.

And he forgat his deeds, forgat his fame, Forgat the letters of his ancient name As one waked fully shall forget a dream, That once to him a wondrous tale did seem.

Now I, though writing here no chronicle E'en as I said, must nathless shortly tell That, ere the army Rouen's gates could gain By a broad arrow had the King been slain, And helpless now the wretched country lay Beneath the yoke, until the glorious day When Ogier fell at last upon the foe, And scattered them as helplessly as though They had been beaten men without a name: So when to Paris town once more he came Few folk the memory of the King did keep Within their hearts, and if the folk did weep At his returning, 'twas for joy indeed That such a man had risen at their need To work for them so great deliverance, And loud they called on him for King of France.