"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 pa.s.sed. 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 n.o.bly, to the pride of Noel-garde, He bore his days of service, how, as squire, He was the favoured of Sir Katha.n.a.l, 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, n.o.ble 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! G.o.d 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 ma.s.s, 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, "Noel-garde," had pa.s.sed 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.

G.o.d 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 circ.u.mstance 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 G.o.d, 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 Noel-garde With his home-coming, notwithstanding grief.

What tales there were to tell of the great court, Of his long service with Sir Katha.n.a.l, 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 pa.s.sing 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 n.o.ble knight Who comes to Noel-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 pa.s.sed 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 Noel'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 G.o.d 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 p.r.o.ne Upon the gra.s.s, 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 Noel-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 hors.e.m.e.n 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.