III.As some new jest was tossed from tongue to tongue,Light laughter rippled round the midday board,Beneath the bannered rafters: dame and lordAnd maid and squire with merry chatteringSat feasting; though no motley humour wrungA smile from Hild, where she, beside the King,Watched pale and still. She saw on Geoffrey's faceGrave wonder that he caught not anywhereAmong the maids the dusk of Christine's hair,Or sunlight of her glance. His eyes, betweenThe 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 thrushEre his full song enchant the domèd elm;The arras parting, through the open doorShe came. Before her borne, the golden helmWithin 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 seesThe light of high, eternal mysteriesIllume awhile the mortal shade that movesFrom 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 oldThis helm was wrought from elfin-hammered gold,For one who, in the after-days, should beSupreme above his kind, as, in the brakeOf branching fern, the solitary treeThat crests the fell-top. Unto you I bringThe gift of destiny, that, as the sunNew-risen of your knighthood, newly-won,The wondering world may see its glory shine."As Christine spake, with questioning glance the KingTurned 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 maidHas climbed the secret newell-stair unstayedAnd reached the casket-chamber, and has borneFrom thence the Helm of Strife, whereon the lightOf day has never fallen, night or morn,For seven hundred years; but, ere you takeThe doomful gift, know this: he who shall dareTo don the golden helm must ever fareUpon the edge of peril, ever rideBetween dark-ambushed dangers, ever wakeUnto 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 overwhelmYour 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 steelQueen Hild's eyes gleamed in bitter victory.But all were turned to Geoffrey, where he stoodIn 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."IV.Dawn shivered coldly through the meadowlands;The ever-trembling aspens by the streamQuivered with chilly light and fitful gleam;Ruffling the heavy foliage of the plane,Until the leaves turned, like pale, lifted hands,A cold gust stirred with presage of near rain.Coldly the light on Geoffrey's hauberk fell;But yet more cold on Christine's heart there layThe winter-clutch of grief, as, far away,She saw him ride, and in the stirrup riseAnd, turning, wave to her a last farewell.Beyond the ridge he vanished, and her eyesCaught the far flashing of the helm of goldOne moment as it glanced with mocking light;Then naught but tossing pine-trees filled her sight.Yet darker gloomed the woodlands 'neath the drenchOf pillared showers; colder and yet more coldHer heart had shuddered since the last, hot wrenchOf parting overnight. Though still her mouthFelt the mute impress of love's sacred seal;Though still through all her senses seemed to stealThe heavy fume of wound-wort that had hungAll night about the hedgerows--parched with drouth;Though the first notes the missel-cock had sung,Ere darkness fled, resounded in her ears;Yet no hot tempest of tumultuous woeShook her young body. As night-fallen snowBurdens with numb despair young April's green,Her sorrow lay upon her; hopes and fearsWithin her slept. As something vaguely seenNor realised--since yesterday's dread noonHad shattered all love's triumph--life had passedAbout her like a dream by doom o'ercast.Long hours she sat, with silent, folded hands,And face that glimmered like a winter moonIn cloudy hair. Across the rain-grey landsShe gazed with eyes unseeing; till she heardA step within her chamber, and her nameFell dully on her ear; then like a flameSharp anguish shot through every aching limbWith keen remembrance. Suddenly she stirred,And, turning, looked on Hild. "Grieve you for him..."The Queen began; then, with a little gasp,Her voice failed, and she shrank before the gazeOf Christine's eyes, and, shrivelled by the blazeOf fires her hand had kindled, all her prideFell shredded, and not even the gold claspOf queenhood held, her naked deed to hide.She quailed, and, turning, fled from out the room.Soon Christine's wrath was drowned in whelming grief,And in the fall of tears she found relief--As brooding skies in sweet release of rain.All day she wept, until, at length, the gloomOf eve laid soothing hands upon her pain.Then, once again, she rose, calm-browed, and spedDownstairs with silent step, and reached, unstayed,The Grey Nun's Walk, where all alone a maidDrank in the rain-cooled air. With low-breathed words,They whispered long together, while, o'erhead,From rain-wet branches rang the song of birds.The maiden often paused as in alarm;Then, with uncertain, half-delaying pace,She left Christine, returning in a spaceWith Philip, Christine's brother, a young squire,Who strode by her with careless, swinging armAnd eager face, with keen, blue eyes afire.Then all three stood, with whispering heads bent low,In eager converse clustered; till, at last,They parted, and, with high hopes beating fast,Christine unto her turret-room returned--Her dark eyes bright and all her face aglow,As if some new-lit rapture in her burned.About her little chamber swift she moved,Until, at length, in travelling array,She paused to rest, and all-impatient layUpon her snow-white bed, and watched the lightFail from the lilied arras that she lovedBecause her hand had wrought each petal whiteAnd slender, emerald stem. The falling nightWas lit for her with many a memoryOf little things she could no longer see,That had been with her in old, happy hours,Before her girlish joys had taken flightAs morning dews from noon-unfolding flowers.For her, with laggard pace the minutes trailed,Till night seemed to eternity outdrawn.At last, an hour before the summer-dawn,She rose and once again, with noiseless tread,Crept down the stair, grey-cloaked and closely veiled,While every shadow struck her cold with dreadLest, drawing back the arras, Hild should standWith mocking smile before her; but, unstayed,She reached the stair-foot, and, no more afraid,She sought a low and shadow-hidden door,Slid back the silent bolts with eager hand,And stepped into the garden dim once more.She quickly crossed a dewy-plashing lawn,And, passing through a little wicket-gate,She reached the road. Not long had she to waitEre, with two bridled horses, Philip came.Silent they mounted; far they fared ere dawnBurnished the castle-weathercock to flame.V.Northward they climbed from out the valley mist;Northward they crossed the sun-enchanted fells;Northward they plunged down deep, fern-hidden dells;And northward yet--until the sapphire noonHad burned and glowed to thunderous amethystOf evening skies about an opal moon;Northward they followed fast the loud-tongued fameOf young Sir Geoffrey of the golden helm;Until it seemed that storm must overwhelmTheir weary flight. They sought a lodging-place,And soon upon a lonely cell they cameWherein a hermit laboured after grace.On beds of withered bracken, soft and warm,He housed them, and himself, all night, alone,Knelt in long vigil on the aching stone,Within his little chapel, though, all night,His prayers were drowned by thunders of the storm,And all about him flashed blue, pulsing light.Christine in calm, undreaming slumber lay,Nor stirred till, clear and glittering, the mornSang through the forest; though, with roots uptorn,The mightiest-limbed and highest-soaring oakHad fallen charred, with green leaves shrivelled grey.At tinkling of the matin-bell she woke,And soon with Philip left the woodland boughsFor barer uplands. Over tawny bentAnd purpling heath they rode till day was spent;When, down within a broad, green-dusking dale,They sought the shelter of the holy houseOf God's White Sisters of the Virgin's Veil.So, day by day, they ever northward pressed,Until they left the lands of peace behind,And rode among the border-hills, where blindInsatiate warfare ever rages fierce;Where night-winds ever fan a fiery crest,And dawn's light breaks on bright, embattled spears:A land whose barren hills are helmed with towers;A lone, grey land of battle-wasted shires;A land of blackened barns and empty byres;A land of rock-bound holds and robber-hordes,Of slumberous noons and wakeful midnight hours,Of ambushed dark and moonlight flashing swords.With hand on hilt and ever-kindling eyes,Flushed face and quivering nostril, Philip rode;But nought assailed them; every lone abodeForsaken seemed; all empty lay the landBeneath the empty sky; only the criesOf plovers pierced the blue on either hand;Until, at sudden cresting of a hill,The clang of battle sounded on their ears,And, far below, they saw a surge of spearsCrash on unyielding ranks; while, from the seaOf striving steel, with deathly singing shrill,A spray of arrows flickered fitfully.Amazed they stood, wide-eyed, with holden breath;When, of a sudden, flashed upon their sightThe golden helm in midmost of the fight,Where, with high-lifted head and undismayed,Sir Geoffrey rode, a very lord of death,With ever-leaping, ever-crashing blade.Christine watched long, now cold with quaking dread,Now hot with hope as each assailant fell;The bright sword held her gaze as by a spell;Because love blinded her to all but love,Unmoved she watched the foemen shudder dead,She whose heart erst the meanest woe could move.Then, dazed, she saw a solitary shaft,Unloosed with certain aim from out the bow,Strike clean through Geoffrey's hauberk, and bring lowThe golden helm, while o'er him swiftly metThe tides of fight. Christine a little laughedWith rattling throat, and stood with still eyes set.Scarce Philip dared to raise his eyes to hersTo see the terror there. No word she spake,But leaned a little forward through the brakeThat bloomed about her in a golden blaze;Her hands were torn to bleeding by the furze,Yet nothing could disturb that dreadful gaze.Then, gradually, the heaving battle swervedTo northward, faltering broken, and afarIt closed again, where, round a jutting scar,The flashing torrent of the river curved.With eager step Christine ran down the hill,And sped across the late-forsaken fieldTo where, with shattered sword and splintered shield,Among the mounded bodies Geoffrey lay.She loosed his helm, but deathly pale and stillHis young face gleamed within the light of day.Christine beside him knelt, as Philip soughtA draught of water from the peat-born stream;When, in his eyes, at last, a fitful gleamFlickered, and bending low, with straining ears,The laboured breathing of her name she caught;And over his dead face fell fast her tears.Once more towards them the tide of battle swept;Christine moved not. Young Philip on her cried,And strove, in vain, to draw her safe aside.A random shaft in her unshielded breast--Though hot to stay its course her brother leapt--Struck quivering, and she slowly sank to rest.VI.Queen Hild sat weaving in her garden-close,When on her startled ear there fell the newsOf Christine's flight before the darkling dewsHad thrilled with dawn. A strand of golden threadSlipped from her trembling fingers as she roseAnd hastened to the castle with drooped head.All morn she paced within her blinded room,Unresting, to and fro, her white hands clenched;All morn within her tearless eyes, unquenched,Blue fires of anger smouldered, yet no moanEscaped her lips. Without, in summer bloom,The garden murmured with bliss-burdened droneOf hover-flies and lily-charmed bees;Sometimes a finch lit on the window-ledge,With shrilly pipe, or, from the rose-hung hedge,A blackbird fluted; yet she neither heardNor heeded aught; until, by rich degrees,Drowsed into noon the noise of bee and bird.Yea, even when, without her chamber, stayedA doubtful step, and timid fingers knocked,She answered not, but, swiftly striding, lockedYet more secure, with angry-clicking key,The bolted door, and the affrighted maidUnto the waiting hall fled, fearfully.Wearied at last, upon her bed Queen HildIn fitful slumber sank; but evil dreamsOf battle-stricken lands and blood-red streamsSwirled through her brain. Then, suddenly, she woke,Wide-eyed, and sat upright, with body chilled,Though in her throat the hot air seemed to choke.Swiftly she rose; then, binding her loosed hair,She bathed her throbbing brows, and, cold and calm,Downstairs she glided, while the evening-psalmIn maiden-voices quavered, faint and sweet,And from the chapel-tower, through quivering air,The bell's clear silver-tinkling clove the heat.She strode into the hall where yet the KingSat with his knights; a weary minstrel stirredCool, throbbing wood-notes, throated like a bird,From his soft-stringèd lute. With scornful eyesHild looked on them and spake: "Can nothing stingYour slumberous hearts from slothful peace to rise?Must only stripling-knights and maidens rideTo battle, where, unceasing, foemen wageWar on your marches, and your wardens rageIn impotent despair with desperate swords,While you, O King, with sheathèd arms abide?"She paused, and, wondering, the King and lordsLooked on her mutely; then, again, she spake:"Shall I, then, and my maidens sally forthWith battle-brands to conquer the wild north?Yea, I will go! Who follows after me?"As by a blow struck suddenly awake,The King leapt up, and, like a clamorous sea,The knights about him. Scornfully the QueenLooked on them: "So my woman's words have rousedThe hands that slumbered and the hearts that drowsed.Make ready then for battle; ere seven daysHave passed, the dawn must light your armour's sheen,And in the sun your pennoned lances blaze."Her voice ceased; and a pulsing flame of lightFlashed through the hall; in crashing thunder brokeThe heavy, hanging heat; the rafters wokeIn echo as the rainy torrent poured;Bright gleamed the rapid lightning; yet more brightThe war-lust kindled hot in every lord.To clang of armour the seventh morning stirredFrom slumber; restless hoof and champing bitAroused the garth; and day, arising, litA hundred lances, as, each bolt withdrawn,The courtyard-gate swung wide with noise far-heard,And flickering pennons rode into the dawn--Before his knights, the King, and at his side,Queen Hild, with ever-northward-gazing eyes;But, ere they far had fared, in mute surpriseThey stayed and all drew rein, as down the roadThey saw a little band of warriors ride--Sore travel-stained--who bore a heavy loadUpon a branch-hung litter; while beforeCame Philip, bearing a war-broken lance.Though King and lords looked, wondering, in a glanceQueen Hild had read the sorrow of his faceAnd pierced the leaf-hid secret--which e'ermoreA brand of fire upon her heart would trace.Darkness about her swirled, but, with a fierceWild, conquering shudder, shaking herself free,Unto the light she clung, though like a seaIt surged and eddied round her; yet so stillShe sat, none knew her steely eyes could pierceThe leafy screen. With guilty terror chill,She heard the king speak--sadly riding forth:"Whence come you, Philip, battle-stained and slow?What burden bear you with such brows of woe?"Then Philip answered, mournfully: "I bringTwo wanderers home from out the perilous north.Prepare to gaze on death's defeat, O King."They lowered the litter slowly to the ground;Back fell the branches; in the light of day,In calm, white sleep Christine and Geoffrey lay,And at their feet the baleful Helm of StrifeSword-cloven. Hushed stood all the knights around,When spake the King, alighting: "Come, O wife,And let us twain, with humble heads low-bowed,Even at the feet of love triumphant stand,A little while together, hand in hand."The Queen obeyed; but, fearfully, she shrankBefore the eyes of death, and, quaking, cowed,With moaning cry, low in the dust she sank.PRINTED BY R. FOLKARD AND SON,23, DEVONSHIRE STREET, QUEEN SQUARE, BLOOMSBURY.*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKTHE GOLDEN HELM***
III.
As some new jest was tossed from tongue to tongue,Light laughter rippled round the midday board,Beneath the bannered rafters: dame and lordAnd maid and squire with merry chatteringSat feasting; though no motley humour wrungA smile from Hild, where she, beside the King,Watched pale and still. She saw on Geoffrey's faceGrave wonder that he caught not anywhereAmong the maids the dusk of Christine's hair,Or sunlight of her glance. His eyes, betweenThe 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 thrushEre his full song enchant the domèd elm;The arras parting, through the open doorShe came. Before her borne, the golden helmWithin 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 seesThe light of high, eternal mysteriesIllume awhile the mortal shade that movesFrom 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 oldThis helm was wrought from elfin-hammered gold,For one who, in the after-days, should beSupreme above his kind, as, in the brakeOf branching fern, the solitary treeThat crests the fell-top. Unto you I bringThe gift of destiny, that, as the sunNew-risen of your knighthood, newly-won,The wondering world may see its glory shine."As Christine spake, with questioning glance the KingTurned 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 maidHas climbed the secret newell-stair unstayedAnd reached the casket-chamber, and has borneFrom thence the Helm of Strife, whereon the lightOf day has never fallen, night or morn,For seven hundred years; but, ere you takeThe doomful gift, know this: he who shall dareTo don the golden helm must ever fareUpon the edge of peril, ever rideBetween dark-ambushed dangers, ever wakeUnto 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 overwhelmYour 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 steelQueen Hild's eyes gleamed in bitter victory.But all were turned to Geoffrey, where he stoodIn 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."
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 domèd 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."
IV.
Dawn shivered coldly through the meadowlands;The ever-trembling aspens by the streamQuivered with chilly light and fitful gleam;Ruffling the heavy foliage of the plane,Until the leaves turned, like pale, lifted hands,A cold gust stirred with presage of near rain.Coldly the light on Geoffrey's hauberk fell;But yet more cold on Christine's heart there layThe winter-clutch of grief, as, far away,She saw him ride, and in the stirrup riseAnd, turning, wave to her a last farewell.Beyond the ridge he vanished, and her eyesCaught the far flashing of the helm of goldOne moment as it glanced with mocking light;Then naught but tossing pine-trees filled her sight.Yet darker gloomed the woodlands 'neath the drenchOf pillared showers; colder and yet more coldHer heart had shuddered since the last, hot wrenchOf parting overnight. Though still her mouthFelt the mute impress of love's sacred seal;Though still through all her senses seemed to stealThe heavy fume of wound-wort that had hungAll night about the hedgerows--parched with drouth;Though the first notes the missel-cock had sung,Ere darkness fled, resounded in her ears;Yet no hot tempest of tumultuous woeShook her young body. As night-fallen snowBurdens with numb despair young April's green,Her sorrow lay upon her; hopes and fearsWithin her slept. As something vaguely seenNor realised--since yesterday's dread noonHad shattered all love's triumph--life had passedAbout her like a dream by doom o'ercast.Long hours she sat, with silent, folded hands,And face that glimmered like a winter moonIn cloudy hair. Across the rain-grey landsShe gazed with eyes unseeing; till she heardA step within her chamber, and her nameFell dully on her ear; then like a flameSharp anguish shot through every aching limbWith keen remembrance. Suddenly she stirred,And, turning, looked on Hild. "Grieve you for him..."The Queen began; then, with a little gasp,Her voice failed, and she shrank before the gazeOf Christine's eyes, and, shrivelled by the blazeOf fires her hand had kindled, all her prideFell shredded, and not even the gold claspOf queenhood held, her naked deed to hide.She quailed, and, turning, fled from out the room.Soon Christine's wrath was drowned in whelming grief,And in the fall of tears she found relief--As brooding skies in sweet release of rain.All day she wept, until, at length, the gloomOf eve laid soothing hands upon her pain.Then, once again, she rose, calm-browed, and spedDownstairs with silent step, and reached, unstayed,The Grey Nun's Walk, where all alone a maidDrank in the rain-cooled air. With low-breathed words,They whispered long together, while, o'erhead,From rain-wet branches rang the song of birds.The maiden often paused as in alarm;Then, with uncertain, half-delaying pace,She left Christine, returning in a spaceWith Philip, Christine's brother, a young squire,Who strode by her with careless, swinging armAnd eager face, with keen, blue eyes afire.Then all three stood, with whispering heads bent low,In eager converse clustered; till, at last,They parted, and, with high hopes beating fast,Christine unto her turret-room returned--Her dark eyes bright and all her face aglow,As if some new-lit rapture in her burned.About her little chamber swift she moved,Until, at length, in travelling array,She paused to rest, and all-impatient layUpon her snow-white bed, and watched the lightFail from the lilied arras that she lovedBecause her hand had wrought each petal whiteAnd slender, emerald stem. The falling nightWas lit for her with many a memoryOf little things she could no longer see,That had been with her in old, happy hours,Before her girlish joys had taken flightAs morning dews from noon-unfolding flowers.For her, with laggard pace the minutes trailed,Till night seemed to eternity outdrawn.At last, an hour before the summer-dawn,She rose and once again, with noiseless tread,Crept down the stair, grey-cloaked and closely veiled,While every shadow struck her cold with dreadLest, drawing back the arras, Hild should standWith mocking smile before her; but, unstayed,She reached the stair-foot, and, no more afraid,She sought a low and shadow-hidden door,Slid back the silent bolts with eager hand,And stepped into the garden dim once more.She quickly crossed a dewy-plashing lawn,And, passing through a little wicket-gate,She reached the road. Not long had she to waitEre, with two bridled horses, Philip came.Silent they mounted; far they fared ere dawnBurnished the castle-weathercock to flame.
Dawn shivered coldly through the meadowlands;
The ever-trembling aspens by the stream
Quivered with chilly light and fitful gleam;
Ruffling the heavy foliage of the plane,
Until the leaves turned, like pale, lifted hands,
A cold gust stirred with presage of near rain.
Coldly the light on Geoffrey's hauberk fell;
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
Her heart had shuddered since the last, hot wrench
Of parting overnight. Though still her mouth
Felt the mute impress of love's sacred seal;
Though still through all her senses seemed to steal
The heavy fume of wound-wort that had hung
All night about the hedgerows--parched with drouth;
Though the first notes the missel-cock had sung,
Ere darkness fled, resounded in her ears;
Yet no hot tempest of tumultuous woe
Shook her young body. As night-fallen snow
Burdens with numb despair young April's green,
Her sorrow lay upon her; hopes and fears
Within her slept. As something vaguely seen
Nor realised--since yesterday's dread noon
Had shattered all love's triumph--life had passed
About her like a dream by doom o'ercast.
Long hours she sat, with silent, folded hands,
And face that glimmered like a winter moon
In cloudy hair. Across the rain-grey lands
She gazed with eyes unseeing; till she heard
A step within her chamber, and her name
Fell dully on her ear; then like a flame
Sharp anguish shot through every aching limb
With keen remembrance. Suddenly she stirred,
And, turning, looked on Hild. "Grieve you for him..."
The Queen began; then, with a little gasp,
Her voice failed, and she shrank before the gaze
Of Christine's eyes, and, shrivelled by the blaze
Of fires her hand had kindled, all her pride
Fell shredded, and not even the gold clasp
Of queenhood held, her naked deed to hide.
She quailed, and, turning, fled from out the room.
Soon Christine's wrath was drowned in whelming grief,
And in the fall of tears she found relief--
As brooding skies in sweet release of rain.
All day she wept, until, at length, the gloom
Of eve laid soothing hands upon her pain.
Then, once again, she rose, calm-browed, and sped
Downstairs with silent step, and reached, unstayed,
The Grey Nun's Walk, where all alone a maid
Drank in the rain-cooled air. With low-breathed words,
They whispered long together, while, o'erhead,
From rain-wet branches rang the song of birds.
The maiden often paused as in alarm;
Then, with uncertain, half-delaying pace,
She left Christine, returning in a space
With Philip, Christine's brother, a young squire,
Who strode by her with careless, swinging arm
And eager face, with keen, blue eyes afire.
Then all three stood, with whispering heads bent low,
In eager converse clustered; till, at last,
They parted, and, with high hopes beating fast,
Christine unto her turret-room returned--
Her dark eyes bright and all her face aglow,
As if some new-lit rapture in her burned.
About her little chamber swift she moved,
Until, at length, in travelling array,
She paused to rest, and all-impatient lay
Upon her snow-white bed, and watched the light
Fail from the lilied arras that she loved
Because her hand had wrought each petal white
And slender, emerald stem. The falling night
Was lit for her with many a memory
Of little things she could no longer see,
That had been with her in old, happy hours,
Before her girlish joys had taken flight
As morning dews from noon-unfolding flowers.
For her, with laggard pace the minutes trailed,
Till night seemed to eternity outdrawn.
At last, an hour before the summer-dawn,
She rose and once again, with noiseless tread,
Crept down the stair, grey-cloaked and closely veiled,
While every shadow struck her cold with dread
Lest, drawing back the arras, Hild should stand
With mocking smile before her; but, unstayed,
She reached the stair-foot, and, no more afraid,
She sought a low and shadow-hidden door,
Slid back the silent bolts with eager hand,
And stepped into the garden dim once more.
She quickly crossed a dewy-plashing lawn,
And, passing through a little wicket-gate,
She reached the road. Not long had she to wait
Ere, with two bridled horses, Philip came.
Silent they mounted; far they fared ere dawn
Burnished the castle-weathercock to flame.
V.
Northward they climbed from out the valley mist;Northward they crossed the sun-enchanted fells;Northward they plunged down deep, fern-hidden dells;And northward yet--until the sapphire noonHad burned and glowed to thunderous amethystOf evening skies about an opal moon;Northward they followed fast the loud-tongued fameOf young Sir Geoffrey of the golden helm;Until it seemed that storm must overwhelmTheir weary flight. They sought a lodging-place,And soon upon a lonely cell they cameWherein a hermit laboured after grace.On beds of withered bracken, soft and warm,He housed them, and himself, all night, alone,Knelt in long vigil on the aching stone,Within his little chapel, though, all night,His prayers were drowned by thunders of the storm,And all about him flashed blue, pulsing light.Christine in calm, undreaming slumber lay,Nor stirred till, clear and glittering, the mornSang through the forest; though, with roots uptorn,The mightiest-limbed and highest-soaring oakHad fallen charred, with green leaves shrivelled grey.At tinkling of the matin-bell she woke,And soon with Philip left the woodland boughsFor barer uplands. Over tawny bentAnd purpling heath they rode till day was spent;When, down within a broad, green-dusking dale,They sought the shelter of the holy houseOf God's White Sisters of the Virgin's Veil.So, day by day, they ever northward pressed,Until they left the lands of peace behind,And rode among the border-hills, where blindInsatiate warfare ever rages fierce;Where night-winds ever fan a fiery crest,And dawn's light breaks on bright, embattled spears:A land whose barren hills are helmed with towers;A lone, grey land of battle-wasted shires;A land of blackened barns and empty byres;A land of rock-bound holds and robber-hordes,Of slumberous noons and wakeful midnight hours,Of ambushed dark and moonlight flashing swords.With hand on hilt and ever-kindling eyes,Flushed face and quivering nostril, Philip rode;But nought assailed them; every lone abodeForsaken seemed; all empty lay the landBeneath the empty sky; only the criesOf plovers pierced the blue on either hand;Until, at sudden cresting of a hill,The clang of battle sounded on their ears,And, far below, they saw a surge of spearsCrash on unyielding ranks; while, from the seaOf striving steel, with deathly singing shrill,A spray of arrows flickered fitfully.Amazed they stood, wide-eyed, with holden breath;When, of a sudden, flashed upon their sightThe golden helm in midmost of the fight,Where, with high-lifted head and undismayed,Sir Geoffrey rode, a very lord of death,With ever-leaping, ever-crashing blade.Christine watched long, now cold with quaking dread,Now hot with hope as each assailant fell;The bright sword held her gaze as by a spell;Because love blinded her to all but love,Unmoved she watched the foemen shudder dead,She whose heart erst the meanest woe could move.Then, dazed, she saw a solitary shaft,Unloosed with certain aim from out the bow,Strike clean through Geoffrey's hauberk, and bring lowThe golden helm, while o'er him swiftly metThe tides of fight. Christine a little laughedWith rattling throat, and stood with still eyes set.Scarce Philip dared to raise his eyes to hersTo see the terror there. No word she spake,But leaned a little forward through the brakeThat bloomed about her in a golden blaze;Her hands were torn to bleeding by the furze,Yet nothing could disturb that dreadful gaze.Then, gradually, the heaving battle swervedTo northward, faltering broken, and afarIt closed again, where, round a jutting scar,The flashing torrent of the river curved.With eager step Christine ran down the hill,And sped across the late-forsaken fieldTo where, with shattered sword and splintered shield,Among the mounded bodies Geoffrey lay.She loosed his helm, but deathly pale and stillHis young face gleamed within the light of day.Christine beside him knelt, as Philip soughtA draught of water from the peat-born stream;When, in his eyes, at last, a fitful gleamFlickered, and bending low, with straining ears,The laboured breathing of her name she caught;And over his dead face fell fast her tears.Once more towards them the tide of battle swept;Christine moved not. Young Philip on her cried,And strove, in vain, to draw her safe aside.A random shaft in her unshielded breast--Though hot to stay its course her brother leapt--Struck quivering, and she slowly sank to rest.
Northward they climbed from out the valley mist;
Northward they crossed the sun-enchanted fells;
Northward they plunged down deep, fern-hidden dells;
And northward yet--until the sapphire noon
Had burned and glowed to thunderous amethyst
Of evening skies about an opal moon;
Northward they followed fast the loud-tongued fame
Of young Sir Geoffrey of the golden helm;
Until it seemed that storm must overwhelm
Their weary flight. They sought a lodging-place,
And soon upon a lonely cell they came
Wherein a hermit laboured after grace.
On beds of withered bracken, soft and warm,
He housed them, and himself, all night, alone,
Knelt in long vigil on the aching stone,
Within his little chapel, though, all night,
His prayers were drowned by thunders of the storm,
And all about him flashed blue, pulsing light.
Christine in calm, undreaming slumber lay,
Nor stirred till, clear and glittering, the morn
Sang through the forest; though, with roots uptorn,
The mightiest-limbed and highest-soaring oak
Had fallen charred, with green leaves shrivelled grey.
At tinkling of the matin-bell she woke,
And soon with Philip left the woodland boughs
For barer uplands. Over tawny bent
And purpling heath they rode till day was spent;
When, down within a broad, green-dusking dale,
They sought the shelter of the holy house
Of God's White Sisters of the Virgin's Veil.
So, day by day, they ever northward pressed,
Until they left the lands of peace behind,
And rode among the border-hills, where blind
Insatiate warfare ever rages fierce;
Where night-winds ever fan a fiery crest,
And dawn's light breaks on bright, embattled spears:
A land whose barren hills are helmed with towers;
A lone, grey land of battle-wasted shires;
A land of blackened barns and empty byres;
A land of rock-bound holds and robber-hordes,
Of slumberous noons and wakeful midnight hours,
Of ambushed dark and moonlight flashing swords.
With hand on hilt and ever-kindling eyes,
Flushed face and quivering nostril, Philip rode;
But nought assailed them; every lone abode
Forsaken seemed; all empty lay the land
Beneath the empty sky; only the cries
Of plovers pierced the blue on either hand;
Until, at sudden cresting of a hill,
The clang of battle sounded on their ears,
And, far below, they saw a surge of spears
Crash on unyielding ranks; while, from the sea
Of striving steel, with deathly singing shrill,
A spray of arrows flickered fitfully.
Amazed they stood, wide-eyed, with holden breath;
When, of a sudden, flashed upon their sight
The golden helm in midmost of the fight,
Where, with high-lifted head and undismayed,
Sir Geoffrey rode, a very lord of death,
With ever-leaping, ever-crashing blade.
Christine watched long, now cold with quaking dread,
Now hot with hope as each assailant fell;
The bright sword held her gaze as by a spell;
Because love blinded her to all but love,
Unmoved she watched the foemen shudder dead,
She whose heart erst the meanest woe could move.
Then, dazed, she saw a solitary shaft,
Unloosed with certain aim from out the bow,
Strike clean through Geoffrey's hauberk, and bring low
The golden helm, while o'er him swiftly met
The tides of fight. Christine a little laughed
With rattling throat, and stood with still eyes set.
Scarce Philip dared to raise his eyes to hers
To see the terror there. No word she spake,
But leaned a little forward through the brake
That bloomed about her in a golden blaze;
Her hands were torn to bleeding by the furze,
Yet nothing could disturb that dreadful gaze.
Then, gradually, the heaving battle swerved
To northward, faltering broken, and afar
It closed again, where, round a jutting scar,
The flashing torrent of the river curved.
With eager step Christine ran down the hill,
And sped across the late-forsaken field
To where, with shattered sword and splintered shield,
Among the mounded bodies Geoffrey lay.
She loosed his helm, but deathly pale and still
His young face gleamed within the light of day.
Christine beside him knelt, as Philip sought
A draught of water from the peat-born stream;
When, in his eyes, at last, a fitful gleam
Flickered, and bending low, with straining ears,
The laboured breathing of her name she caught;
And over his dead face fell fast her tears.
Once more towards them the tide of battle swept;
Christine moved not. Young Philip on her cried,
And strove, in vain, to draw her safe aside.
A random shaft in her unshielded breast--
Though hot to stay its course her brother leapt--
Struck quivering, and she slowly sank to rest.
VI.
Queen Hild sat weaving in her garden-close,When on her startled ear there fell the newsOf Christine's flight before the darkling dewsHad thrilled with dawn. A strand of golden threadSlipped from her trembling fingers as she roseAnd hastened to the castle with drooped head.All morn she paced within her blinded room,Unresting, to and fro, her white hands clenched;All morn within her tearless eyes, unquenched,Blue fires of anger smouldered, yet no moanEscaped her lips. Without, in summer bloom,The garden murmured with bliss-burdened droneOf hover-flies and lily-charmed bees;Sometimes a finch lit on the window-ledge,With shrilly pipe, or, from the rose-hung hedge,A blackbird fluted; yet she neither heardNor heeded aught; until, by rich degrees,Drowsed into noon the noise of bee and bird.Yea, even when, without her chamber, stayedA doubtful step, and timid fingers knocked,She answered not, but, swiftly striding, lockedYet more secure, with angry-clicking key,The bolted door, and the affrighted maidUnto the waiting hall fled, fearfully.Wearied at last, upon her bed Queen HildIn fitful slumber sank; but evil dreamsOf battle-stricken lands and blood-red streamsSwirled through her brain. Then, suddenly, she woke,Wide-eyed, and sat upright, with body chilled,Though in her throat the hot air seemed to choke.Swiftly she rose; then, binding her loosed hair,She bathed her throbbing brows, and, cold and calm,Downstairs she glided, while the evening-psalmIn maiden-voices quavered, faint and sweet,And from the chapel-tower, through quivering air,The bell's clear silver-tinkling clove the heat.She strode into the hall where yet the KingSat with his knights; a weary minstrel stirredCool, throbbing wood-notes, throated like a bird,From his soft-stringèd lute. With scornful eyesHild looked on them and spake: "Can nothing stingYour slumberous hearts from slothful peace to rise?Must only stripling-knights and maidens rideTo battle, where, unceasing, foemen wageWar on your marches, and your wardens rageIn impotent despair with desperate swords,While you, O King, with sheathèd arms abide?"She paused, and, wondering, the King and lordsLooked on her mutely; then, again, she spake:"Shall I, then, and my maidens sally forthWith battle-brands to conquer the wild north?Yea, I will go! Who follows after me?"As by a blow struck suddenly awake,The King leapt up, and, like a clamorous sea,The knights about him. Scornfully the QueenLooked on them: "So my woman's words have rousedThe hands that slumbered and the hearts that drowsed.Make ready then for battle; ere seven daysHave passed, the dawn must light your armour's sheen,And in the sun your pennoned lances blaze."Her voice ceased; and a pulsing flame of lightFlashed through the hall; in crashing thunder brokeThe heavy, hanging heat; the rafters wokeIn echo as the rainy torrent poured;Bright gleamed the rapid lightning; yet more brightThe war-lust kindled hot in every lord.To clang of armour the seventh morning stirredFrom slumber; restless hoof and champing bitAroused the garth; and day, arising, litA hundred lances, as, each bolt withdrawn,The courtyard-gate swung wide with noise far-heard,And flickering pennons rode into the dawn--Before his knights, the King, and at his side,Queen Hild, with ever-northward-gazing eyes;But, ere they far had fared, in mute surpriseThey stayed and all drew rein, as down the roadThey saw a little band of warriors ride--Sore travel-stained--who bore a heavy loadUpon a branch-hung litter; while beforeCame Philip, bearing a war-broken lance.Though King and lords looked, wondering, in a glanceQueen Hild had read the sorrow of his faceAnd pierced the leaf-hid secret--which e'ermoreA brand of fire upon her heart would trace.Darkness about her swirled, but, with a fierceWild, conquering shudder, shaking herself free,Unto the light she clung, though like a seaIt surged and eddied round her; yet so stillShe sat, none knew her steely eyes could pierceThe leafy screen. With guilty terror chill,She heard the king speak--sadly riding forth:"Whence come you, Philip, battle-stained and slow?What burden bear you with such brows of woe?"Then Philip answered, mournfully: "I bringTwo wanderers home from out the perilous north.Prepare to gaze on death's defeat, O King."They lowered the litter slowly to the ground;Back fell the branches; in the light of day,In calm, white sleep Christine and Geoffrey lay,And at their feet the baleful Helm of StrifeSword-cloven. Hushed stood all the knights around,When spake the King, alighting: "Come, O wife,And let us twain, with humble heads low-bowed,Even at the feet of love triumphant stand,A little while together, hand in hand."The Queen obeyed; but, fearfully, she shrankBefore the eyes of death, and, quaking, cowed,With moaning cry, low in the dust she sank.
Queen Hild sat weaving in her garden-close,
When on her startled ear there fell the news
Of Christine's flight before the darkling dews
Had thrilled with dawn. A strand of golden thread
Slipped from her trembling fingers as she rose
And hastened to the castle with drooped head.
All morn she paced within her blinded room,
Unresting, to and fro, her white hands clenched;
All morn within her tearless eyes, unquenched,
Blue fires of anger smouldered, yet no moan
Escaped her lips. Without, in summer bloom,
The garden murmured with bliss-burdened drone
Of hover-flies and lily-charmed bees;
Sometimes a finch lit on the window-ledge,
With shrilly pipe, or, from the rose-hung hedge,
A blackbird fluted; yet she neither heard
Nor heeded aught; until, by rich degrees,
Drowsed into noon the noise of bee and bird.
Yea, even when, without her chamber, stayed
A doubtful step, and timid fingers knocked,
She answered not, but, swiftly striding, locked
Yet more secure, with angry-clicking key,
The bolted door, and the affrighted maid
Unto the waiting hall fled, fearfully.
Wearied at last, upon her bed Queen Hild
In fitful slumber sank; but evil dreams
Of battle-stricken lands and blood-red streams
Swirled through her brain. Then, suddenly, she woke,
Wide-eyed, and sat upright, with body chilled,
Though in her throat the hot air seemed to choke.
Swiftly she rose; then, binding her loosed hair,
She bathed her throbbing brows, and, cold and calm,
Downstairs she glided, while the evening-psalm
In maiden-voices quavered, faint and sweet,
And from the chapel-tower, through quivering air,
The bell's clear silver-tinkling clove the heat.
She strode into the hall where yet the King
Sat with his knights; a weary minstrel stirred
Cool, throbbing wood-notes, throated like a bird,
From his soft-stringèd lute. With scornful eyes
Hild looked on them and spake: "Can nothing sting
Your slumberous hearts from slothful peace to rise?
Must only stripling-knights and maidens ride
To battle, where, unceasing, foemen wage
War on your marches, and your wardens rage
In impotent despair with desperate swords,
While you, O King, with sheathèd arms abide?"
She paused, and, wondering, the King and lords
Looked on her mutely; then, again, she spake:
"Shall I, then, and my maidens sally forth
With battle-brands to conquer the wild north?
Yea, I will go! Who follows after me?"
As by a blow struck suddenly awake,
The King leapt up, and, like a clamorous sea,
The knights about him. Scornfully the Queen
Looked on them: "So my woman's words have roused
The hands that slumbered and the hearts that drowsed.
Make ready then for battle; ere seven days
Have passed, the dawn must light your armour's sheen,
And in the sun your pennoned lances blaze."
Her voice ceased; and a pulsing flame of light
Flashed through the hall; in crashing thunder broke
The heavy, hanging heat; the rafters woke
In echo as the rainy torrent poured;
Bright gleamed the rapid lightning; yet more bright
The war-lust kindled hot in every lord.
To clang of armour the seventh morning stirred
From slumber; restless hoof and champing bit
Aroused the garth; and day, arising, lit
A hundred lances, as, each bolt withdrawn,
The courtyard-gate swung wide with noise far-heard,
And flickering pennons rode into the dawn--
Before his knights, the King, and at his side,
Queen Hild, with ever-northward-gazing eyes;
But, ere they far had fared, in mute surprise
They stayed and all drew rein, as down the road
They saw a little band of warriors ride--
Sore travel-stained--who bore a heavy load
Upon a branch-hung litter; while before
Came Philip, bearing a war-broken lance.
Though King and lords looked, wondering, in a glance
Queen Hild had read the sorrow of his face
And pierced the leaf-hid secret--which e'ermore
A brand of fire upon her heart would trace.
Darkness about her swirled, but, with a fierce
Wild, conquering shudder, shaking herself free,
Unto the light she clung, though like a sea
It surged and eddied round her; yet so still
She sat, none knew her steely eyes could pierce
The leafy screen. With guilty terror chill,
She heard the king speak--sadly riding forth:
"Whence come you, Philip, battle-stained and slow?
What burden bear you with such brows of woe?"
Then Philip answered, mournfully: "I bring
Two wanderers home from out the perilous north.
Prepare to gaze on death's defeat, O King."
They lowered the litter slowly to the ground;
Back fell the branches; in the light of day,
In calm, white sleep Christine and Geoffrey lay,
And at their feet the baleful Helm of Strife
Sword-cloven. Hushed stood all the knights around,
When spake the King, alighting: "Come, O wife,
And let us twain, with humble heads low-bowed,
Even at the feet of love triumphant stand,
A little while together, hand in hand."
The Queen obeyed; but, fearfully, she shrank
Before the eyes of death, and, quaking, cowed,
With moaning cry, low in the dust she sank.
PRINTED BY R. FOLKARD AND SON,23, DEVONSHIRE STREET, QUEEN SQUARE, BLOOMSBURY.
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