The yellow sunlight, coming from the east,Through the great Minster windows, arched and high,That tell the story of our blessed LordIn colours royal with significance,Takes many hues, and falls upon the headOf 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 groupIn the old Minster on this sunny morn.The proud young head is bowed in reverenceBefore the holy priest of God, whose faceIs glowing with paternal love that shinesThrough 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 thoughtThey were the reflex of the steadfast loveShe bore her lord Noël? Who loves him notFor his bright joyance and his laughter sweet?
But now he stands, all merry laughter stilledBy 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 moveHis soul as it has never yet been moved;Words that have haunted his imaginingFor days and nights, making his young heart yearnWith restless longing for this present hour;Words that presage the glory of his life,The consecrated purpose of his youthIn its fulfilment and accomplishment;The holy, sacred, solemn, early vowOf 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 notUntil he grows to manhood. O the yearsThat 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 germAll undeveloped of man's later strength,He feels he is its master. For a spaceThe altar and the holy man of GodAre 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 SonAnd of the Holy Ghost. Amen."
No tiltNor tournament before his vision now,—Swift in his boyish heart, so full of dreamsOf fame, there springs a new, intense resolveOf consecration, an unconscious prayerFor 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 heartBeats for her lord, though he be gone,—all elseIn 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-railTo see the love upon his mother's face.Back to the castle, in a goodly train,They take their way, in joyous merrimentAnd festal cheer.
A banquet for the ladIs given in the hall, where gather soonThe Noël-garde retainers, come to greetThe noble boy, and say a long farewell.
The Lady Agathar still smiles, and fillsThe moment with all pleasure and delight,No shadow of her sorrow or her painShall 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 ChristalanAre missing for a time from the gay feast,And Agathar's quick eyes have followed themTo where they sit apart, the two young heads,Of golden beauty and of softest brown,Forming a picture that for evermoreHer 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 meThe rocks to find the bird's nest? who will playAt 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 headUpon his breast, her slender shapely hand,Sun-browned and thorn scratched, wanders lovinglyOver his face and hair,—then to the wordsUpon his doublet, tracing thoughtfullyTheir 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 lightAnd morning: no knight could be really trueAnd not be valiant to the death; and yet,No valiant knight could live and not be true."
"But if youcouldbe 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,Iwould be true," says Greane.
"Well, Greane, you teased me into saying it,So do not look so scornful! I should dieIf I could not exalt my father's nameIn 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 sayFor many years to come. At the sun's riseHe was to leave his home, to take his wayTo the brave knight Sir Kathanal, to whomSir Noël, dying, had bade AgatharSend the young Christalan, in time, to learnThe code of chivalry and knighthood. BackShe drew the curtains of his bed, and watchedHim sleeping, bent and kissed him:
"Christalan,Awake!" she said, "the day is breaking! SoonYou 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 goldUpon my doublet?"
"Ah, my son," she said,"It must be wrought upon your heart as wellAs on your doublet."
Quick he answered her,"How can I help be valiant and most true,With such a father and your peerless selfMy mother? No, I will not fail, be sure.Some day I shall come riding home to youWith 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 youMust serve, and work, and cheer for other knights;No knight is fully worthy to commandUntil he knows the lesson to obey;No ruler can be great unless he learnsWith dignity to be a servitor.The least shall be the greatest, the most trueIn all things, howe'er small, shall be at lastMost 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 playSweet 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 heardHow 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 wasTo prove the motto of his boyish choiceAnd it was near, the mother's heart was gladThat, ere the week was ended, ChristalanWould be the knight his heart had longed to be.His maiden shield, waiting his valour's rightTo grave it as his doublet had been wrought,And his bright armour were in readinessFor the long vigil by his arms, aloneBefore the altar in that sacred place,The holy Minster, where his father sleptFirst he would come, that she might bless her son.Well did she comprehend the happinessIn his brave heart to day, the early vowThat stirred the boy so deeply, long ago,Was near its confirmation! His intenseAnd solemn longing for the watch at night,His ardent joy in knighthood, won at last,—She shared before she saw him, with that senseOf 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 cloudThat 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 slowCan 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 hairA 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 lifeOf 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 passedInto the trance, like death, that held him thusThrough 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 unclosedThe 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 worldAre but the chance and circumstance of fate;And no knight could be truer than you provedYourself in self-forgetting, nor more braveThan in foregoing knighthood for a knight.You will be far more valiant, if you bearThis 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'sTo forfeit glory, and to suffer painUnhonoured and unknown—ah, Christalan,True knight within my heart I hold you, dear."
"Yea, mother mine, but now my father's nameRemains without fresh glory; his last prayerAnd dying wishes must be unfulfilled."
"Sweet Christalan, when you were scarce a lad,You saw the King and thought his shining crownHis royalty, which now you know is naughtBut 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 leaveThe outward sign, great in its way, but less."
"Your words are like the first flush of the dawnIn the dark night, my mother, bringing lightTo 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 repliedIn 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-gardeWith 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 ChristalanAs he relived it for her.
"List ye, Greane,"He said one day with ardour of brave youthAglow for bravery; "I met a manWho once had seen the great Sir Launcelot,And told me of him. How he prayed and prayedWithin the cloister; all his deeds of war,Of prowess, and renown, were naught to him,Though men bowed low in goodly reverenceAs 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 powerUnconquerable in reserve, to swiftO'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 tombOf sweet Elaine, and not in all the courtSaw 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 sureThat, were she living, I should love her well."
"O Christalan! you would not love a maidThat 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 herThat she did die for it. That she could tellHer story fearlessly to all the courtBut proves her high, unconscious purity."
"Well," said fair Greane, with laughter in her eyes,"I straight will die for the next noble knightWho 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 KingWho passed in such a wondrous mysteryFrom out the realm; and of King Constantine,"Who may not be like great King Arthur, Greane,But who deservedly has right to wearThe crown he wore; for he is brave and strong,Mighty in battle, bountiful in peace,To each brave knight a friend, and to the weakAs I, who never knew a father, thinkA father might be.
"When I saw him first,He asked, 'Are you Sir Noël's son—the knightWho, with the mighty King (peace to his soul!),Landed at Dover, and there fought so well?'Abashed I answered, 'Yea, my liege'; but heLaid his great hand, that has a jagged scarHalf-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 meSo graciously, I for a time forgotHe was a king, and answered him as freeFrom 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 placeThen, straightway, as I watched him, in his eyesThere came the look that made me want to kneel,Remembering he was a king indeed.I love him, Greane, I—"
Christalan turned quickHis face away, and strove to hide the painThat held him in its sharp and sudden grasp,Pain of the flesh, that was but less than painOf heart, that it should keep him from his King,And knightly service worthy of his nameGreane spoke not, but she understood, and creptClose to his side, finding his cold white hand,—The laughter turned to tears within her eyes.
Great was his love for Greane, but greater farHis love for Agathar Born of his pain,A strange dependence tinged patheticallyThe proud possession of his trust as guardOf her reft life and lonely widowhood.He waited for her coming in the mornWith 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 lessEclipsing, the brave spirit that was ripeFor doing deeds came to fulfil itselfIn the far harder task of doing naught,The courage ready for activityBut changed its course, as he forebore and smiledAnd yet he oft would hasten from the sightOf Greane and Agathar, and seek the wood,Where he was hidden from the tender eyesSo quick to see his struggle. Lying proneUpon the grass, he stretched his fragile formIts fullest length to cheat himself with thoughtThat he was stalwart, then he closed his eyesTo generous summer's lavish golden glowOf shimmering sunshine playing everywhere,And the fair world of beauty, flowering;Shut from his hearing caroling of bird,The liquid rhythm of rivulet, the songOf wind amid the tree-tops, all the notesOf nature's melody; and heard alone,With inward ear, the clanging clash of armsAnd shouts of victory Through the long hoursHe lay and fought his fight imaginary,To rise, more wan, to wage his war with pain.
One morning, when the sun rose, he was farFrom Noël-garde. He had gone out to seekThe wayside lilies, fresh with early dew.From the deep shadow of the wood he heardA troop of mailed horsemen cry a haltJust in the path before him. In low tonesThey talked of a dark plot to kill the King.
The heart of Christalan, that beat so faint,And oft so wearily, beat fast and strongIn anxious listening. It was a bandOf outlawed robbers, rebels to the King,Who planned to lay at the great undern huntA 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 drewA 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 denseUnbroken forest, with a single pathTrodden between the trees; he had no horse,No strength, and little time before the deed—The dreadful deed—be done. Not since his hurtHad 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 stealthilyHe started from the shadow of the trees;When suddenly two of the bandit bandCame riding back again, ere he could hide—The one had dropped his javelin and returnedTo seek it. Heavy coats of mail incasedThe stalwart frames scarce needing a defense,So strong they were.
Silent stood ChristalanAnd faced their coming, not a trace of fearOr tremor in his bearing, slight and frailIn his white doublet, holding in his handThe 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 hellAnd all the devils! we will slash his tongueToo 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 manWould 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 hornThat 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; breathlesslyHe 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 seesThe 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."