Chapter 4

Then there were tales to tell of the great King Who passed in such a wondrous mystery From out the realm; and of King Constantine, "Who may not be like great King Arthur, Greane, But who deservedly has right to wear The crown he wore; for he is brave and strong, Mighty in battle, bountiful in peace, To each brave knight a friend, and to the weak As I, who never knew a father, think A father might be.

"When I saw him first, He asked, 'Are you Sir Noël's son--the knight Who, with the mighty King (peace to his soul!), Landed at Dover, and there fought so well?' Abashed I answered, 'Yea, my liege'; but he Laid his great hand, that has a jagged scar Half-way across it, on my arm and said, 'Be not afraid; I was your father's friend, And will be yours, if you are worthy him.'

"Often thereafter would he speak to me So graciously, I for a time forgot He was a king, and answered him as free From fear or shyness as I answer you, Told him my thirst for knighthood and for fame, To which he listened with that strange grim smile, So like a sunbeam in a rocky place Then, straightway, as I watched him, in his eyes There came the look that made me want to kneel, Remembering he was a king indeed. I love him, Greane, I--"

Christalan turned quick His face away, and strove to hide the pain That held him in its sharp and sudden grasp, Pain of the flesh, that was but less than pain Of heart, that it should keep him from his King, And knightly service worthy of his name Greane spoke not, but she understood, and crept Close to his side, finding his cold white hand,-- The laughter turned to tears within her eyes.

Great was his love for Greane, but greater far His love for Agathar Born of his pain, A strange dependence tinged pathetically The proud possession of his trust as guard Of her reft life and lonely widowhood. He waited for her coming in the morn With flowers he had gathered ere she woke; At night he led her to her chamber door, With boyish homage touched with stately grace, And Agathar said to her widowed heart, "How like his father in his courtesy'" Often she kissed him, whispering the while, "Beloved Christalan, my more than knight, You bear your bitter lot so patiently. Thank God you are so valiant and so true'"

Slowly the shadow on his way grew less Eclipsing, the brave spirit that was ripe For doing deeds came to fulfil itself In the far harder task of doing naught, The courage ready for activity But changed its course, as he forebore and smiled And yet he oft would hasten from the sight Of Greane and Agathar, and seek the wood, Where he was hidden from the tender eyes So quick to see his struggle. Lying prone Upon the grass, he stretched his fragile form Its fullest length to cheat himself with thought That he was stalwart, then he closed his eyes To generous summer's lavish golden glow Of shimmering sunshine playing everywhere, And the fair world of beauty, flowering; Shut from his hearing caroling of bird, The liquid rhythm of rivulet, the song Of wind amid the tree-tops, all the notes Of nature's melody; and heard alone, With inward ear, the clanging clash of arms And shouts of victory Through the long hours He lay and fought his fight imaginary, To rise, more wan, to wage his war with pain.

One morning, when the sun rose, he was far From Noël-garde. He had gone out to seek The wayside lilies, fresh with early dew. From the deep shadow of the wood he heard A troop of mailed horsemen cry a halt Just in the path before him. In low tones They talked of a dark plot to kill the King.

The heart of Christalan, that beat so faint, And oft so wearily, beat fast and strong In anxious listening. It was a band Of outlawed robbers, rebels to the King, Who planned to lay at the great undern hunt A trap for the brave, unsuspecting King, Spring on him unawares, and take his life, And have revenge for justice done to them.

His King! they spoke about his noble King, Then in the old court castle near his home, For a brief resting on his journey north.

He leaned against a gnarled and twisted oak, His soul a listening intensity, And all his strength, seemed leaving him; he drew A quick and stifled breath of sharpest pain, As they rode on, and thought of Agathar, Watching and waiting for his coming home.

"Yes, I can save him; God be thanked for that. I now may do one valiant deed and die."

It was a long way to the court, through dense Unbroken forest, with a single path Trodden between the trees; he had no horse, No strength, and little time before the deed-- The dreadful deed--be done. Not since his hurt Had he walked fast, or far, without great pain; Now it will follow every step he takes-- But what is that, he goes to save his King!

Prepared to brave the pain, all stealthily He started from the shadow of the trees; When suddenly two of the bandit band Came riding back again, ere he could hide-- The one had dropped his javelin and returned To seek it. Heavy coats of mail incased The stalwart frames scarce needing a defense, So strong they were.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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