They came back, they called the doctors, they examined the torn
clothes. They wondered they had never thought of the truth before.
Time went on. And at last, when Horace could speak, and they asked him
about the old deer at the pond, he said that it was so--it was as they
had thought. It had been an almost deadly struggle between man and
beast; and Horace was to bear the marks upon the face and form that
had been loved so well to his life's end. A broken-featured man, lame,
with a stiff arm, and a sightless eye--and the story of his ruined
life no longer a secret--known to all.
Lady Greystock and Mrs. Evelyn remained at Beremouth. Mary Lorimer was
left at her grandmother's under the care of the trusty Jenifer. James
O'Keefe had returned to Ireland, leaving his niece and her history in
good guardianship with Father Daniels and Mr. Brewer; and Freddy,
being at school, had been happily kept out of the knowledge of all but
the surface facts, which were no secrets from anybody, that a man who
had been seen in the park and was a stranger in the neighborhood had
been suspected of being the perpetrator of the injuries of which the
old deer had been guilty. Poor old deer--poor aged Dapple! It was with
a firm hand and an unflinching determination that the kindest man
living met the beast once more at the deer-pond, and shot him dead.
Mr. Brewer would trust his death to no hand but his own--and there in
the thicket where he loved to hide a grave was dug, and the monarch of
the place was buried in it.
Lady Greystock and Eleanor kept their own rooms, and lived together
much as they had done latterly at Blagden. When Horace Erskine was fit
to leave his bed-room, he used to sit in a room that had been called
"Mr. Brewer's." It was, in fact, a sort of writing-room, fitted up
with a small useful library and opening at the end into a bright
conservatory. He had seen Lady Greystock. He knew of Eleanor being in
the house. He knew also that his former relations with her were known,
and he never denied, or sought to deny, the fact of their Catholic
marriage.
No one ever spoke to him on the subject. The subject that was first in
all hearts was to see him well and strong, and able to act for
himself. One thing it was impossible to keep from him; and that was
the anger of Mr. Erskine, his unde, an anger which Lucia his wife did
not try to modify. Mrs. Brewer wrote to her sister; Mr. Brewer pleaded
with his brother-in-law. Not a thing could they do to pacify them.
Horace was everything that was evil in their eyes; his worst crime in
the past was his having made a Catholic marriage with a beautiful
Irish girl, and their great dread for the future was that he would
make this marriage valid by the English law. They blamed Mr. Brewer
for keeping Eleanor in the house; they were thankless to Mr. Brewer
for still giving to Horace care, kindness, and a home. Finally, the
one great dread that included all other dreads, and represented the
overpowering woe, was that contained in the thought that Horace might
repent, and become a Papist.
Mr. Brewer, when it came to that, set his all-conquering kindness
aside for the time, or, to adopt his wife's words when describing
these seeming changes in her husbands's character, "he clothed his
kindness in temporary armor, and went out to fight." He replied to Mr.
and Mrs. Erskine that for such a grace to fall on Horace would be the
answer of mercy to the prayer of a poor woman's faith--that he and all
his household joined in that prayer; that priests at the altar, and
nuns in their holy homes, were all praying for that great result; and
that for himself he would only say that for such a mercy to fall upon
his house would make him glad for ever.
There was no disputing with a man who could so openly take his stand
on {332} such a broad ground of hope and prayer in such direct
opposition to the wishes of his neighbors. The Erskines became silent,
and Mr. Brewer had gained all he hoped for; peace, peace at least for
the time.
At last Horace was well enough to move, and Freddy's holidays were
approaching, and there was an unexpressed feeling that Horace was not
to be at Beremouth when the boy came back. Mr. Brewer proposed that
Horace should go for change of air to the same house in which Father
Dawson was lodging, just beyond Clayton, where the sea air might
refresh him, and the changed scene amuse his mind; and where, too, he
could have the benefit of all those baths, and that superior
attendance, described in the great painted advertisement that covered
the end of the lodging-houses in so promising a manner. Horace
accepted the proposal gladly. He grew almost bright under the
expectation of the change, and when the day came he appeared to
revive, even under the fatigue of a drive so much longer than any that
he had been before allowed to venture upon.
Mr. Dawson was to be kind, and to watch over him a little; and Father
Daniels was to visit him, and write letters for him, and be his,
adviser and his friend. Before he left Beremouth he had asked to see
Lady Greystock. She went with her father to his room quite with the
old Claudia Brewer cheerfulness prettily mingling with woman's
strength and woman's experience. He rose up, and said, "I wished to
ask you to forgive me, Lady Greystock--to forgive me my many sins
toward you!" She trembled a little, and said, "Mr. Erskine, may God
forgive me my pride, my anger, my evil thoughts, which have made me
say so often I could never see nor pardon you." It seemed to require
all her strength to carry out the resolution with which she had
entered that room. "Of course," she went on, "the personal trial that
you brought upon me, here, in my young days, I know now to have been a
great blessing in a grief's disguise. Though not--not yet--a
Catholic, I know you were then, as now, a married man." Horace Erskine
never moved; he was still standing, holding by the heavy
writing-table, and his eyes were fastened on the carpet. She went on:
"Since then your wife, a beautiful and even an accomplished woman, has
become my own dear friend. We are living together, and until she has a
home of her own, we shall probably go on living together. I have
nothing, therefore, to say more, except--except--" Here her voice
trembled, and changed, and she was only just able to articulate her
last words so as to be understood by her hearers, "Except about my
dear husband's death--better death than life under misapprehension.
That too was a blessing perhaps. Let us leave it to the Almighty
Judge. I forgive you; if you wish to hear those words from my poor
erring lips, you may remember that I have said them honestly,
submitting to the will of him who loves us, and from whom I seek
mercy for myself."
She turned round to leave the room. "Stop, Lady Greystock; stop!"
cried Horace. "In this solemn moment of sincerity, tell me--do you
think Eleanor loves me now?" "I would rather not give any opinion."
"If you have ever formed an opinion, give it. I entreat you to tell me
what is, as far as you know, the truth. Does Eleanor love me?" "Must I
speak, father?" "So solemnly entreated, I should say, yes. " "Does
Eleanor love me?" groaned Horace. "No," said Lady Greystock; and
turning round quickly, she left her father alone with Horace, and went
out of the room.
Five years passed by. Freddy was growing into manhood, enjoying home
by his bright sister Lady {333} Greystock's side, and paying visits to
his other sister, the happy bride, Mrs. Harrington, of
Harrington-leigh, the master of which place, "a recent convert," as
the newspapers said, "had lately married the convert step-daughter of
Mr. Brewer, of Beremouth." Lady Greystock always lived with her father
now, united to him in faith, and joining him in such a flood of good
works that all criticism, all wonderment, all lamentation and argument
at "such a step!" was simply run down, overpowered, deluged, drowned.
The strong flowing stream of charity was irresistible. The solemn
music of its deep waters swallowed up all the surrounding cackle of
inharmonious talk. Nothing was heard at Beremouth but prayer and
praise--evil tongues passed by that great good house to exercise
themselves elsewhere. Evil people found no fitting habitation for
their wandering spirits in that home of holy peace. And all his life
Mr. Brewer walked humbly, looking at Claudia, and calling her "my
crown!" She knew why. He had repented with a great sorrow of those
early days when he had left her to others' teaching. He had prayed
secretly, with strong resolutions, to be blessed with forgiveness. And
at last the mercy came--"crowned at last. All the mercies of my life
crowned by the great gift of Claudia's soul." So the good man went on
his way a penitent. Always in his own sight a penitent. Always
recommending himself to God in that one character--as a penitent.
Five years were passed, and Lady Greystock had been at Mary's wedding,
and was herself at Beremouth, still in youth and beauty, once more the
petted daughter of the house--but Eleanor was there no longer. Full
three years had passed since Eleanor had gone to London with Lady
Greystock, and elected not to return. They heard from her however,
frequently; and knew where she was. When these letters came Claudia
would drive off to Marston to see Grandmamma Morier, still enjoying
life under Jenifer's care. The letters would be read aloud upstairs in
the pretty drawing-room where the fine old china looked as gay and
bright as ever, and where not a single cup and saucer had changed its
place. Jenifer would listen. Taking careful note of every expression,
and whispering--sometimes in the voice of humble prayer, sometimes in
soft tones of triumphant thanksgiving--"My life, and all that is in
it!"
But now this five years' close had been marked by a great fact; the
death of Horace Erskine's uncle, and his great estate passing to his
nephew, whom he had never seen since their quarrel with him, but whom
he had so far forgiven as not to alter his will.
Horace Erskine was in London; and his Beremouth friends were going up
to town to welcome him home after four years of life on the continent.
London was at its fullest and gayest. Mr. Erskine had been well known
there, making his yearly visits, taking a great house, and attracting
round him all the talent of the day. A very rich man, thoroughly well
educated, with a fine place in Scotland, and his beautiful wife Lucia
by his side, he found himself welcome, and made others in their turn
welcome too. Now all this was past. For two seasons London had missed
Mr. Erskine, and he had been regretted and lamented over, as a
confirmed invalid. Now he was dead. And after a little brief wonder
and sorrow the attention of the world was fixed upon his heir, and
people of fashion, pleasure, and literature got ready their best
smiles for his approval.
Horace had been well enough known once. Never exactly sought {334}
after by heads of homes, for he was too much of a speculation. He was
known to be in debt; and all inquiries as to his uncle's property had
been quenched again and again by those telling words, "no entail." But
Horace had had his own world; and had been only too much of a hero in
it. That world, however, had lost him; and as the wheels of fashion's
chariot fly fast, the dust of the light road rises as a cloud and
hides the past, and the people that belonged to Horace Erskine had
been left behind and forgotten. Now, however, Memory was alive, and
brushing up her recollections; and Memory had found a tongue, and was
hoping and prophesying to the fullest extent of friend Gossip's
requirements, when the news came that Horace Erskine had arrived. "He
has taken that charming house looking on to the park. Mr. Tudor had
seen him. Nobody would know him. Broken nose, my dear! And he was so
handsome. He is lame, too--or if not lame, he has a stiff shoulder. I
forget which it is. He was nearly killed by some mad animal in the
park at Beremouth. He behaved with the most wonderful courage,
actually fought and conquered! But he was gored and trampled
on--nearly trampled to death. I heard all the particulars at the time.
His chest was injured, and he was sent to a warmer climate. And there
he turned Papist. He did, indeed! and his uncle never forgave him. But
I suspect it was a love affair. You know he has brought his wife home.
And she is lovely, everybody who has seen her says. She is so very
still--too quiet--too statuesque--that is her only fault in fact. But
all the world is talking of her, and if you have not yet seen her lose
no time in getting introduced; she is the wonder of the day."
And so ran the talk--and such was Eleanor's welcome as Horace
Erskine's wife. Her husband had really repented, and had sought her,
and won her heart all over again, and married her once more.
To have these great triumphs of joy and justice in her life was
granted to Jenifer's Prayer.
From The Month.
SAINTS OF THE DESERT.
BY VERY REV. J. H. NEWMAN, D.D.
1. Abbot Cyrus said to a brother: "If thou hadst no fight with bad
thoughts, it would be because thou didst bad actions; for they who do
bad actions are thereby rid of bad thoughts."
"But," said the other, "I have bad memories."
The abbot answered: "They are but ghosts; fear not the dead, but the
living."
2. When Agatho was dying, his brethren would have asked him some
matter of business. He said to them: "Do me this charity; speak no
more with me, for I am full of business already." And he died in joy.
3. An old man visited one of the fathers. The host boiled some
pot-herbs, and said: "First let us do the work of God, and then let us
eat."
[ORIGINAL.]
CHRISTINE:
A TROUBADOUR'S SONG,
IN FIVE CANTOS.
BY GEORGE H. MILES. [Footnote 53]
(CONCLUDED.)
THE FOURTH SONG.
I.
Amid the gleam of princely war
Christine sat like the evening star,
Pale in the sunset's pageant bright,
A separate and sadder light.
O bitter task
To rear aloft that shining head,
While round thee, cruel whisperers ask--
"Marry, what aileth the Bridegroom gay?
The heralds have waited as long as they may.
Yet never a sign of the gallant Grey.
Is Miolan false or dead?"
II.
The Dauphin eyed Christine askance:
"We have tarried too long," quoth he;
"Doth the Savoyard fear the thrust of France?
By the Bride of Heaven, no laggard lance
Shall ever have guard of thee!"
{336}
You could see the depths of the dark eyes shine
And a glow on the marble cheek,
As she whispered, "Woe to the Dauphin's line
When the eagle shrieks and the red lights shine
Bound the towers of Pilate's Peak."
She levelled her white hand toward the west,
Where the omen beacon shone;
And he saw the flame on the castle crest.
And a livid glare light the mountain's breast
Even down to the rushing Rhone.
Never braver lord in all the land
Than that Dauphin true and tried;
But the rein half fell from his palsied hand
And his fingers worked at the jewelled brand
That shook in its sheath at his side.
For it came with a curse from earliest time,
It was carved on his father's halls,
It had haunted him ever from clime to clime,
And at last the red light of the ancient rhyme
Is burning on Pilate s walls!
Yet warrior-like beneath his feet
Trampling the sudden fear,
He cried, "Let thy lover's foot be fleet--
If thy Savoyard would wed thee, sweet.
By Saint Mask, he were better here!
"For I know by yon light there is danger near,
And I swear by the Holy Shrine,
Be it virgin spear or Miolan's heir.
The victor to-day shall win and wear
This menaced daughter of mine!"
The lists are aflame with the gold and steel
Of knights in their proud array,
And gong and tymbalon chiming peal
As forward the glittering squadrons wheel
To the jubilant courser's neigh.
The Dauphin springs to the maiden's side,
And thrice aloud cries he,
"Ride, gallants all, for beauty ride,
Christine herself is the victor's bride.
Whoever the victor be!"
{337}
And thrice the heralds cried it aloud,
While a wondering whisper ran
From the central lists to the circling crowd,
For all knew the virgin hand was vowed
To the heir of Miolan.
Quick at the Dauphin's plighted word
Full many an eve flashed fire,
Full many a knight took a truer sword,
Tried buckle and girth, and many a lord
Chose a stouter lance from his squire.
Back to the barrier's measured bound
Each gallant speedeth away;
Then, forward fast to the trumpet's sound,
A hundred horsemen shake the ground
And meet in the mad melée.
Crimson the spur and crimson the spear,
The blood of the brave flows fast;
But Christine is deaf to the dying prayer,
Blind to the dying eyes that glare
On her as they look their last.
She sees but a Black Knight striking so well
That the bravest shun his path;
His name or his nation none may tell,
But wherever he struck a victim fell
At the feet of that shape of wrath.
"'Fore God," quoth the Dauphin, "that unknown sword
Is making a merry day!"
But where, oh where is the Savoyard,
For low in the slime of that trampled sward
Lie the flower of the Dauphinée!
And the victor stranger rideth alone,
Wiping his bloody blade;
And now that to meet him there is none.
Now that the warrior work is done,
He moveth toward the maid.
Sternly, as if he came to kill,
Toward the damsel he turneth his rein;
His trumpet sounding a challenge shrill,
While the fatal lists of La Sône are still
As he paces the purple plain.
{338}
A hollow voice through the visor cried,
"Mount to the crupper with me.
Mount, Ladye, mount to thy master's side.
For 'tis said and 'tis sworn thou shalt be the Bride
Of the victor, whoever he be."
At sound of that voice a sudden flame
Shot out from the Dauphin's eyes,
And he said, "Sir Knight, ere we grant thy claim,
Let us see the face, let us hear the name,
Of the gallant who winneth the prize."
"'Tis a name you know and a face you fear,"
The Wizard Knight began;
"Or hast thou forgotten that midnight drear,
When my sleeping fathers felt the spear
Of Vienne and Miolan?
"Ay, quiver and quail in thy coat of mail,
For hark to the eagle's shriek;
See the red light burns for the coming bale!"
And all knew as he lifted his aventayle
The Knight of Pilate's Peak.
From the heart of the mass rose a cry of wrath
As they sprang at the shape abhorred,
But he swept the foremost from his path,
And the rest fell back from the fatal swath
Of that darkly dripping sword.
But uprose the Dauphin brave and bold,
And strode out upon the green,
And quoth he, "Foul fiend, if my purpose hold,
By my halidome, tho' I be passing old,
We'll splinter a lance for Christine.
"Since her lovers are low or recreant.
Her champion shall be her sire;
So get a fresh lance from yonder tent.
For though my vigor be something spent
I fear neither thee nor thy fire!"
Swift to the stirrup the Dauphin he sprang,
The bravest and best of his race:
No bugle blast for the combat rang;
Save the clattering hoof and the armor clang,
All was still as each rode to his place.
{339}
With the crash of an April avalanche
They meet in that merciless tilt;
Back went each steed with shivering haunch.
Back to the croup bent each rider staunch.
Shivered each spear to the hilt.
Thrice flies the Baron's battle-axe round
The Wizard's sable crest;
But the coal-black steed, with a sudden bound,
Hurled the old Crusader to the ground,
And stamped on his mailed breast.
Thrice by the vengeful war-horse spurned,
Lowly the Dauphin lies;
While the Black Knight laughed as again he turned
Toward the lost Christine, and his visor burned
As he gazed at his beautiful prize.
Her doom you might read in that gloating stare,
But no fear in the maid can you see;
Nor is it the calm of a dumb despair,
For hope sits aglow on her forehead fair.
And she murmurs, "At last--it is he!"
Proudly the maiden hath sprung from her seat,
Proudly she glanceth around,
One hand on her bosom to stay its beat,
For hark! there's a sound like the flying feet
Of a courser, bound after bound.
Clearing the lists with a leopard-like spring,
Plunging at top of his speed.
Swift o'er the ground as a bird on the wing.
There bursts, all afoam, through the wondering ring,
A gallant but riderless steed.
Arrow-like straight to the maiden he sped.
With a long, loud, tremulous neigh,
The rein flying loose round his glorious head.
While all whisper again, "Is the Savoyard dead?"
As they gaze at the riderless Grey.
One sharp, swift pang thro' the virgin heart,
One wildering cry of woe.
Then fleeter than dove to her calling nest,
Lighter than chamois to Malaval's crest
She leaps to the saddle bow.
{340}
"Away!" He knew the sweet voice; away,
With never a look behind;
Away, away, with echoing neigh
And streaming mane, goes the gallant Grey,
Like an eagle before the wind.
They have cleared the lists, they have passed her bower,
And still they are thundering on;
They are over the bridge--another hour,
A league behind them the Leaning Tower
And the spires of Saint Antoine.
Away, away in their wild career
Past the slopes of Mont Surjeu;
Thrice have they swum the swift Isère,
And firm and clear in the purple air
Soars the Grand Som full in view.
Rough is their path and sternly steep,
Yet halting never a whit,
Onward the terrible pace they keep,
While the good Grey, breathing free and deep,
Steadily strains at the bit.
They have left the lands where the tall hemp springs,
Where the clover bends to the bee;
They have left the hills where the red vine flings
Her clustered curls of a thousand rings
Round the arms of the mulberry tree.
They have left the lands where the walnut lines
The roads, and the chestnuts blow;
Beneath them the thread of the cataract shines,
Around them the plumes of the warrior pines.
Above them the rock and the snow.
Thick on his shoulders the foam flakes lay.
Fast the big drops roll from his chest,
Yet on, ever on, goes the gallant Grey,
Bearing the maiden as smoothly as spray
Asleep on the ocean's breast.
Onward and upward, bound after bound,
By Bruno's Bridge he goes;
And now they are treading holy ground,
For the feet of her flying Caliph sound
By the cells of the Grand Chartreuse.
{341}
Around them the darkling cloisters frown,
The sun in the valley hath sunk;
When right in her path, lo! the long white gown,
The withered face and the shaven crown
And the shrivelled hand of a monk.
A light like a glittering halo played
Round the brow of the holy man;
With lifted finger her course he stayed,
"All is not well," the pale lips said,
"With the heir of Miolan.
"But in Chambery hangs a relic rare
Over the altar stone:
Take it, and speed to thy Bridegroom's bier;
If the Sacristan question who sent thee there,
Say, 'Bruno, the Monk of Cologne.'"
She bent to the mane while the cross he signed
Thrice o'er the suppliant head:
"Away with thee, child!" and away like the wind
She went, with a startled glance behind,
For she heard an ominous tread.
The moon is up, 'tis a glorious night,
They are leaving the rock and the snow,
Mont Blanc is before her, phantom white,
While the swift Isère, with its line of light,
Cleaves the heart of the valley below.
But hark to the challenge, "Who rideth alone?"--
"O warder, bid me not wait!--
My lover lies dead and the Dauphin o'erthrown--
A message I bear from the Monk of Cologne"--
And she swept thro' Chambery's gate.
The Sacristan kneeleth in midnight prayer
By Chamber's altar stone.
"What meaneth this haste, my daughter fair?"
She stooped and murmured in his ear
The name of the Monk of Cologne.
Slowly he took from its jewelled case
A kerchief that sparkled like snow.
And the Minster shone like a lighted vase
As the deacon unveiled the gleaming face
Of the Santo Sudario.
{342}
A prayer, a tear, and to saddle she springs,
Clasping the relic bright;
Away, away, for the fell hoof rings
Down the hillside behind her--God give her wings!
The fiend and his horse are in sight.
On, on, the gorge of the Doriat's won,
She is nearing her Savoyard's home,
By the grand old road where the warrior son
Of Hanno swept with his legions dun,
On his mission of hatred to Rome.
The ancient oaks seem to rock and reel
As the forest rushes by her,
But nearer cometh the clash of steel,
And nearer falleth the fatal heel,
With its flickering trail of fire.
Then first the brave young heart grew sick
'Neath its load of love and fear,
For the Grey is breathing faint and quick,
And his nostrils burn and the drops fall thick
From the point of each drooping ear.
His glorious neck hath lost its pride,
His back fails beneath her weight.
While steadily gaining, stride by stride,
The Black Knight thunders to her side--
Heaven, must she meet her fate?
She shook the loose rein o'er the trembling head,
She laid her soft hand on his mane,
She called him her Caliph, her desert-bred,
She named the sweet springs where the palm trees spread
Their arms o'er the burning plain.
But the Grey looked back and sadly scanned
The maid with his earnest eyes--
A moment more and her cheek is fanned
By the black steed's breath, and the demon hand
Stretches out for the virgin prize.
But she calls on Christ, and the kerchief white
Waves full in the face of her foe:
Back with an oath reeled the Wizard Knight
As his steed crouched low in the wondrous light
Of the Santo Sudario.
{343}
Blinded they halt while the maiden hies,
The murmuring Arc she can hear,
And, lo! like a cloud on the shining skies,
Atop of yon perilous precipice,
The castle of Miolan's Heir.
"Fail not, my steed!"--Round her Caliph's head
The relic shines like the sun:
Leap after leap up the spiral steep,
He speeds to his master's castle keep,
And his glorious race is won.
"Ho, warder!"--At sight of the gallant Grey
The drawbridge thundering falls:
Wide goes the gate at that jubilant neigh,
And, glory to God for his mercy to-day,
She is safe within Miolan's walls.
THE FIFTH SONG.
I.
In the dim grey dawn by Miolan's gate
The fiend on his wizard war-horse sate.
The fair-haired maid at his trumpet call
Creeps weeping and wan to the outer wall:
"My curse on thy venom, my curse on thy spell,
They have slain the master I loved too well.
Thou saidst he should wake when the joust was o'er,
But oh, he never will waken more!"
She tore her fair hair, while the demon laughed,
Saying, "Sound was the sleep that thy lover quaffed;
But bid the warder unbar the gate,
That the lost Christine may meet her fate."
II.
"Hither, hither thou mailèd man
With those woman's tears in thine eyes,
With thy brawny cheek all wet and wan,
Show me the heir of Miolan,
Lead where my Bridegroom lies."
{344}
And he led her on with a sullen tread.
That fell like a muffled groan,
Through halls as silent as the dead,
'Neath long grey arches overhead,
Till they came to the shrine of Moan.
What greets her there by the torches' glare?
In vain hath the mass been said!
Low bends the sire in mute despair,
Low kneels the Hermit in silent prayer.
Between them the mighty dead.
No tear she shed, no word she spoke,
But gliding up to the bier,
She took her stand by the bed of oak
Where her Savoyard lay in his sable cloak,
His hand still fast on his spear.
She bent her burning cheek to his,
And rested it there awhile.
Then touched his lips with a lingering kiss,
And whispered him thrice, "My love, arise,
I have come for thee many a mile!"
The man of God and the ancient Knight
Arose in tremulous awe;
She was so beautiful, so bright,
So spirit-like in her bridal white,
It seemed in the dim funereal light
Twas an angel that they saw.
"Thro' forest fell, o'er mount and dell,
Like the falcon, hither I've flown.
For I knew that a fiend was loose from hell,
And I bear a token to break this spell
From Bruno, the Monk of Cologne.
"Dost thou know it, love? when fire and sword
Flamed round the Holy Shrine,
It was won by thee from the Paynim horde,
It was brought by thee to Bruno's guard,
A gift from Palestine.
"Wake, wake, my love! In the name of Grace,
That hath known our uttermost woe,
Lo! this thorn-bound brow on thine I place!"
And, once more revealed, shone the wondrous face
Of the Santo Sudario.
{345}
At once over all that ancient hall
There went a luminous beam;
Heaven's deepest radiance seemed to fall,
The helmets shine on the shining wall,
And the faded banners gleam.
And the chime of hidden cymbals rings
To the song of a cherub choir;
Each altar angel waves his wings,
And the flame of each altar taper springs
Aloft in a luminous spire.
And over the face of the youth there broke
A smile both stern and sweet;
Slowly he turned on the bed of oak,
And proudly folding his sable cloak
Around him, sprang to his feet.
Back shrank the sire, half terrified,
Both he and the Hermit, I ween;
But she--she is fast to her Savoyard's side,
A poet's dream, a warrior's bride,
His beautiful Christine.
Her hair's dark tangles all astray
Adown her back and breast;
The print of the rein on her hand still lay.
The foam-flakes of the gallant Grey
Scarce dry on her heaving breast.
She told the dark tale and how she spurred
From the Knight of Pilate's Peak;
You scarce would think the Bridegroom heard.
Save that the mighty lance-head stirred.
Save for the flush in his cheek;
Save that his gauntlet clasped her hair--
And oh, the look that swept
Between them!--all the radiant air
Grew holier--it was like a prayer--
And they who saw it wept.
E'en the lights on the altar brighter grew
In the gleam of that heavenly gaze;
The cherub music fell soft as dew,
The breath of the censer seemed sweeter too.
The torches mellowed their requiem hue,
And burnt with a bridal blaze.
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And the Baron clasps his son with a cry
Of joy as his sorrows cease;
While the Hermit, wrapt in his Rosary,
Feels that the world beneath the sky
Hath yet its planet of peace.
But hark! by the drawbridge, shrill and clear,
A trumpet's challenge rude:
The heart of Christine grew faint with fear,
But the Savoyard shook his mighty spear,
And the blood in his forehead stood.
"Beware, beware, 'tis the Fiend!" quoth she:
"Whither now!" asks the ancient Knight,
"What meanest thou, boy?--Leave the knave to me:
Wizard, or fiend, or whatever he be,
By the bones of my fathers, he shall flee
Or ne'er look on morning light.
"What, thou just risen from the grave,
Atilt with an armèd man?
Dost dream that youth alone is brave,
Dost deem these sinews too old to save
The honor of Miolan?"
But the youth he answered with gentlest tone,
"I know thee a warrior staunch.
But this meeting is meant for me alone.
Unhand me, my lord, have I woman grown?
Wouldst stop the rushing of the Rhone,
Or stay the avalanche?"
He broke from his sire as breaks the flash
From the soul of the circling storm:
You could hear the grasp of his gauntlet crash
On his quivering lance and the armor clash
Round that tall young warrior form.
"Be this thy shield?" the maiden cried,
Her hand on the kerchief of snow;
"If forth to the combat thou wilt ride,
Face to face be the Fiend defied
With the Santo Sudario!"
But the young Knight laid the relic rare
On the ancient altar-stone;
"Holy weapons to men of prayer.
Lance in rest and falchion bare
Must answer for Miolan's son."
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Again the challenger's trumpet pealed
From the barbican, shrill and clear;
And the Savoyard reared his dinted shield,
Its motto, gold on an azure field--
"ALLES ZU GOTT UND IHR."
To horse!--From the hills the dawning day
Looks down on the sleeping plain;
In the court-yard waiteth the gallant Grey,
And the castle rings with a joyous neigh
As the Knight and his steed meet again.
And the coal-black charger answers him
From the space beyond the gate,
From the level space, where dark and dim
In the morning mists, like giant grim,
The Fiend on his war-horse sate.
Oh, the men at arms how they stared aghast
When the Heir of Miolan leapt
To saddle-bow sounding his bugle-blast;
How the startled warder breathless gasped.
How the hoary old seneschal wept!
And the fair-haired maid with a sob hath sprung
To the lifted bridle rein;
Fast to his knee her white arms clung,
While the waving gold of her fair hair hung
Mixed with Grey Caliph's mane.
"O Miolan's heir, O master mine,
O more than heaven adored,
Live to forget this slave of thine,
Wed the dark-eyed Maid of Palestine,
But dare not yon demon sword!"
But the Baron thundered, "Off with the slave!"
And they tore the white arms away,
"A woman 's a curse in the path of the brave;
Level thy lance and upon the knave,
For he laughs at this fool delay!
"But pledge me first in this beaker bright
Of foaming Cyprian wine;
Thou hast fasted, God wot, like an anchorite.
Thy cheeks and brow are a trifle white,
And, 'fore heaven, thou shall bear thee in this fight
As beseemeth son of mine!"
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The youth drank deep of the burning juice
Of the mighty Marètel,
Then, waving his hand to his Ladye thrice,
Swifter than snow from the precipice,
Spurred full on the infidel.
"O Bridegroom bold, beware my brand!"
The Knight of Pilate cries,
"For 'tis written in blood by Eblis' hand,
No mortal might may mine withstand
Till the dead in arms arise."
"The dead are up, and in arms arrayed,
They have come at the call of fate:
Two days, two nights, as thou know'st, I've laid
On oaken bier"--and again there played
That halo light round the Mother Maid
In the niche by the castle gate.
Each warrior reared his shining targe,
Each plumed helmet bent.
Each lance thrown forward for the charge,
Each steed reined back to the very marge
Of the mountain's sheer descent.
The rock beneath them seemed to groan
And shudder as they met;
Away the splintered lance is thrown,
Each falchion in the morning shone,
One blade uncrimsoned yet
But the blood must flow and that blade must glow
E'er their deadly work be done;
Steel rang to steel, blow answered blow,
From dappled dawn till the Alpine snow
Grew red in the risen sun.
The Bridegroom's sword left a lurid trail,
So fiercely and fleetly it flew;
It rang like the rattling of the hail,
And wherever it fell the sable mail
Was wet with a ghastly dew.
The Baron, watching with stern delight,
Felt the heart in his bosom swell:
And quoth he, "By the mass, a gallant sight!
These old eyes have gazed on many a fight,
But, boy, as I live, never saw I knight
Who did his devoir so well!"
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And oh, the flush o'er his face that broke,
The joy of his shining eyes,
When, backward beaten, stroke by stroke,
The wizard reeled, like a falling oak,
Toward the edge of the precipice.
On the trembling verge of that perilous steep
The demon stood at bay.
Calling with challenge stern and deep,
That startled the inmost castle keep,
"Daughter of mine, here's a dainty leap
We must take together to-day.
"Come, maiden, come!" Swift circling round,
Like bird in the serpent's gaze,
She sprang to his side with a single bound.
While the black steed trampled the flinty ground
To fire, his nostrils ablaze.
"Farewell!" went the fair-haired maiden's cry,
Shrilling from hill to hill;
"Farewell, farewell, it was I, 'twas I,
Who sinned in a jealous agony,
But I loved thee too well to kill!"
High reared the steed with the hapless pair,
A plunge, a pause, a shriek,
A black plume loose in the middle air,
A foaming plash in the dark Isére,--
Thus banished for ever the maiden fair
And the Knight of Pilate's Peak.
A mighty cheer shook the ancient halls,
A white hand waved in the sun,
The vassals all on the outer wall
Clashed their arms at the brave old Baron's call,
"To my arms, mine only one!"
But oh, what aileth the gallant Grey,
Why droopeth the barbèd head?
Slowly he turned from that fell tourney
And proudly breathing a long, last neigh,
At the castle gate fell dead.
III.
Lost to all else, forgotten e'en
The dark eyes of his dear Christine,
His fleet foot from the stirrup freed,
The Knight knelt by his fallen steed.
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Awhile with tone and touch of love
To cheer him to his feet he strove:
Awhile he shook the bridle-rein--
That glazing eye!--alas, in vain.
Bareheaded on that fatal field.
His gauntlet ringing on his shield,
His voice a torrent deep and strong,
The warrior's soul broke forth in song.
THE KNIGHT'S SONG
And art thou,
art thou dead,--
Thou with front that might defy
The gathered thunders of the sky.
Thou before whose fearless eye
All death and danger fled!
My Khalif, hast thou sped
Homeward where the palm-trees' feet
Bathe in hidden fountains sweet,
Where first we met as lovers meet,
My own, my desert-bred!
Thy back has been my home;
And, bending o'er thy flying neck,
Its white mane waving without speck,
I seemed to tread the galley's deck.
And cleave the ocean's foam.
Since first I felt thy heart
Proudly surging 'neath my knee,
As earthquakes heave beneath the sea,
Brothers in the field were we;
And must we,
can we part?
To match thee there was none!
The wind was laggard to thy speed:
O God, there is no deeper need
Than warrior's parted from his steed
When years have made them one.
And shall I never more
Answer thy laugh amid the clash
Of battle, see thee meet the flash
Of spears with the proud, pauseless dash
Of billows on the shore?
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And all our victor war,
And all the honors men call mine,
Were thine, thou voiceless warrior, thine;
My task was but to touch the rein--
There needed nothing more.
Worst danger had no sting
For thee, and coward peace no charm;
Amid red havoc's worst alarm
Thy swoop as firm as through the storm
The eagle's iron wing.
O more than man to me!
Thy neigh outsoared the trumpet's tone.
Thy back was better than a throne,
There was no human thing save one
I loved as well as thee!
O Knighthood's truest friend!
Brave heart by every danger tried,
Proud crest by conquest glorified.
Swift saviour of my menaced Bride,
Is this, is
this the end?--
Thrice honored be thy grave!
Wherever knightly deed is sung.
Wherever minstrel harp is strung,
There too thy praise shall sound among
The beauteous and the brave.
And thou shalt slumber deep
Beneath our chapel's cypress sheen;
And there thy lord and his Christine
Full oft shall watch at morn and e'en
Around their Khalif's sleep.
There shalt thou wait for me
Until the funeral bell shall ring.
Until the funeral censer swing.
For I would ride to meet my King,
My stainless steed, with thee!
----
The song has ceased, and not an eye
'Mid all those mailed men is dry;
The brave old Baron turns aside
To crush the tear he cannot hide.
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With stately step the Bridegroom went
To where, upon the battlement,
Christine herself, all weeping, leant.
Well might that crested warrior kneel
At such a shrine, well might he feel
As if the angel in her eyes
Gave all that hallows Paradise.
And when her white hands' tender spell
Upon his trembling shoulder fell.
Upward one reverent glance he cast,
Then, rising, murmured, "Mine at last!"
"Yes, thine at last!" Still stained with blood
The Dauphin's self beside them stood.
"Fast as mortal steed could flee,
My own Christine, I followed thee.
Saint George, but 'twas a gallant sight
That miscreant hurled from yonder height:
Brave boy, that single sword of thine,
Methinks, might hold all Palestine.
But see, from out the shrine of Moan
Cometh the good Monk of Cologne,
Bearing the relic rare that woke
Our warrior from his bed of oak.
See him pass with folded hands
To where the shaded chapel stands.
The Bridegroom well hath won the prize,
There stands the priest, and there the altar lies."
IV.
When the moon rose o'er lordly Miolan
That night, she wondered at those ancient walls:
Bright tapers flashing from a hundred halls
Lit all the mountain--liveried vassals ran
Trailing from bower to bower the wine-cup, wreathed
With festal roses--viewless music breathed
A minstrel melody, that fell as falls
The dew, less heard than felt; and maidens laughed.
Aiming their curls at swarthy men who quaffed
Brimmed beakers to the newly wed: while some
Old henchmen, lolling on the court-yard green
Over their squandered Cyprus, vowed between
Their cups, "there was no pair in Christendom
To match their Savoyard and his Christine?"
----
{353}
The Trovère ceased, none praised the lay,
Each waited to hear what the King would say.
But the grand blue eye was on the wave,
Little recked he of the tuneless stave:
He was watching a bark just anchored fast
With England's banner at her mast,
And quoth he to the Queen, "By my halidome,
I wager our Bard Blondel hath come!"
E'en as he spoke, a joyous cry
From the beach proclaimed the Master nigh;
But the merry cheer rose merrier yet
When the Monarch and his Minstrel met.
The Prince of Song and Plantagenet.
"A song!" cried the King. "Thou art just in time
To rid our ears of a vagrant's rhyme:
Prove how that recreant voice of thine
Hath thriven at Cyprus, bard of mine!"
The Minstrel played with his golden wrest,
And began the "
Fytte of the Bloody Vest. "
The vanquished Trovère stole away
Unmarked by lord or ladye gay:
Perchance one quick, kind glance he caught,
Perchance that glance was all he sought.
For when Blondel would pause to tune
His harp and supplicate the moon,
It seemed as tho' the laughing sea
Caught up the vagrant melody;
And far along the listening shore.
Till every wave the burthen bore,
In long, low echoes might you hear--
"Alles, Alles zu Gott und Ihr!"