IV.

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.