III.

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 domed 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.”