II.

All night, beside her slumbering lord, the Queen

Tossed sleepless — every aching sense astrain

With tingling wakefulness that racked like pain

Her weary limbs; all night, in wide-eyed dread,

She watched the slow hours moving dark between

The glimmering window and the curtained bed.

The fitful calling of the owl, all night,

Struck like the voice of terror on her ears;

With brushing wings, about her taloned fears

Fluttered till dawn: when, as the summer gloom,

Grey-quivering, spilt in silver-showering light,

She rose and stood within the dawning room,

Shivering and pale — her long, unbraided hair

Each moment quickening to a livelier gold

About her snowy shoulders; yet, more cold

Than the still gleam of winter-frozen meres,

Her blue eyes shone with strange, unseeing stare,

As though they sought to pierce some mist of fears;

And, when she turned, the old familiar things

Unknown and alien seemed to her sight —

Outworn and faded in the morning light

The rose-embroidered tapestries, and frail

The painted Love that hung on irised wings

Above the sleeping King. Dark-browed and pale

She looked upon her lord, and fresh despair

With dreadful calm through all her being stole,

And froze with icy breath the flickering soul

That strove within her. Evil courage steeled

Her heart once more, as, combing back her hair,

She watched the waking world of wood and field:

Hay-harvesters with long scythes flashing white;

The dewy-browsing deer; the blue smoke-curl

Above some woodland hut; a kerchiefed girl

Driving the kine afield with loitering pace.

But, as a youthful rider came in sight,

She from the casement turned with darkening face,

And looked not out again, and fiercely pressed

Her white teeth in her quivering underlip,

To stifle the wild cry that strove to slip

From her strained throat; with clutching hands she sought

To stay the throbbing tumult of her breast

That fluttered like a bird in meshes caught.

Christine as yet in dreamless slumber lay

Within her turret-chamber; but a bird

Within the laurel singing softly stirred

Her eyes to wakeful life, and from her bed

She rose and stood within the light of day,

White-faced and wondering, with lifted head.

As April-butterflies, new-winged for flight,

That poise awhile in quivering amaze,

Ere they may dare the unknown, glittering ways

Of perilous airs — upon the brink of morn

She paused one moment in the showering light,

In radiant ecstasy of youth forlorn.

Then swift remembrance flushed her virgin snow,

And wakened in her eyes the living fire;

With joyous haste she drew her bright attire

About her trembling limbs, with eager hands,

Veiling her maiden beauty's morning glow,

Before she looked abroad on meadowlands,

Where Geoffrey rode at dawn. Across the blaze

Of dandelions silvering to seed,

She saw his white horse swing with easy speed;

He rode with head exultant in the breeze

That lifted his brown hair. With lingering gaze

She watched him vanish down an aisle of trees;

Then, swiftly gathering her dark hair in braids

Above her slender neck, she crossed the floor

With noiseless step, unlatched the creaking door,

And stole in trembling silence down the stair,

Intent to reach the garden ere the maids

Should come with chattering tongues and laughter there;

When by her side she heard a rustling stir:

The arras parted, and before her stood

Queen Hild in proud, imperious womanhood,

Looking upon her with cold, smiling eyes.

In startled wonder Christine glanced at her.

Then spake the Queen: “Do maids thus early rise

To tend their household duties, or to feed

The doves, relinquishing sleep's precious hours

To see the morning dew upon the flowers

And what frail blooms have perished‘ neath the moon?

To reach the Grey Nun's Walk, mayhap you speed —

To count the stricken buds of lilies strewn

O'ernight upon the soil by careless feet

That wandered there so late? Yea, now I know,

Christine, because you flush and tremble so.

Yet look you not on me with eyes that burn;

I would not stay you when you go to greet

The rider of the dawn on his return.

Think you I leave my bed at break of day —

I, Hild the Queen — to thwart a lover's kiss?

Think you my love of you could stoop to this,

Though you would wed a fledgling, deedless Knight?

Nay, shrink you not from me, turn not away;

Because my heart has never known love's light,

I fain would hear your happy tale of love,

That I may prosper you and your fair youth.

Will you not trust me?” Blind with love's glad truth,

Christine sank down within Hild's outstretched arms.

Speechless, awhile, with sobbing breath she strove;

Then poured out all the tale of love's alarms,

Raptures, despairs, and deathless ecstasies,

In one quick torrent from her brimming heart;

Then, quaking, ceased, and drew herself apart,

Dismayed that she so easily had revealed

To this white, cold-eyed Queen love's sanctities.

Yet Hild moved not, but stood, with hard lips sealed,

Until, the chiming of the turret-bell

Recalling her, she spake with far-off voice:

“I, loveless, in your innocent love rejoice.

May nothing stem its eager raptured course!

Oh, that my barren heart could love so well,

And feel the surge of love's subduing force!

Yet even I from out my dearth may give

To you, Christine. Would you that Geoffrey's name

Shall shine, unchallenged, on the lists of fame?

If you would have him win for you the crown

Of knightly immortality, and live

Triumphant on men's tongues in high renown,

Follow me now.” With cold, exulting eyes

She raised the arras, opening to the light

An unknown stair-way clambering into night.

Within the caverned wall she swiftly passed.

Christine for one brief moment in surprise

Uncertain paused; then, wondering, followed fast.

The falling arras shutting out the day,

She stumbled blindly through the soaring gloom —

Enclosing dank and chilly as the tomb

Her panting life; and unto her it seemed

That ever, as she climbed, more sheer the way

Before her rose, and ever fainter gleamed

The wan, white star of light that overhead

Hovered remote. Far up the stair she heard

A silken rustling as, without a word,

Relentlessly Queen Hild before her sped

For ever up the ever-soaring steep.

But when it almost seemed that she must fall —

So loudly in her ears the pulses beat,

And each step seemed to sink beneath her feet —

She heard the shrilly grating of a key,

And saw, above her, in the unseen wall,

A dazzling square of day break suddenly.

Within the lighted doorway Queen Hild turned

To reach a helping hand, and, as she bent

To clutch the swooning maiden, well-nigh spent,

And drew her to the chamber, weak and faint,

Through her gold hair so rare a lustre burned,

It seemed to Christine that an aureoled saint

Leaned out from heaven to snatch her from the deep.

Then, dizzily, she sank upon the floor,

Dreaming that toil was over evermore,

And she secure in Love's celestial fold;

Till, waking gradually as from a sleep,

Her dark eyes opened on a blaze of gold.

She sat within a chamber hung around

With glistering tapestry, whereon a knight,

Who bore a golden helm above the fight,

For ever triumphed o'er assailing swords,

Or led the greenwood chase with horse and hound,

While far behind him lagged the dames and lords

And all the hunting train; till he, at length,

Brought low the antlered quarry on the brink

Of some deep, craggy cleft, wherefrom did shrink

The quailing hounds with lathered flanks aquake.

As Christine looked on them, her maiden-strength

Returned to her; and now, more broad awake,

She saw, within the centre of the room,

A golden table whereon glittered bright

A casket of wrought gold, and, in the light,

Queen Hild, awaiting her, with smiling lips,

And laughing words: “Is this then love's sad doom,

To perish, fainting, in light's brief eclipse

Between a curtain and a closed door?

Shall this bright casket ever hold, unsought,

The golden helm — in elfin-ages wrought

For some star-destined knight — because love's heart

Grows faint within her? Shall the world no more

Acclaim its helmed lord?” But, with a start,

Christine arose, and swiftly forward came

With eager eyes, and stooped with fluttering breast —

Her slender, shapely hands together pressed

In tense expectancy, and all her face

With quivering light of wondering love aflame.

The Queen bent down, and in a breathing space

Unlocked the casket with a golden key,

And deftly loosed a little golden pin;

The heavy lid swung open and, within,

To Christine's eyes revealed the golden helm.

Then spake Queen Hild, once more: “Your love-gift see!

Think you that any smith in all the realm

Can beat dull metal to so fair a casque?

In jewelled caverns of enchantment old

This helm was wrought of magic-tempered gold

To yieldless strength, by elfin-hammers chased,

That toiled unwearied at their age-long task,

And over it an unknown legend traced

In letters of some world-forgotten tongue.

At noon, with careful footing, down the stair

Unto the hall the casket you must bear,

When King and knight are gathered round the board,

And, ere the tales be told or songs be sung,

Acclaim your love the golden-helmed lord.”

Christine, awhile, in speechless wonderment,

Hung o'er the glistering helm, and silence fell

Within the arrased chamber like a spell;

While softly, on some distant, sunlit roof,

The basking pigeons cooed with deep content;

Till, far below, a sudden-clanging hoof

Startled the morn. The women's lifted eyes

One moment met in kindred ecstasy;

Then Hild, with hopeless shudder, shaking free,

With strained voice spake: “Why do you longer wait?

Your love returns; shall he, in sad surprise,

Find no glad face to greet him at the gate?”