VI.

Queen Hild sat weaving in her garden-close,

When on her startled ear there fell the news

Of Christine's flight before the darkling dews

Had thrilled with dawn. A strand of golden thread

Slipped from her trembling fingers as she rose

And hastened to the castle with drooped head.

All morn she paced within her blinded room,

Unresting, to and fro, her white hands clenched;

All morn within her tearless eyes, unquenched,

Blue fires of anger smouldered, yet no moan

Escaped her lips. Without, in summer bloom,

The garden murmured with bliss-burdened drone

Of hover-flies and lily-charmed bees;

Sometimes a finch lit on the window-ledge,

With shrilly pipe, or, from the rose-hung hedge,

A blackbird fluted; yet she neither heard

Nor heeded aught; until, by rich degrees,

Drowsed into noon the noise of bee and bird.

Yea, even when, without her chamber, stayed

A doubtful step, and timid fingers knocked,

She answered not, but, swiftly striding, locked

Yet more secure, with angry-clicking key,

The bolted door, and the affrighted maid

Unto the waiting hall fled, fearfully.

Wearied at last, upon her bed Queen Hild

In fitful slumber sank; but evil dreams

Of battle-stricken lands and blood-red streams

Swirled through her brain. Then, suddenly, she woke,

Wide-eyed, and sat upright, with body chilled,

Though in her throat the hot air seemed to choke.

Swiftly she rose; then, binding her loosed hair,

She bathed her throbbing brows, and, cold and calm,

Downstairs she glided, while the evening-psalm

In maiden-voices quavered, faint and sweet,

And from the chapel-tower, through quivering air,

The bell's clear silver-tinkling clove the heat.

She strode into the hall where yet the King

Sat with his knights; a weary minstrel stirred

Cool, throbbing wood-notes, throated like a bird,

From his soft-stringed lute. With scornful eyes

Hild looked on them and spake: “Can nothing sting

Your slumberous hearts from slothful peace to rise?

Must only stripling-knights and maidens ride

To battle, where, unceasing, foemen wage

War on your marches, and your wardens rage

In impotent despair with desperate swords,

While you, O King, with sheathed arms abide?”

She paused, and, wondering, the King and lords

Looked on her mutely; then, again, she spake:

“Shall I, then, and my maidens sally forth

With battle-brands to conquer the wild north?

Yea, I will go! Who follows after me?”

As by a blow struck suddenly awake,

The King leapt up, and, like a clamorous sea,

The knights about him. Scornfully the Queen

Looked on them: “So my woman's words have roused

The hands that slumbered and the hearts that drowsed.

Make ready then for battle; ere seven days

Have passed, the dawn must light your armour's sheen,

And in the sun your pennoned lances blaze.”

Her voice ceased; and a pulsing flame of light

Flashed through the hall; in crashing thunder broke

The heavy, hanging heat; the rafters woke

In echo as the rainy torrent poured;

Bright gleamed the rapid lightning; yet more bright

The war-lust kindled hot in every lord.

To clang of armour the seventh morning stirred

From slumber; restless hoof and champing bit

Aroused the garth; and day, arising, lit

A hundred lances, as, each bolt withdrawn,

The courtyard-gate swung wide with noise far-heard,

And flickering pennons rode into the dawn —

Before his knights, the King, and at his side,

Queen Hild, with ever-northward-gazing eyes;

But, ere they far had fared, in mute surprise

They stayed and all drew rein, as down the road

They saw a little band of warriors ride —

Sore travel-stained — who bore a heavy load

Upon a branch-hung litter; while before

Came Philip, bearing a war-broken lance.

Though King and lords looked, wondering, in a glance

Queen Hild had read the sorrow of his face

And pierced the leaf-hid secret — which e'ermore

A brand of fire upon her heart would trace.

Darkness about her swirled, but, with a fierce

Wild, conquering shudder, shaking herself free,

Unto the light she clung, though like a sea

It surged and eddied round her; yet so still

She sat, none knew her steely eyes could pierce

The leafy screen. With guilty terror chill,

She heard the king speak — sadly riding forth:

“Whence come you, Philip, battle-stained and slow?

What burden bear you with such brows of woe?”

Then Philip answered, mournfully: “I bring

Two wanderers home from out the perilous north.

Prepare to gaze on death's defeat, O King.”

They lowered the litter slowly to the ground;

Back fell the branches; in the light of day,

In calm, white sleep Christine and Geoffrey lay,

And at their feet the baleful Helm of Strife

Sword-cloven. Hushed stood all the knights around,

When spake the King, alighting: “Come, O wife,

And let us twain, with humble heads low-bowed,

Even at the feet of love triumphant stand,

A little while together, hand in hand.”

The Queen obeyed; but, fearfully, she shrank

Before the eyes of death, and, quaking, cowed,

With moaning cry, low in the dust she sank.