The yellow sunlight, coming from the east,
Through the great Minster windows, arched and high,
That tell the story of our blessed Lord
In colours royal with significance,
Takes many hues, and falls upon the head
Of a fair boy before the altar-rail.
It is the son of the brave knight NoËl,
Cut off, alas! too early in his prime,
Now lying dead beneath yon sculptured stone,
But living in the hearts of the small group
In the old Minster on this sunny morn.
The proud young head is bowed in reverence
Before the holy priest of God, whose face
Is glowing with paternal love that shines
Through dignity of the official calm.
Who loves not Christalan for his blithe grace?—
For his dear eyes, so true, so fathomless,
So full of tenderness, his mother thought
They were the reflex of the steadfast love
She bore her lord NoËl? Who loves him not
For his bright joyance and his laughter sweet?

But now he stands, all merry laughter stilled
By awe that groweth slowly in his eyes,
In silent quietude, a knightly lad,
Clad in a doublet of unspotted white,
Embroidered at the breast with these two words,
Wrought by his mother's hand, Valiant and True.
He hears at last the stirring words that move
His soul as it has never yet been moved;
Words that have haunted his imagining
For days and nights, making his young heart yearn
With restless longing for this present hour;
Words that presage the glory of his life,
The consecrated purpose of his youth
In its fulfilment and accomplishment;
The holy, sacred, solemn, early vow
Of future knighthood for the noble lad.
And now his father's sword is shown to him;
His daring spirit, of a knightly race,
Leaps out to grasp it, though his hand may not
Until he grows to manhood. O the years
That he must wait, and serve, and work for that!
Why is it not to-morrow? He is strong,
And, never having seen the great, wide world,
With boyish confidence, that is the germ
All undeveloped of man's later strength,
He feels he is its master. For a space
The altar and the holy man of God
Are veiled before his earnest, searching gaze,
By sudden picture which his fancy paints:
He sees a tournament, himself a knight—

"God's peace be with thee, valiant boy and true;
In the name of God the Father, and of the Son
And of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

No tilt
Nor tournament before his vision now,—
Swift in his boyish heart, so full of dreams
Of fame, there springs a new, intense resolve
Of consecration, an unconscious prayer
For God's peace, though he knows not what it means.

The Lady Agathar stands, robed in black,
Behind the buoyant boy she loves so well.
She still has youth, and beauty, and desire;
But each full throb of her true, wifely heart
Beats for her lord, though he be gone,—all else
In life is naught to her but Christalan,
And Greane, the winsome maiden by her side.

Sweet Greane's heart thrills with pride of Christalan,
And with the spirit of the solemn scene;
But, also, with a fierce rebellious pang,
That she is but a useless, silly girl.
She wishes she too had been born a lad,
To take the knightly vow, and leave the home,
And go forth to the world and its delight.

Now Christalan turns from the altar-rail
To see the love upon his mother's face.
Back to the castle, in a goodly train,
They take their way, in joyous merriment
And festal cheer.

A banquet for the lad
Is given in the hall, where gather soon
The NoËl-garde retainers, come to greet
The noble boy, and say a long farewell.

The Lady Agathar still smiles, and fills
The moment with all pleasure and delight,
No shadow of her sorrow or her pain
Shall fall upon her Christalan to-day,
But deep within her heart she maketh moan,
"My Christalan goes forth to-morrow morn."

Amid the revel Greane and Christalan
Are missing for a time from the gay feast,
And Agathar's quick eyes have followed them
To where they sit apart, the two young heads,
Of golden beauty and of softest brown,
Forming a picture that for evermore
Her memory will hold to solace grief,
Or make it greater, as her mood may be.

"O Christalan how can I let you go?"
Says sweet Greane, weeping "Who will climb with me
The rocks to find the bird's nest? who will play
At arms, forgetting that I am a girl,
And helping me forget it?"

Christalan,
Lifting the nut-brown curl to find her ear,
Low whispers tenderly, "I love you, Greane,
A hundred times more than were you a boy,
And always have, e'en when I laughed at you."

Greane nestles to him, lays her pretty head
Upon his breast, her slender shapely hand,
Sun-browned and thorn scratched, wanders lovingly
Over his face and hair,—then to the words
Upon his doublet, tracing thoughtfully
Their broidered curving with her forefinger,

"Valiant and True" she says: "My Christalan, When you are great and famous in the world, Which would you be, could you be only one?"

"Why, Greane, they go together, like the light
And morning: no knight could be really true
And not be valiant to the death; and yet,
No valiant knight could live and not be true."

"But if you could be only one?" says Greane,
With child's persistency.

Quickly he starts,
Throws back his head impatiently, replies,
"I would be valiant, could I be but one."

"O Christalan, I would be true," says Greane.

"Well, Greane, you teased me into saying it,
So do not look so scornful! I should die
If I could not exalt my father's name
In valiant deeds of knighthood and of war.
You have to choose, for you are but a girl;
I need not choose, thank God! I will be both."

When the gray morning dawned at NoËl-garde,
The Lady Agathar went to her son;
It was the last good-morrow they would say
For many years to come. At the sun's rise
He was to leave his home, to take his way
To the brave knight Sir Kathanal, to whom
Sir NoËl, dying, had bade Agathar
Send the young Christalan, in time, to learn
The code of chivalry and knighthood. Back
She drew the curtains of his bed, and watched
Him sleeping, bent and kissed him:

"Christalan,
Awake!" she said, "the day is breaking! Soon
You leave your home where now you rule as lord,
Boy though you are, and go as servitor;
You must fulfil my heart's desire, my son,
And, by God's help, bring answer to my prayers;
You must be true and valiant, Christalan."

"Why, mother mine, is it not wrought in gold
Upon my doublet?"

"Ah, my son," she said,
"It must be wrought upon your heart as well
As on your doublet."

Quick he answered her,
"How can I help be valiant and most true,
With such a father and your peerless self
My mother? No, I will not fail, be sure.
Some day I shall come riding home to you
With honour, prizes, fame, and dignity,
That shall befit my father's noble name,
And all the court as I pass by will cry,
'Sir Christalan, the Valiant and the True!'"

"But, Christalan, first comes a time when you
Must serve, and work, and cheer for other knights;
No knight is fully worthy to command
Until he knows the lesson to obey;
No ruler can be great unless he learns
With dignity to be a servitor.
The least shall be the greatest, the most true
In all things, howe'er small, shall be at last
Most valiant. Will you serve as well, my son,
As now you hope to conquer?"

"Mother mine,
Nothing will be too hard for me, I know,
With knighthood at the end. If that should fail,
I could not bear it! It will come at last!
When I shall hear the cry, that in our play
Sweet Greane is ever calling through the wood,
From all the court, and even from the King,
'Sir Christalan, the Valiant and the True!'"

Eight years had passed. The Lady Agathar,
Unaged, unchanged, in her plain robe of black,
Sat in her tower, watching for her son.
Fair Greane was with her, tall, and full of grace,
Right glad at last that she was born a maid.

They talked together of that day, gone by,
When Christalan first left them They had heard
How nobly, to the pride of NoËl-garde,
He bore his days of service, how, as squire,
He was the favoured of Sir Kathanal,
How keen and living his ambition was
To prove the motto of his boyish choice
And it was near, the mother's heart was glad
That, ere the week was ended, Christalan
Would be the knight his heart had longed to be.
His maiden shield, waiting his valour's right
To grave it as his doublet had been wrought,
And his bright armour were in readiness
For the long vigil by his arms, alone
Before the altar in that sacred place,
The holy Minster, where his father slept
First he would come, that she might bless her son.
Well did she comprehend the happiness
In his brave heart to day, the early vow
That stirred the boy so deeply, long ago,
Was near its confirmation! His intense
And solemn longing for the watch at night,
His ardent joy in knighthood, won at last,—
She shared before she saw him, with that sense
Of subtle sympathy a mother, only, knows.
She spoke her thoughts aloud in pride-thrilled tones—

"Almost a knight, my Greane, is Christalan;
How valiant, faithful, noble he has been,
And will be ever, my true-hearted son!"

"Greane! Greane! they come! I see a dusty cloud
That hides and heralds the approach of men.
Look, is it Christalan? They come more near,
Nearer and nearer! God in Heaven! Greane,
What is it that they bring? Not Christalan?
O no; that silent form they bear so slow
Can not, and must not, be my Christalan!
Come, Greane, and contradict my eyes for me."

Greane's answer was a swift, confirming swoon.
Up through the gates they bore her Christalan,
Dressed in the garments of the neophyte,
That erst were spotless white, but then were soiled,
Bedraggled and dust-stained. His golden hair
A matted mass, of sunny curls unkempt,—
And yet how beautiful he was withal!
Into the hall they brought and laid him down,
While Agathar gave thanks, from her despair,
That death had not yet conquered him. He lived,
Although he spoke not, moved not, scarcely breathed.

They told her, in few words, of his brave deed.
In some lone mountain way, far from the court,
He saw a knight almost unhorsed by fraud,
And springing quickly to the knight's relief,
Unarmed, unready, without thought of self,
He had been trampled by the maddened horse,
Whose master he had saved unfair defeat.
The leech had tended him with greatest care,
Promised him life, but never more, alas!
The power to wield his sword, or wear his arms,
The strength to walk, or run, or live the life
Of manhood as men prize it. Some deep hurt,
Beyond the sight, would ever foil his strength,
And make bold effort perilous to life.
They told her how he whiter grew, at this,
And, with the one word, "NoËl-garde," had passed
Into the trance, like death, that held him thus
Through all the journey they had carried him.
"My valiant boy," said Lady Agathar;
And hushed her heart, to minister to him.

Slowly, at last, the lovely eyes unclosed
The speaking beauty of their dark-blue depths,
To meet his mother's with beseeching gaze.
"I can be true, but never valiant now,"
He said in faltering accents. "Mother mine,
There is no knight for you and my sweet Greane.
God help me!" and he turned him to the wall.

"O Christalan! my son," she answered him,
"Knighthood is in the spirit and the soul;
The deeds that show the knighthood to the world
Are but the chance and circumstance of fate;
And no knight could be truer than you proved
Yourself in self-forgetting, nor more brave
Than in foregoing knighthood for a knight.
You will be far more valiant, if you bear
This sorrow without murmur or complaint,
Than you could prove in any battle won.
The meanest varlet often wins by chance.
It needeth valour like our blessed Lord's
To forfeit glory, and to suffer pain
Unhonoured and unknown—ah, Christalan,
True knight within my heart I hold you, dear."

"Yea, mother mine, but now my father's name
Remains without fresh glory; his last prayer
And dying wishes must be unfulfilled."

"Sweet Christalan, when you were scarce a lad,
You saw the King and thought his shining crown
His royalty, which now you know is naught
But symbol of it. Thus your father, dear,
In larger life of knowledge of the truth,
Knows that the boon he prayed was but the sign.
'Tis yours, now, to fulfil the higher prayer;
'Tis yours to gain the inward grace, and leave
The outward sign, great in its way, but less."

"Your words are like the first flush of the dawn
In the dark night, my mother, bringing light
To show more plain the lingering dark. O God,
It is so dark and bitter! How can you,
Yea, even you, begin to understand?
You never were a man—almost a knight."

"But I have been a mother," she replied
In tones so strange he roused to look at her,
And saw his sorrow's kinship in her eyes.
He drew her arm beneath his head, and slept.

They noursled him to outward show of strength,
With care and love, the best of medicines.
A brighter day now dawned for NoËl-garde
With his home-coming, notwithstanding grief.
What tales there were to tell of the great court,
Of his long service with Sir Kathanal,
To which Greane listened with quick, bated breath,
Sharing each feat and play with Christalan
As he relived it for her.

"List ye, Greane,"
He said one day with ardour of brave youth
Aglow for bravery; "I met a man
Who once had seen the great Sir Launcelot,
And told me of him. How he prayed and prayed
Within the cloister; all his deeds of war,
Of prowess, and renown, were naught to him,
Though men bowed low in goodly reverence
As he walked by; and some, 'the foolish ones,'
The man said, yet they seem not so to me,
Stooped down and kissed the footprints that he left.
Although he wore but simple gown of serge,
With girdle at the waist, like any monk,
One felt, with passing glance, he had a power
Unconquerable in reserve, to swift
O'ercome whate'er approached him, if he would.
And, Greane, bend down and let me speak to you:
I saw at Camelot the great white tomb
Of sweet Elaine, and not in all the court
Saw I a maiden half so fair as she.
She lies there carved in marble, pure and white;
And, by our blessed Lord, my heart is sure
That, were she living, I should love her well."

"O Christalan! you would not love a maid
That lost her maiden pride and dignity,
Giving her love unasked?" said Greane, in scorn.

"Alas, Greane! have you, hidden from the world,
Learned the world's jargon and false estimates?
Do you not know that love is more than pride,
And beating heart more than cold dignity?
Men die for glory, and you all applaud.
Elaine's love was her glory; honour her
That she did die for it. That she could tell
Her story fearlessly to all the court
But proves her high, unconscious purity."

"Well," said fair Greane, with laughter in her eyes,
"I straight will die for the next noble knight
Who comes to NoËl-garde to rest awhile,
And you shall put me on a gilded barge,—
I will not have a solemn bed of black!—
And our old servitor shall deck—"

"Peace, Greane!"
Said Christalan, in tones that frightened her,
Who knew no sound from him but tenderness.
"Dare not to jest about that holy maid,
Too pure to fear, too true to hide her heart."

Then there were tales to tell of the great King
Who passed in such a wondrous mystery
From out the realm; and of King Constantine,
"Who may not be like great King Arthur, Greane,
But who deservedly has right to wear
The crown he wore; for he is brave and strong,
Mighty in battle, bountiful in peace,
To each brave knight a friend, and to the weak
As I, who never knew a father, think
A father might be.

"When I saw him first,
He asked, 'Are you Sir NoËl's son—the knight
Who, with the mighty King (peace to his soul!),
Landed at Dover, and there fought so well?'
Abashed I answered, 'Yea, my liege'; but he
Laid his great hand, that has a jagged scar
Half-way across it, on my arm and said,
'Be not afraid; I was your father's friend,
And will be yours, if you are worthy him.'

"Often thereafter would he speak to me
So graciously, I for a time forgot
He was a king, and answered him as free
From fear or shyness as I answer you,
Told him my thirst for knighthood and for fame,
To which he listened with that strange grim smile,
So like a sunbeam in a rocky place
Then, straightway, as I watched him, in his eyes
There came the look that made me want to kneel,
Remembering he was a king indeed.
I love him, Greane, I—"

Christalan turned quick
His face away, and strove to hide the pain
That held him in its sharp and sudden grasp,
Pain of the flesh, that was but less than pain
Of heart, that it should keep him from his King,
And knightly service worthy of his name
Greane spoke not, but she understood, and crept
Close to his side, finding his cold white hand,—
The laughter turned to tears within her eyes.

Great was his love for Greane, but greater far
His love for Agathar Born of his pain,
A strange dependence tinged pathetically
The proud possession of his trust as guard
Of her reft life and lonely widowhood.
He waited for her coming in the morn
With flowers he had gathered ere she woke;
At night he led her to her chamber door,
With boyish homage touched with stately grace,
And Agathar said to her widowed heart,
"How like his father in his courtesy'"
Often she kissed him, whispering the while,
"Beloved Christalan, my more than knight,
You bear your bitter lot so patiently.
Thank God you are so valiant and so true'"

Slowly the shadow on his way grew less
Eclipsing, the brave spirit that was ripe
For doing deeds came to fulfil itself
In the far harder task of doing naught,
The courage ready for activity
But changed its course, as he forebore and smiled
And yet he oft would hasten from the sight
Of Greane and Agathar, and seek the wood,
Where he was hidden from the tender eyes
So quick to see his struggle. Lying prone
Upon the grass, he stretched his fragile form
Its fullest length to cheat himself with thought
That he was stalwart, then he closed his eyes
To generous summer's lavish golden glow
Of shimmering sunshine playing everywhere,
And the fair world of beauty, flowering;
Shut from his hearing caroling of bird,
The liquid rhythm of rivulet, the song
Of wind amid the tree-tops, all the notes
Of nature's melody; and heard alone,
With inward ear, the clanging clash of arms
And shouts of victory Through the long hours
He lay and fought his fight imaginary,
To rise, more wan, to wage his war with pain.

One morning, when the sun rose, he was far
From NoËl-garde. He had gone out to seek
The wayside lilies, fresh with early dew.
From the deep shadow of the wood he heard
A troop of mailed horsemen cry a halt
Just in the path before him. In low tones
They talked of a dark plot to kill the King.

The heart of Christalan, that beat so faint,
And oft so wearily, beat fast and strong
In anxious listening. It was a band
Of outlawed robbers, rebels to the King,
Who planned to lay at the great undern hunt
A trap for the brave, unsuspecting King,
Spring on him unawares, and take his life,
And have revenge for justice done to them.

His King! they spoke about his noble King,
Then in the old court castle near his home,
For a brief resting on his journey north.

He leaned against a gnarled and twisted oak,
His soul a listening intensity,
And all his strength, seemed leaving him; he drew
A quick and stifled breath of sharpest pain,
As they rode on, and thought of Agathar,
Watching and waiting for his coming home.

"Yes, I can save him; God be thanked for that.
I now may do one valiant deed and die."

It was a long way to the court, through dense
Unbroken forest, with a single path
Trodden between the trees; he had no horse,
No strength, and little time before the deed—
The dreadful deed—be done. Not since his hurt
Had he walked fast, or far, without great pain;
Now it will follow every step he takes—
But what is that, he goes to save his King!

Prepared to brave the pain, all stealthily
He started from the shadow of the trees;
When suddenly two of the bandit band
Came riding back again, ere he could hide—
The one had dropped his javelin and returned
To seek it. Heavy coats of mail incased
The stalwart frames scarce needing a defense,
So strong they were.

Silent stood Christalan
And faced their coming, not a trace of fear
Or tremor in his bearing, slight and frail
In his white doublet, holding in his hand
The wayside lilies he forgot to drop,
Which to the Lady Agathar shall come,
Alas! without his greeting or his kiss.

"Ho!" cried the bandits. "Eavesdropping? By hell
And all the devils! we will slash his tongue
Too fine to tell our secrets, if he heard!
Speak, man, or die! Heard you our converse now?"

"Strike, ye base cowards," answered Christalan.
"I am unarmed, alone, and weaponless:
I cannot wield the sword, nor wear my helm,
But God is with me to defend me now,
So strike against His power, if you dare!"

The sunlight, slanting westward through the trees,
Fell first upon his lifted, golden head,
Making a shining helmet of his curls,
And then upon the lilies in his hand;
His eyes had a defiant, fearless glow;
Against the sombre background of the wood,
He looked scarce human.

"Mother of our Lord!"
In frightened breath, the bandit rebels cried.
"It is a spirit; no mere mortal man
Would stand and face us boldly so, unarmed.
Look at the Virgin's lilies in his hand!
Great God, preserve us, save us from our doom!"

And turning in a panic of swift fear,
They vanished quickly through the shadowed wood,
While Christalan sped on to save his King.

He sees the castle, and he hears the horn
That calls the court together for the hunt;
His strength is failing, and his heart grows faint.
Quick, ere it cease to beat! Faster, more fast!
O but to save his noble lord! One swift,
Last run, and he has reached them; breathlessly
He stands before the charger of the King,
With arms uplifted and imploring eyes,
Until words come, between sharp gasps of pain.
"Go not, my liege, upon the hunt to-day,
I pray you, for the glory of the realm."

With cheeks that paled and flushed, and panting breath,
He told his story in disjointed words,
And, with unconscious frank simplicity,
The tale of his high courage on the way,
To prove, what it had proved to his own heart,
The care of God to shield his lord the King.
Then he fell prostrate at the great King's feet,
And tired life ebbed fast to leave him rest.

He lies amid the hushed and silent court,
The faded lilies still within his hand;
And with his weary, dying eyes he sees
The sword of Constantine above his head,
Giving, at last, the royal accolade,
While the King's face is full of yearning love;
And with his dying ears he hears the words,
That he has bravely striven to resign,
"Sir Christalan, my True and Valiant knight,"

And then the murmur from the assembled court,
"Sir Christalan, the Valiant and the True;
God speed the soul of our beloved knight,
Sir Christalan, the Valiant and the True."

*******

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