Volume 3 — CHRISTINE: A TROUBADOUR'S SONG, IN FIVE CANTOS. BY GEORGE H. MILES. [Footnote 53]

Amid the gleam of princely war Christine sat like the evening star, Pale in the sunset's pageant bright, A separate and sadder light. O bitter task To rear aloft that shining head, While round thee, cruel whisperers ask-- "Marry, what aileth the Bridegroom gay? The heralds have waited as long as they may. Yet never a sign of the gallant Grey. Is Miolan false or dead?"

The Dauphin eyed Christine askance: "We have tarried too long," quoth he; "Doth the Savoyard fear the thrust of France? By the Bride of Heaven, no laggard lance Shall ever have guard of thee!" {336} You could see the depths of the dark eyes shine And a glow on the marble cheek, As she whispered, "Woe to the Dauphin's line When the eagle shrieks and the red lights shine Bound the towers of Pilate's Peak." She levelled her white hand toward the west, Where the omen beacon shone; And he saw the flame on the castle crest. And a livid glare light the mountain's breast Even down to the rushing Rhone. Never braver lord in all the land Than that Dauphin true and tried; But the rein half fell from his palsied hand And his fingers worked at the jewelled brand That shook in its sheath at his side. For it came with a curse from earliest time, It was carved on his father's halls, It had haunted him ever from clime to clime, And at last the red light of the ancient rhyme Is burning on Pilate s walls! Yet warrior-like beneath his feet Trampling the sudden fear, He cried, "Let thy lover's foot be fleet-- If thy Savoyard would wed thee, sweet. By Saint Mask, he were better here! "For I know by yon light there is danger near, And I swear by the Holy Shrine, Be it virgin spear or Miolan's heir. The victor to-day shall win and wear This menaced daughter of mine!" The lists are aflame with the gold and steel Of knights in their proud array, And gong and tymbalon chiming peal As forward the glittering squadrons wheel To the jubilant courser's neigh. The Dauphin springs to the maiden's side, And thrice aloud cries he, "Ride, gallants all, for beauty ride, Christine herself is the victor's bride. Whoever the victor be!" {337} And thrice the heralds cried it aloud, While a wondering whisper ran From the central lists to the circling crowd, For all knew the virgin hand was vowed To the heir of Miolan. Quick at the Dauphin's plighted word Full many an eve flashed fire, Full many a knight took a truer sword, Tried buckle and girth, and many a lord Chose a stouter lance from his squire. Back to the barrier's measured bound Each gallant speedeth away; Then, forward fast to the trumpet's sound, A hundred horsemen shake the ground And meet in the mad melée. Crimson the spur and crimson the spear, The blood of the brave flows fast; But Christine is deaf to the dying prayer, Blind to the dying eyes that glare On her as they look their last. She sees but a Black Knight striking so well That the bravest shun his path; His name or his nation none may tell, But wherever he struck a victim fell At the feet of that shape of wrath. "'Fore God," quoth the Dauphin, "that unknown sword Is making a merry day!" But where, oh where is the Savoyard, For low in the slime of that trampled sward Lie the flower of the Dauphinée! And the victor stranger rideth alone, Wiping his bloody blade; And now that to meet him there is none. Now that the warrior work is done, He moveth toward the maid. Sternly, as if he came to kill, Toward the damsel he turneth his rein; His trumpet sounding a challenge shrill, While the fatal lists of La Sône are still As he paces the purple plain. {338} A hollow voice through the visor cried, "Mount to the crupper with me. Mount, Ladye, mount to thy master's side. For 'tis said and 'tis sworn thou shalt be the Bride Of the victor, whoever he be." At sound of that voice a sudden flame Shot out from the Dauphin's eyes, And he said, "Sir Knight, ere we grant thy claim, Let us see the face, let us hear the name, Of the gallant who winneth the prize." "'Tis a name you know and a face you fear," The Wizard Knight began; "Or hast thou forgotten that midnight drear, When my sleeping fathers felt the spear Of Vienne and Miolan? "Ay, quiver and quail in thy coat of mail, For hark to the eagle's shriek; See the red light burns for the coming bale!" And all knew as he lifted his aventayle The Knight of Pilate's Peak. From the heart of the mass rose a cry of wrath As they sprang at the shape abhorred, But he swept the foremost from his path, And the rest fell back from the fatal swath Of that darkly dripping sword. But uprose the Dauphin brave and bold, And strode out upon the green, And quoth he, "Foul fiend, if my purpose hold, By my halidome, tho' I be passing old, We'll splinter a lance for Christine. "Since her lovers are low or recreant. Her champion shall be her sire; So get a fresh lance from yonder tent. For though my vigor be something spent I fear neither thee nor thy fire!" Swift to the stirrup the Dauphin he sprang, The bravest and best of his race: No bugle blast for the combat rang; Save the clattering hoof and the armor clang, All was still as each rode to his place. {339} With the crash of an April avalanche They meet in that merciless tilt; Back went each steed with shivering haunch. Back to the croup bent each rider staunch. Shivered each spear to the hilt. Thrice flies the Baron's battle-axe round The Wizard's sable crest; But the coal-black steed, with a sudden bound, Hurled the old Crusader to the ground, And stamped on his mailed breast. Thrice by the vengeful war-horse spurned, Lowly the Dauphin lies; While the Black Knight laughed as again he turned Toward the lost Christine, and his visor burned As he gazed at his beautiful prize. Her doom you might read in that gloating stare, But no fear in the maid can you see; Nor is it the calm of a dumb despair, For hope sits aglow on her forehead fair. And she murmurs, "At last--it is he!" Proudly the maiden hath sprung from her seat, Proudly she glanceth around, One hand on her bosom to stay its beat, For hark! there's a sound like the flying feet Of a courser, bound after bound. Clearing the lists with a leopard-like spring, Plunging at top of his speed. Swift o'er the ground as a bird on the wing. There bursts, all afoam, through the wondering ring, A gallant but riderless steed. Arrow-like straight to the maiden he sped. With a long, loud, tremulous neigh, The rein flying loose round his glorious head. While all whisper again, "Is the Savoyard dead?" As they gaze at the riderless Grey. One sharp, swift pang thro' the virgin heart, One wildering cry of woe. Then fleeter than dove to her calling nest, Lighter than chamois to Malaval's crest She leaps to the saddle bow. {340} "Away!" He knew the sweet voice; away, With never a look behind; Away, away, with echoing neigh And streaming mane, goes the gallant Grey, Like an eagle before the wind. They have cleared the lists, they have passed her bower, And still they are thundering on; They are over the bridge--another hour, A league behind them the Leaning Tower And the spires of Saint Antoine. Away, away in their wild career Past the slopes of Mont Surjeu; Thrice have they swum the swift Isère, And firm and clear in the purple air Soars the Grand Som full in view. Rough is their path and sternly steep, Yet halting never a whit, Onward the terrible pace they keep, While the good Grey, breathing free and deep, Steadily strains at the bit. They have left the lands where the tall hemp springs, Where the clover bends to the bee; They have left the hills where the red vine flings Her clustered curls of a thousand rings Round the arms of the mulberry tree. They have left the lands where the walnut lines The roads, and the chestnuts blow; Beneath them the thread of the cataract shines, Around them the plumes of the warrior pines. Above them the rock and the snow. Thick on his shoulders the foam flakes lay. Fast the big drops roll from his chest, Yet on, ever on, goes the gallant Grey, Bearing the maiden as smoothly as spray Asleep on the ocean's breast. Onward and upward, bound after bound, By Bruno's Bridge he goes; And now they are treading holy ground, For the feet of her flying Caliph sound By the cells of the Grand Chartreuse. {341} Around them the darkling cloisters frown, The sun in the valley hath sunk; When right in her path, lo! the long white gown, The withered face and the shaven crown And the shrivelled hand of a monk. A light like a glittering halo played Round the brow of the holy man; With lifted finger her course he stayed, "All is not well," the pale lips said, "With the heir of Miolan. "But in Chambery hangs a relic rare Over the altar stone: Take it, and speed to thy Bridegroom's bier; If the Sacristan question who sent thee there, Say, 'Bruno, the Monk of Cologne.'" She bent to the mane while the cross he signed Thrice o'er the suppliant head: "Away with thee, child!" and away like the wind She went, with a startled glance behind, For she heard an ominous tread. The moon is up, 'tis a glorious night, They are leaving the rock and the snow, Mont Blanc is before her, phantom white, While the swift Isère, with its line of light, Cleaves the heart of the valley below. But hark to the challenge, "Who rideth alone?"-- "O warder, bid me not wait!-- My lover lies dead and the Dauphin o'erthrown-- A message I bear from the Monk of Cologne"-- And she swept thro' Chambery's gate. The Sacristan kneeleth in midnight prayer By Chamber's altar stone. "What meaneth this haste, my daughter fair?" She stooped and murmured in his ear The name of the Monk of Cologne. Slowly he took from its jewelled case A kerchief that sparkled like snow. And the Minster shone like a lighted vase As the deacon unveiled the gleaming face Of the Santo Sudario. {342} A prayer, a tear, and to saddle she springs, Clasping the relic bright; Away, away, for the fell hoof rings Down the hillside behind her--God give her wings! The fiend and his horse are in sight. On, on, the gorge of the Doriat's won, She is nearing her Savoyard's home, By the grand old road where the warrior son Of Hanno swept with his legions dun, On his mission of hatred to Rome. The ancient oaks seem to rock and reel As the forest rushes by her, But nearer cometh the clash of steel, And nearer falleth the fatal heel, With its flickering trail of fire. Then first the brave young heart grew sick 'Neath its load of love and fear, For the Grey is breathing faint and quick, And his nostrils burn and the drops fall thick From the point of each drooping ear. His glorious neck hath lost its pride, His back fails beneath her weight. While steadily gaining, stride by stride, The Black Knight thunders to her side-- Heaven, must she meet her fate? She shook the loose rein o'er the trembling head, She laid her soft hand on his mane, She called him her Caliph, her desert-bred, She named the sweet springs where the palm trees spread Their arms o'er the burning plain. But the Grey looked back and sadly scanned The maid with his earnest eyes-- A moment more and her cheek is fanned By the black steed's breath, and the demon hand Stretches out for the virgin prize. But she calls on Christ, and the kerchief white Waves full in the face of her foe: Back with an oath reeled the Wizard Knight As his steed crouched low in the wondrous light Of the Santo Sudario. {343} Blinded they halt while the maiden hies, The murmuring Arc she can hear, And, lo! like a cloud on the shining skies, Atop of yon perilous precipice, The castle of Miolan's Heir. "Fail not, my steed!"--Round her Caliph's head The relic shines like the sun: Leap after leap up the spiral steep, He speeds to his master's castle keep, And his glorious race is won. "Ho, warder!"--At sight of the gallant Grey The drawbridge thundering falls: Wide goes the gate at that jubilant neigh, And, glory to God for his mercy to-day, She is safe within Miolan's walls.

I. In the dim grey dawn by Miolan's gate The fiend on his wizard war-horse sate. The fair-haired maid at his trumpet call Creeps weeping and wan to the outer wall: "My curse on thy venom, my curse on thy spell, They have slain the master I loved too well. Thou saidst he should wake when the joust was o'er, But oh, he never will waken more!" She tore her fair hair, while the demon laughed, Saying, "Sound was the sleep that thy lover quaffed; But bid the warder unbar the gate, That the lost Christine may meet her fate." II. "Hither, hither thou mailèd man With those woman's tears in thine eyes, With thy brawny cheek all wet and wan, Show me the heir of Miolan, Lead where my Bridegroom lies." {344} And he led her on with a sullen tread. That fell like a muffled groan, Through halls as silent as the dead, 'Neath long grey arches overhead, Till they came to the shrine of Moan. What greets her there by the torches' glare? In vain hath the mass been said! Low bends the sire in mute despair, Low kneels the Hermit in silent prayer. Between them the mighty dead. No tear she shed, no word she spoke, But gliding up to the bier, She took her stand by the bed of oak Where her Savoyard lay in his sable cloak, His hand still fast on his spear. She bent her burning cheek to his, And rested it there awhile. Then touched his lips with a lingering kiss, And whispered him thrice, "My love, arise, I have come for thee many a mile!" The man of God and the ancient Knight Arose in tremulous awe; She was so beautiful, so bright, So spirit-like in her bridal white, It seemed in the dim funereal light Twas an angel that they saw. "Thro' forest fell, o'er mount and dell, Like the falcon, hither I've flown. For I knew that a fiend was loose from hell, And I bear a token to break this spell From Bruno, the Monk of Cologne. "Dost thou know it, love? when fire and sword Flamed round the Holy Shrine, It was won by thee from the Paynim horde, It was brought by thee to Bruno's guard, A gift from Palestine. "Wake, wake, my love! In the name of Grace, That hath known our uttermost woe, Lo! this thorn-bound brow on thine I place!" And, once more revealed, shone the wondrous face Of the Santo Sudario. {345} At once over all that ancient hall There went a luminous beam; Heaven's deepest radiance seemed to fall, The helmets shine on the shining wall, And the faded banners gleam. And the chime of hidden cymbals rings To the song of a cherub choir; Each altar angel waves his wings, And the flame of each altar taper springs Aloft in a luminous spire. And over the face of the youth there broke A smile both stern and sweet; Slowly he turned on the bed of oak, And proudly folding his sable cloak Around him, sprang to his feet. Back shrank the sire, half terrified, Both he and the Hermit, I ween; But she--she is fast to her Savoyard's side, A poet's dream, a warrior's bride, His beautiful Christine. Her hair's dark tangles all astray Adown her back and breast; The print of the rein on her hand still lay. The foam-flakes of the gallant Grey Scarce dry on her heaving breast. She told the dark tale and how she spurred From the Knight of Pilate's Peak; You scarce would think the Bridegroom heard. Save that the mighty lance-head stirred. Save for the flush in his cheek; Save that his gauntlet clasped her hair-- And oh, the look that swept Between them!--all the radiant air Grew holier--it was like a prayer-- And they who saw it wept. E'en the lights on the altar brighter grew In the gleam of that heavenly gaze; The cherub music fell soft as dew, The breath of the censer seemed sweeter too. The torches mellowed their requiem hue, And burnt with a bridal blaze. {346} And the Baron clasps his son with a cry Of joy as his sorrows cease; While the Hermit, wrapt in his Rosary, Feels that the world beneath the sky Hath yet its planet of peace. But hark! by the drawbridge, shrill and clear, A trumpet's challenge rude: The heart of Christine grew faint with fear, But the Savoyard shook his mighty spear, And the blood in his forehead stood. "Beware, beware, 'tis the Fiend!" quoth she: "Whither now!" asks the ancient Knight, "What meanest thou, boy?--Leave the knave to me: Wizard, or fiend, or whatever he be, By the bones of my fathers, he shall flee Or ne'er look on morning light. "What, thou just risen from the grave, Atilt with an armèd man? Dost dream that youth alone is brave, Dost deem these sinews too old to save The honor of Miolan?" But the youth he answered with gentlest tone, "I know thee a warrior staunch. But this meeting is meant for me alone. Unhand me, my lord, have I woman grown? Wouldst stop the rushing of the Rhone, Or stay the avalanche?" He broke from his sire as breaks the flash From the soul of the circling storm: You could hear the grasp of his gauntlet crash On his quivering lance and the armor clash Round that tall young warrior form. "Be this thy shield?" the maiden cried, Her hand on the kerchief of snow; "If forth to the combat thou wilt ride, Face to face be the Fiend defied With the Santo Sudario!" But the young Knight laid the relic rare On the ancient altar-stone; "Holy weapons to men of prayer. Lance in rest and falchion bare Must answer for Miolan's son." {347} Again the challenger's trumpet pealed From the barbican, shrill and clear; And the Savoyard reared his dinted shield, Its motto, gold on an azure field-- "ALLES ZU GOTT UND IHR." To horse!--From the hills the dawning day Looks down on the sleeping plain; In the court-yard waiteth the gallant Grey, And the castle rings with a joyous neigh As the Knight and his steed meet again. And the coal-black charger answers him From the space beyond the gate, From the level space, where dark and dim In the morning mists, like giant grim, The Fiend on his war-horse sate. Oh, the men at arms how they stared aghast When the Heir of Miolan leapt To saddle-bow sounding his bugle-blast; How the startled warder breathless gasped. How the hoary old seneschal wept! And the fair-haired maid with a sob hath sprung To the lifted bridle rein; Fast to his knee her white arms clung, While the waving gold of her fair hair hung Mixed with Grey Caliph's mane. "O Miolan's heir, O master mine, O more than heaven adored, Live to forget this slave of thine, Wed the dark-eyed Maid of Palestine, But dare not yon demon sword!" But the Baron thundered, "Off with the slave!" And they tore the white arms away, "A woman 's a curse in the path of the brave; Level thy lance and upon the knave, For he laughs at this fool delay! "But pledge me first in this beaker bright Of foaming Cyprian wine; Thou hast fasted, God wot, like an anchorite. Thy cheeks and brow are a trifle white, And, 'fore heaven, thou shall bear thee in this fight As beseemeth son of mine!" {348} The youth drank deep of the burning juice Of the mighty Marètel, Then, waving his hand to his Ladye thrice, Swifter than snow from the precipice, Spurred full on the infidel. "O Bridegroom bold, beware my brand!" The Knight of Pilate cries, "For 'tis written in blood by Eblis' hand, No mortal might may mine withstand Till the dead in arms arise." "The dead are up, and in arms arrayed, They have come at the call of fate: Two days, two nights, as thou know'st, I've laid On oaken bier"--and again there played That halo light round the Mother Maid In the niche by the castle gate. Each warrior reared his shining targe, Each plumed helmet bent. Each lance thrown forward for the charge, Each steed reined back to the very marge Of the mountain's sheer descent. The rock beneath them seemed to groan And shudder as they met; Away the splintered lance is thrown, Each falchion in the morning shone, One blade uncrimsoned yet But the blood must flow and that blade must glow E'er their deadly work be done; Steel rang to steel, blow answered blow, From dappled dawn till the Alpine snow Grew red in the risen sun. The Bridegroom's sword left a lurid trail, So fiercely and fleetly it flew; It rang like the rattling of the hail, And wherever it fell the sable mail Was wet with a ghastly dew. The Baron, watching with stern delight, Felt the heart in his bosom swell: And quoth he, "By the mass, a gallant sight! These old eyes have gazed on many a fight, But, boy, as I live, never saw I knight Who did his devoir so well!" {349} And oh, the flush o'er his face that broke, The joy of his shining eyes, When, backward beaten, stroke by stroke, The wizard reeled, like a falling oak, Toward the edge of the precipice. On the trembling verge of that perilous steep The demon stood at bay. Calling with challenge stern and deep, That startled the inmost castle keep, "Daughter of mine, here's a dainty leap We must take together to-day. "Come, maiden, come!" Swift circling round, Like bird in the serpent's gaze, She sprang to his side with a single bound. While the black steed trampled the flinty ground To fire, his nostrils ablaze. "Farewell!" went the fair-haired maiden's cry, Shrilling from hill to hill; "Farewell, farewell, it was I, 'twas I, Who sinned in a jealous agony, But I loved thee too well to kill!" High reared the steed with the hapless pair, A plunge, a pause, a shriek, A black plume loose in the middle air, A foaming plash in the dark Isére,-- Thus banished for ever the maiden fair And the Knight of Pilate's Peak. A mighty cheer shook the ancient halls, A white hand waved in the sun, The vassals all on the outer wall Clashed their arms at the brave old Baron's call, "To my arms, mine only one!" But oh, what aileth the gallant Grey, Why droopeth the barbèd head? Slowly he turned from that fell tourney And proudly breathing a long, last neigh, At the castle gate fell dead. III. Lost to all else, forgotten e'en The dark eyes of his dear Christine, His fleet foot from the stirrup freed, The Knight knelt by his fallen steed. {350} Awhile with tone and touch of love To cheer him to his feet he strove: Awhile he shook the bridle-rein-- That glazing eye!--alas, in vain. Bareheaded on that fatal field. His gauntlet ringing on his shield, His voice a torrent deep and strong, The warrior's soul broke forth in song. THE KNIGHT'S SONG And art thou, art thou dead,-- Thou with front that might defy The gathered thunders of the sky. Thou before whose fearless eye All death and danger fled! My Khalif, hast thou sped Homeward where the palm-trees' feet Bathe in hidden fountains sweet, Where first we met as lovers meet, My own, my desert-bred! Thy back has been my home; And, bending o'er thy flying neck, Its white mane waving without speck, I seemed to tread the galley's deck. And cleave the ocean's foam. Since first I felt thy heart Proudly surging 'neath my knee, As earthquakes heave beneath the sea, Brothers in the field were we; And must we, can we part? To match thee there was none! The wind was laggard to thy speed: O God, there is no deeper need Than warrior's parted from his steed When years have made them one. And shall I never more Answer thy laugh amid the clash Of battle, see thee meet the flash Of spears with the proud, pauseless dash Of billows on the shore? {351} And all our victor war, And all the honors men call mine, Were thine, thou voiceless warrior, thine; My task was but to touch the rein-- There needed nothing more. Worst danger had no sting For thee, and coward peace no charm; Amid red havoc's worst alarm Thy swoop as firm as through the storm The eagle's iron wing. O more than man to me! Thy neigh outsoared the trumpet's tone. Thy back was better than a throne, There was no human thing save one I loved as well as thee! O Knighthood's truest friend! Brave heart by every danger tried, Proud crest by conquest glorified. Swift saviour of my menaced Bride, Is this, is this the end?-- Thrice honored be thy grave! Wherever knightly deed is sung. Wherever minstrel harp is strung, There too thy praise shall sound among The beauteous and the brave. And thou shalt slumber deep Beneath our chapel's cypress sheen; And there thy lord and his Christine Full oft shall watch at morn and e'en Around their Khalif's sleep. There shalt thou wait for me Until the funeral bell shall ring. Until the funeral censer swing. For I would ride to meet my King, My stainless steed, with thee! ---- The song has ceased, and not an eye 'Mid all those mailed men is dry; The brave old Baron turns aside To crush the tear he cannot hide. {352} With stately step the Bridegroom went To where, upon the battlement, Christine herself, all weeping, leant. Well might that crested warrior kneel At such a shrine, well might he feel As if the angel in her eyes Gave all that hallows Paradise. And when her white hands' tender spell Upon his trembling shoulder fell. Upward one reverent glance he cast, Then, rising, murmured, "Mine at last!" "Yes, thine at last!" Still stained with blood The Dauphin's self beside them stood. "Fast as mortal steed could flee, My own Christine, I followed thee. Saint George, but 'twas a gallant sight That miscreant hurled from yonder height: Brave boy, that single sword of thine, Methinks, might hold all Palestine. But see, from out the shrine of Moan Cometh the good Monk of Cologne, Bearing the relic rare that woke Our warrior from his bed of oak. See him pass with folded hands To where the shaded chapel stands. The Bridegroom well hath won the prize, There stands the priest, and there the altar lies." IV. When the moon rose o'er lordly Miolan That night, she wondered at those ancient walls: Bright tapers flashing from a hundred halls Lit all the mountain--liveried vassals ran Trailing from bower to bower the wine-cup, wreathed With festal roses--viewless music breathed A minstrel melody, that fell as falls The dew, less heard than felt; and maidens laughed. Aiming their curls at swarthy men who quaffed Brimmed beakers to the newly wed: while some Old henchmen, lolling on the court-yard green Over their squandered Cyprus, vowed between Their cups, "there was no pair in Christendom To match their Savoyard and his Christine?" ---- {353} The Trovère ceased, none praised the lay, Each waited to hear what the King would say. But the grand blue eye was on the wave, Little recked he of the tuneless stave: He was watching a bark just anchored fast With England's banner at her mast, And quoth he to the Queen, "By my halidome, I wager our Bard Blondel hath come!" E'en as he spoke, a joyous cry From the beach proclaimed the Master nigh; But the merry cheer rose merrier yet When the Monarch and his Minstrel met. The Prince of Song and Plantagenet. "A song!" cried the King. "Thou art just in time To rid our ears of a vagrant's rhyme: Prove how that recreant voice of thine Hath thriven at Cyprus, bard of mine!" The Minstrel played with his golden wrest, And began the "Fytte of the Bloody Vest. " The vanquished Trovère stole away Unmarked by lord or ladye gay: Perchance one quick, kind glance he caught, Perchance that glance was all he sought. For when Blondel would pause to tune His harp and supplicate the moon, It seemed as tho' the laughing sea Caught up the vagrant melody; And far along the listening shore. Till every wave the burthen bore, In long, low echoes might you hear-- "Alles, Alles zu Gott und Ihr!"