Volume Iii Part 52 (1/2)

”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 ma.s.s 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 pa.s.sing 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 s.h.i.+vering haunch.

Back to the croup bent each rider staunch.

s.h.i.+vered 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 pa.s.sed 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 Isere, 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.