^m 
 
 
 University of California Berkeley 
 
 Gift of 
 PHI GAMMA DELTA 
 
 BANCROFT 
 LIBRARY 
 
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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 
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1-85 
 
 .2. 
 
 J. J. BlSSEGGEB. 
 
 Half-title and Captions for List of Artists, Note, and Cantos. 
 
 JOHN J. BOYLE. 
 
 Modellings for Frontispiece, Half-titles to Cantos, and Illustration 
 at end of Canto I. 
 
 F. S. CHURCH. 
 
 "Leaning on Raguenel for aid" 
 
 108 
 
 C. M. DEWEY. 
 
 "The pinnacled proud tops of Brittomarte" 85 
 
 "The rapid-running Cher" . . 102 
 
 F. DlELMAN. 
 
 " Guhaldrada," Frontispiece to Canto I. 
 "The kiss that blights thee sets me free" 
 
! A 4 c~3 
 
 E. H. GARRETT. 
 
 " And tore the veil from off her head" 112 
 
 CHARLES L. HINTON. 
 
 "He bore the jousting prize away" . . . . . . . . 27 
 
 WILL H. Low. 
 
 Illuminated title. 
 
 "Yvernelle," Frontispiece to Canto III. 
 
 Drawings for Copyright notice and Introduction. 
 
 E. MAENE. 
 
 Modellings for Decorations throughout the text. 
 
 WALTER SHIRLAW. 
 
 "Draw off your hounds, give up the deer" .... 31 
 
 "Sir Caverlaye,' Frontispiece to Canto II. 
 
 "His foe to his steed's loins was bent" 58 
 
THE plot of the following poem was suggested by this 
 passage from the autobiography of Goethe : 
 
 "Nun," rief sie aus, "furehte meine Verwiinschung. Ungliick iiber 
 Ungliick fur immer und immer auf Diejenige, die zum ersten Male nach 
 mir diese Lippen kiisst ! Wage es nun wieder, mit ihm anzubinden ; ich 
 weiss, der Himmel erhort mich dies Mai Und Sie, mein Heir, eilen Sie 
 nun, eilen Sie was Sie konnen!" Dichtung und Wahrheit, IX. 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to add that the characters and events 
 of the poem are purely fictitious. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 "THE evil that men do lives after them, 
 
 And with their bones is oft interred the good." 
 Well said, Antonius ; and men condemn 
 
 Their ancestors with base ingratitude. 
 But that which for one man alone is true 
 
 Is often truer of a buried age; 
 Its virtues are perversely kept from view, 
 
 While all its vices swell the historic page. 
 Perchance the cause for such injustice lies 
 
 In that we readier do understand 
 The miseries which from such vices rise 
 
 Than those joys springing from a virtuous land. 
 For misery is the same in ev'ry age ; 
 
 Oppression, famine, poverty, and strife 
 Ground down the Pharaoh's swart vassalage 
 
 E'en as with us they grind the humbler life. 
 11 
 
Like as the eupatrid made the helot serve; 
 
 Like as the Roman equite crushed the plebs ; 
 Like as the baron long oppressed the serf, 
 
 Watering with blood and sweat his hungry glebes ; 
 And listening to each epoch's woful cries, 
 
 And hearing them re-echoed in our own, 
 With them we can the quicker sympathize. 
 
 We love to tell of ills ourselves have known ; 
 Like evils swarm each land, each century ; 
 
 Grief hath no age, no nationality. 
 
 But Pleasure's beaming front and joyous face 
 
 With ev'ry epoch changes swift its hue, 
 And ev'ry nation, each succeeding race, 
 
 Produces for itself enjoyments new. 
 The eupatrid with fair tumultuous glance 
 
 Before the Olympian games raised loud acclaim ; 
 Rejoiced to see the circling choric dance, 
 
 The chariot fly, or the dull cestus maim. 
 Within the Coliseum's mighty girth 
 
 The equite Habd cried with down-turned thumb. 
 Over the tournament's red-listed earth 
 
 The baron bent, while not a voice was dumb ; 
 Real blood real death real gasp and dying moan 
 
 Aroused the equite's mind, the baron's heart; 
 While we, a dainty age, and milder grown, 
 
 Find our diversion in the mimic art; 
 
 12 
 
The merits of an age are all its own, 
 
 Its evils are those common to mankind. 
 We cannot claim its virtues when 'tis flown, 
 
 We are but heirs of ills it leaves behind. 
 The glorious arts of Greece with Greece expired, 
 
 What age has ever followed where she led? 
 Where nmc that iron justice which inspired 
 
 The Roman sire his offspring's blood to shed? 
 And where is now that doubtless faith and blind, 
 
 The valor, love, romance, and poetry, 
 That sacred reverence for womankind, 
 
 That roused self-sacrificing chivalry? 
 
 Romance, pure Art, stern Justice, all are flown ! 
 
 Flown with the age by which they were ordained. 
 Whatever the merits be we call our own, 
 
 Such now, by us, can never be attained. 
 But ev'ry evil which their states perplexed 
 
 They have bequeathed to us to work us woe. 
 Still unresolved that evil which them vexed, 
 
 That never-ending strife 'twixt high and low. 
 The feudal baron from his gloomy tower 
 
 Rode o'er his host of toiling serfs rough-shod ; 
 And oft they felt his steel's resistless power, 
 
 And oft they writhed beneath his cruel rod. 
 The feudal baron yet remains to-day, 
 
 But, changed into the modern moneyed lord, 
 
 13 
 
Still o'er the people holds more cruel sway, 
 
 But 'tis with hoarded gold and not with sword. 
 
 Still do his vassals feel his iron heel. 
 
 His power awes his government alarms ; 
 Still rings the world with sound? of clashing steel 
 
 'Tis of machinery and not of arms. 
 
 Still live the grievances of feudal day, 
 
 But all its romance perished when it died, 
 E'en as the hue and fragrance pass away 
 
 Soon as the rose is dead and flung aside. 
 The pride, the pomp, the pageantry, are fled; 
 
 What once to all was well-known commonplace 
 Is told in legends, or is wholly dead, 
 
 Or undervalued by a colder race. 
 
 Yet time there was when squire, page, and knight 
 
 Portcullis, keep, and barbican were real; 
 When tournaments were things of daily sight, 
 
 And Chivalry arrayed in flashing steel; 
 And time there was when the brave errant-knight 
 
 Was not a fancy of a minstrel's tale, 
 But fought in very earnest for the right, 
 
 Or wandered wide to find the Holy Grail ; 
 
 14 
 
Or when on bridge or road, backed by his page, 
 He held his post with ever-ready lance, 
 
 And pledged himself all comers to engage 
 To win the favor of his lady's glance. 
 
 15 
 

HOW SIR CAVERLAYE OF VOYSVENEL DEPARTED FROM SPAIN 
 AND CAME INTO FRANCE. 
 
 " LET soft entreaty cease then here, 
 Let fall no more the idle tear, 
 And let reproach and meek complaint 
 Be bounded by their fit restraint. 
 I cease to din your wearied ears 
 With further grief-begotten prayers. 
 All my fond heart I gave to you, 
 A heart that loved as love but few, 
 And now I spare to rave and burn 
 Because that priceless gift you spurn; 
 But though my breast with pain is torn 
 Still shall you listen to my scorn. 
 
 19 
 
"And in your pride did you then think 
 That Guhaldrada e'er would sink 
 Dejected, when you cooled apace? 
 And, when you wearied of her face, 
 Sink, and then fade like some meek flower, 
 The sun's poor plaything for an hour, 
 Who, when he drew his beams away, 
 Pined sickened died before its day? 
 
 "If thus you thought, well did it show 
 
 That her you did as little know 
 
 As you knew how your heart to move, 
 
 As you know what it is to love ! 
 
 Ay, and of love what couldst thou know? 
 
 The cold, thin blood that feedeth slow 
 
 The starved mouths of your shrivelled heart 
 
 To warm pulsations ne'er could start; 
 
 Your veins ne'er throbbed in love's fierce tide, 
 
 You no wild, headstrong passions ride ; 
 
 You cannot know the fire that doth 
 
 Burn in the Spanish Visigoth, 
 
 A love that soul and body thrills 
 
 As earth and air the sunlight fills; 
 
 A love itself no limits sets, 
 
 A love that man and God forgets. 
 
 For him it loves fair fame forsakes, 
 
 Of him it loves a god it makes, 
 
 20 
 
Leaves love of God un recked apart, 
 Leaves God of soul for god of heart. 
 Yet why such speech to you address? 
 For you such words are meaningless, 
 Words that sound light as zephyrs do, 
 Yet with such love I once loved you. 
 Ay for I scorn it to conceal 
 Thou'st ever tricked and cozened well. 
 Go now, and to men's scornful eyes 
 Exultingly display your prize. 
 Proud Guhaldrada's quivering heart, 
 Which, by the finesse of your art, 
 You from her bosom deftly reft; 
 Go, glory in your skilful theft ! 
 
 " Though in your palm my fond heart lies, 
 It, for itself, you love nor prize, 
 Or prize it only as it bears 
 The proof of your successful snares. 
 The savage queens who ta'en in war 
 Adorned the Caesar's gilded car 
 Were dear to him, but only dear 
 As trophies of triumphant war. 
 And thus go thou, and vaunting prove 
 The conquest of my boundless love. 
 Yet think not Guhaldrada's love 
 Can, like an outworn hawking-glove, 
 21 
 
Be tossed off that a newer one 
 And fresher ye may lightly don; 
 Think not a rival she would brook 
 To pity her with soothing look. 
 
 "Though her, awearied, you may spurn, 
 Ne'er to another shalt thou turn. 
 Thou palest now ha ! be it so ? 
 Then listen, traitor, e'er you go : 
 I know not if within your breast 
 Another lives, a cherished guest, 
 Or if, incensed at this delay, 
 Towards her ye burn to wend your way. 
 But if within the ocean's bound 
 There such a one be haply found, 
 Let my deep curse be o'er her shed 
 Drear as the pall that sheets the dead; 
 Thus, though 'tis given as a foe, 
 One kiss on thee I here bestow, 
 
 22 
 
And cursed the lips that next shall press 
 Thine own in love and tenderness. 
 May all their life's deep ruby hue 
 Fly from that pledge of lovers true; 
 When on her lips you print that kiss, 
 May that one moment's fleeting bliss, 
 That sets her cheek in gentle glow, 
 Be e'en the last she e'er shall know. 
 From that same instant may foul fame 
 Cling like a blight about her name ; 
 May evil crouch behind her back, 
 Misfortune press upon her track. 
 May that one kiss become a blot 
 Upon her life, and fest'ring rot, 
 And, like a canker, ever grow 
 Until it hath consumed slow 
 Her friends, her peace, her love, her life, 
 Turned fellowship to mortal strife, 
 Made her abhorred of her own mind, 
 Her name a byword to mankind ; 
 And, like that born of Judas' breath, 
 Be it the herald of her death. 
 Blinded by staring eyes of scorn, 
 Deafened by shouts of hatred born, 
 Dazed, stunned, and reft of ev'ry hope, 
 Eagerly downward may she grope, 
 Down to that tomb, her welcome rest; 
 Down to that self-dug grave, unblest; 
 
Buried in ruin self-devised, 
 Disowned, dishonored, and despised." 
 
 When she had ceased, when, proud and tall, 
 She'd swept, disdainful, from the hall, 
 Sir Caverlaye of Voysvenel 
 Sat long, as one beneath a spell, 
 Sat thoughtful in his carven chair, 
 Sat gazing fixedly in air. 
 
 That he had sinned full well he knew, 
 
 Faithless he had been, and untrue. 
 
 And, now in grief and bitterness, 
 
 He owned his blinded guiltiness; 
 
 He'd thought he loved her, and he wot 
 
 That Yvernelle was long forgot ; 
 
 Thought that her image, which was traced 
 
 Upon his heart, had been effaced 
 
 By this dark countess of old Spain, 
 
 And that it ne'er would come again. 
 
 Thus had he lingered by her side, 
 
 And heedless let the Spring-time glide 
 
 To Summer's glowing loveliness, 
 
 Till all her heart was wholly his. 
 
 But those flames, less of love than lust, 
 
 Soon burned themselves to smouldering dust, 
 
 24 
 
And, like their smoke, his visions fair 
 Soon vanished to the empty air. 
 And then his fever-blinded glance 
 Turned once more to his native France; 
 All else forgot, he saw again 
 The blue hills of his own Touraine. 
 Once more he saw his castle's keep 
 Poised airy on the hill-side steep, 
 Once more he heard the mavis sing, 
 His native notes the woodland ring. 
 
 Once more he saw with tightened heart 
 The fretted spires of Brittomarte; 
 Once more saw stout Sir Raguenel, 
 Once more saw blue-eyed Yvernelle. 
 Then restless grew, and vexed at heart, 
 And from the others kept apart, 
 And oft was thoughtful, stern, and cold, 
 And oft was tender as of old. 
 At times from revels fled away, 
 At times was feverishly gay ; 
 To Guhaldrada oft was curt, 
 To her entreaties answered short. 
 Until she ceased to question him, 
 Stirred by suspicion vague and dim, 
 Fixed on him sidelong, searching look 
 That seemed to read him as a book. 
 
 25 
 
Till when, one day, to madness stung, 
 She turned on him with furious tongue, 
 And when for who may safely hide 
 Aught from the eye of jealous pride? 
 Him she reproached with angry tears 
 For that his heart had ne'er been hers, 
 In gloomy silence he had heard, 
 Nor had denied with sign or word. 
 And Guhaldrada's haughty mind 
 All that he shrank to tell divined ; 
 Though deep his sleep, he wakened now 
 And roused himself, and bared his brow : 
 Freed from enchantment's tangled skein, 
 He marvelled how it e'er had been. 
 Grievous the wrong and foul the stain ; 
 Yet to begin his life again 
 It even now was not too late ; 
 Time was there yet to bend his fate. 
 Then, with his new-born purpose fired, 
 With high resolve and aim inspired, 
 Striding exultant from the hall, 
 He sought his trusty charger's stall ; 
 With hands that trembled oft for haste 
 The steel-faced harness on him placed ; 
 Seized from its rack his beam-like lance, 
 And then, without one backward glance, 
 Forth from the castle-gates he rode 
 And took, for France, the northern road. 
 
Boots not in devious song to tell 
 
 The divers 'haps that him befell, 
 
 Ills that beset him faring forth 
 
 On his long journey toward the north. 
 
 How he on Andalusia's plain 
 
 Was by banditti all but slain ; 
 
 How, the swift Gaudiana o'er, 
 
 Him his brave steed in safety bore; 
 
 How that in Salamanca gay 
 
 He bore the jousting prize away, 
 
 Or how his very wine-flask froze 
 
 Amid the Pyrenees' still snows. 
 
 But now his journey's end is neared ; 
 
 Two days already hath he fared 
 
 Through the broad reach of hill and plain 
 
 And valleys of his own Touraine. 
 
 In town and inn, familiar names; 
 
 In market squares, familiar games ; 
 
 The mower's well-known cadenced song 
 
 Rising the well-known fields among. 
 
 Familiar landmarks near and far, 
 
 Recalling scenes of chase and war. 
 
 Here the dead pine-tree, gaunt and hoar, 
 
 Where brave Lexvallen slew the boar; 
 
 Yonder the " Tor" with lichens gray, 
 
 Near which the stag was brought to bay ; 
 
 The ford at which was Repfort drowned, 
 
 The cliff where fell his fav'rite hound ; 
 
 27 
 
And farther on the copse-wood gray 
 Round which was fought the bloody fray : 
 Such scenes though e'en forgotten long 
 All told him he was coming home. 
 
 Down in the dingle long and deep, 
 Where Brittomarte's cool shadows sleep, 
 The hunter's note swells clear and high ; 
 The bell-tongued pack are at full cry ; 
 The hooded falcons beat their wings 
 And struggle at their silken strings. 
 The hunt is up, the stag is off ; 
 With eager shout and merry laugh 
 The woodland rings and rings again. 
 The neighing horses join the strain ; 
 In mingled din horn, horse, and hound 
 Drown one another's varied sound. 
 See ! galloping in foremost place 
 Stout old Raguenel leads the chase. 
 So fast he rides his horse's breath 
 Strikes on the hounds that fly beneath. 
 " Wind, wind d, morte /" the stag is down 
 The swarming pack are flung upon 
 His struggling, tortured, writhing frame; 
 So close they press upon the game 
 You scarce may see his dun-hued hide 
 Beneath their snarling, living tide. 
 
 28 
 
" Back, drive them back !" With whistling lash 
 
 Amidst the pack the verderers dash. 
 
 He makes one struggle vain to rise, 
 
 One moment rolls his blood-rimmed eyes, 
 
 Then rolls upon the trampled loam, 
 
 Sir RaguenePs spear has driven home. 
 
 Down from the castle through the dell 
 
 Comes riding fair-haired Yvernelle, 
 
 Bearing with modest mien and grace 
 
 The cloths and ewer to the chase. 
 
 And fair she was, with large, soft eyes 
 
 That mocked the azure of x the skies; 
 
 And her white cheeks (else were they cold) 
 
 Blushed with the sun's kiss over-bold ; 
 
 A chlamys wrought in gray and gold 
 
 Fell round in many a loving fold, 
 
 Her beauty free from taint or stain, 
 
 The fairest maid in all Touraine. 
 
When Camelon left feud and raid 
 
 To hurry to the last crusade, 
 
 With his old comrade Raguenel 
 
 He left his daughter Yvernelle. 
 
 The straggling remnant that again 
 
 Reached home with Thibault of Champagne 
 
 Told how in thickest battle's brunt 
 
 Unhorsed, his wounds all in the front, 
 
 He kept the Saracens at bay 
 
 While wounded Robert sped away ; 
 
 Watered the desert with his blood, 
 
 And fell where fighting he had stood. 
 
 They buried him in foreign ground, 
 
 And Yvernelle a parent found 
 
 In grizzled, kindly Raguenel, 
 
 And reverenced him almost as well. 
 
 Just as the train with eager eyes 
 
 Were gathering round the fallen prize, 
 
 And breathless from his eager race, 
 
 Wiping his hot and sweating face, 
 
 First at the death, Sir Raguenel 
 
 Then from the hand of Yvernelle 
 
 Taking the ewer in silver wrought 
 
 To lave his blood-stained hand and coat, 
 
 Down through an alley's covered way 
 That toward the distant high-road lay, 
 
Armed at all points, his vizor down, 
 A warrior stern came riding on; 
 Back on his haunches reined his steed, 
 Crying, while startled all gave heed : 
 " Hold ! in St. Hubert's name forbear ! 
 Who so presumptuous as to dare 
 To chase the deer within the bounds 
 Of Voysvenel's own hunting-grounds? 
 
 "Draw off your hounds, give up the deer, 
 
 And if, departing straight from here, 
 
 Due reparation ye shall make, 
 
 We'll stint to further justice take. 
 
 What think ye, then, though for your lands 
 
 And his a common boundary stands, 
 
 Ye may unquestioned kill his stags 
 
 Beneath his castle's very flags?" 
 
 Straight o'er the brow of Raguenel 
 
 A thunder-cloud of (}eep wrath fell : 
 
 " Morbleu, Sir Knight, such hardihood 
 
 'Twere well to punish with thy blood. 
 
 Know that the house of Voysvenel 
 
 Was friendly e'er to Raguenel. 
 
 Allied by every tie but blood, 
 
 For them such boundary ne'er stood. 
 
 That such bonds should be closer tied 
 
 To him, my ward was pledged a bride; 
 
 31 
 
But who art thou who thus must needs 
 
 Call us to question for our deeds?" 
 
 The Knight his vizor quickly raised ; 
 
 Raguenel, as on his face he gazed 
 
 Like one a sudden vision daunts, 
 
 Stood wonder-stricken for the nonce, 
 
 While through the throng from man to man 
 
 A sudden, swelling murmur ran. 
 
 And Yvernelle in mute surprise 
 
 Just caught her breath and dropped her eyes, 
 
 And then Sir Raguenel burst forth : 
 
 " Now once more welcome to the north ; 
 
 Let anger cease, foul doubt dispel, 
 
 'Tis he ! Tis he ! 'Tis Voysvenel !" 
 
 Leaping from off his panting steed, 
 
 In joyous tones the Knight loud said : 
 
 "Not e'en in jest could I prolong 
 
 High words with thee. Forgive the wrong ; 
 
 The playful strife is at an end. 
 
 Give me thy hand, O noble friend ! 
 
 And ye, brave yeomen of my land, 
 
 Let me clasp close each several hand. 
 
 Ah ! Raguenel, but to be here, 
 
 To breathe once more my native air, 
 
 To tread with bounding step again 
 
 The hills and valleys of Touraine, 
 
 Makes these long months seem like a trance 
 
 That I have passed away from France. 
 
 32 
 
I tell thee truly, Raguenel " 
 
 But ceased, for he saw Yvernelle. 
 
 Then all his love in radiance bright 
 
 Broke o'er his face like breaking light; 
 
 One eager glance he gave his bride 
 
 Then instantly was at her side. 
 
 With deepest joy to his broad breast 
 
 Her half-reluctant form he pressed, 
 
 And on her fair hands once again 
 
 Showered his kisses fond, like rain. 
 
 " Nay, then, her lips, her lips as well !" 
 
 Cried happily old Raguenel. 
 
 And Yvernelle once on him gazed, 
 
 Then trustingly her lips upraised. 
 
 Gently o'er her he bent his head, 
 
 Then, all at once, sprang back in dread ; 
 
 For on his ear in accents hoarse 
 
 Rang Guhaldrada's parting curse : 
 
 " Let my deep curse round her be shed 
 
 Drear as the pall that sheets the dead; 
 
 And cursed the lips that next shall press 
 
 Thine own in lover's fond caress !" 
 
 He started back with quivering bound, 
 
 Then stood, as rooted to the ground. 
 
 The throng beheld, as though spell-bound; 
 
 A silence fell on all around. 
 
 And Yvernelle in pained surprise 
 
 To Voysvenel upturned her eyes ; 
 
And then outspoke Sir Raguenel : 
 
 " What means this, kinsman ? Art not well ? 
 
 Thy brow is pale. Speak, let me know. 
 
 Sure not her kiss affects thee so? 
 
 What, silent yet? Now, by the Rood! 
 
 Thou hast returned in mumming mood. 
 
 If for a moment's time I thought 
 
 Thou play'dst with us or trifled aught 
 
 With this young heart that loves thee so, 
 
 By great St. Remy ! I but no, 
 
 This still is but thy merry jest, 
 
 And, though 'tis somewhat over-pressed, 
 
 I'd jest with thee did it not grieve 
 
 A heart 'twere fiend-like to deceive. 
 
 Yet hold, no jesting face is here, 
 
 No jester e'er such grief could wear ! 
 
 Thou'rt not thyself ! Speak, Voysvenel ! 
 
 Thou'rt meshed in some entangling spell. 
 
 Hence, comrades ! Now, O Caverlaye ! 
 
 To me, as to your father, say, 
 
 Say that beneath this seeming slight 
 
 Some reason good is hid from sight !" 
 
 Then for one moment, hard repressed 
 
 In Caverlaye's sore tortured breast, 
 
 Sprang there an impulse brave and true 
 
 To lay bare all its faults to view, 
 
 Reveal the past, confess his sin, 
 
 Place all his fate their hands within. 
 
 34 
 
Yet quick he shrank to own that he 
 Was proved of infidelity; 
 He feared that she would not forgive, 
 Feared that Sir Raguenel ne'er would give 
 Consent his hand o'er hers to clasp 
 
 Fresh from another's fevered grasp, 
 He, that an hundred battles dared, 
 Within himself now owned he feared, 
 And so, in voice suppressed and low, 
 He bent his eyes and answered, "'No" 
 He felt himself in grievous plight; 
 For should he speak, bring all to light, 
 He felt his words would sound the knell 
 Of all his hopes with Yvernelle. 
 
 35 
 
And yet, if he should hold his peace, 
 
 Nor give his struggling thoughts release, 
 
 For her 'twould surely show, he knew, 
 
 That he to her had been untrue. 
 
 And, for the curse, he did not dare 
 
 With his to touch her lips so fair. 
 
 Betwixt his lips a poison lay 
 
 To blight her happiness for aye; 
 
 Yet if he spared that fateful kiss, 
 
 Before him saw but bitterness. 
 
 But how relate how fitly tell 
 
 The anguish of sweet Yvernelle? 
 
 With marble brow and tearless eye 
 
 She'd stood intent for his reply, 
 
 And when it fell upon her ear 
 
 Her life's dear light died out for her. 
 
 Was, then, his love from her estranged? 
 
 Had absence short his heart so changed? 
 
 Still did she shrink all hope to leave, 
 
 Still would she, faithful, him believe. 
 
 Her grief had overcome her pride, 
 
 One last supreme appeal she tried, 
 
 One hand in his broad palm she laid, 
 
 And calm and tenderly she said : 
 
 "O noble-minded Voysvenel, 
 
 Still I believe you love me well, 
 
 And though, but now, through some disdain 
 
 You smote my heart with deepest pain, 
 
Gladly the deed will I forget 
 
 If you but prove you love me yet. 
 
 Still faithful do I trust your love, 
 
 Oh, I beseech that love you prove !" 
 
 Sir Caverlaye was stout of heart 
 
 As Oliver or Ascaparte ; 
 
 Yet scarce his valor stood his need 
 
 To do the seeming cruel deed. 
 
 With eyes his harshness all belied 
 
 He gently put her from his side, 
 
 And bowed his head in misery 
 
 And faintly said, "It may not be." 
 
 Then, in a rage that furious burned, 
 
 Old Raguenel upon him turned : 
 
 "Now, by our Lady's radiant front, 
 
 To me thou'lt answer this affront. 
 
 Let ev'ry bond of friendship's chain 
 
 Be from this moment snapped in twain. 
 
 Henceforward till death lays us low 
 
 We stand to each as foe to foe. 
 
 Here, here, to thine eternal shame, 
 
 I brand thee with a traitor's name ! 
 
 And on thy body will I prove 
 
 The charge. False Knight, there lies my glove. 
 
 Rampant, like blaze of living fire, 
 
 Leaped Caverlaye's deep-seated ire; 
 
 Yet e'en this too was to be borne, 
 
 For all his pride he could not turn ; 
 
 37 
 
E'en when so openly defied 
 
 His wrath was curbed, his hands were tied. 
 
 And so the quick retort he stayed, 
 
 And to Sir Raguenel he said : 
 
 "Refrain from taunting, bitter word; 
 
 Take up your glove, re-sheathe your sword; 
 
 He that is loved of Yvernelle 
 
 Is sacred e'er to Voysvenel." 
 
 Perplexed stood Raguenel for a space, 
 
 With deep scorn wreathed about his face; 
 
 Then Caverlaye a moment eyed, 
 
 And thus in calm disdain replied : 
 
 "Till now, I thought that busy fame 
 
 38 
 
With valor had allied thy name; 
 
 And yet, in truth, I should not seem 
 
 Surprised to find this, too, a dream. 
 
 To Falsehood Fear is comrade meet, 
 
 And Cowardice becomes deceit. 
 
 Enough ! we barter vain words light. 
 
 This last advice to thee, Sir Knight : 
 
 Look well unto thy moated keep, 
 
 Be watchful lest thy warders sleep, 
 
 And let thy rout of men-at-arms 
 
 Be vigilant against alarms; 
 
 And for thyself, on land or sea, 
 
 Sir Knight, God keep thee well from me. 
 
 Come, Yvernelle, allay thy fears; 
 
 He is not worthy of these tears.' 7 
 
Weary, she leant on him for aid ; 
 They turned them from the leafy glade. 
 Sir Caverlaye, with anguished heart 
 And yearning eyes, watched them depart; 
 Stepped forward with unsteady tread, 
 Paused, clasped his hands above his head, 
 Grasped for support a gnarled tree, 
 And called her name despairingly. 
 She heard, and, pausing ere she went, 
 Backward her eyes' love-light she bent, 
 Backward upon his dark despair 
 Like sunlight on a murky air ; 
 Stretched forth her arms in love and woe, 
 And sighed in tender accents low : 
 " O life, O love, O joys that swell 
 Love's trusting heart, farewell ! farewell ! 
 Love's little day its course hath run; 
 Already its fast- westering sun, 
 Passing its zenith pure and bright, 
 Fades, fades and pales upon my sight. 
 Already its last lingering ray 
 Gleams fitful thwart life's twilight gray, 
 And twilight's breezes' trembling breath 
 Whispers the coming night of death. 
 But oh, if yet beyond the skies 
 Haply a morning sun may rise, 
 Till then, O my beloved, I wait; 
 Wait till the crooked is made straight, 
 
 40 
 
Wait till all tears have ceased to flow, 
 Wait till each other's hearts we know ; 
 Then till rejoined beyond life's flood, 
 Then till my love be understood, 
 Then till my heart by you is seen, 
 I wait, calm, trusting, and serene." 
 
 When her last words melodious fell 
 Upon the ear of Voysvenel 
 As soft, yet e'en as piteous 
 As some sweet-knelling Angelus; 
 When, like the sun passed from the skies, 
 Her vision vanished from his eyes, 
 The pent-up floodgates of his heart 
 With rushing sorrow burst apart 
 Beneath its tide 'whelmed suddenly, 
 He let his grief have mastery. 
 Prone on his face the grass among 
 Himself in misery he flung, 
 
 41 
 
And clinched his teeth in frenzied clasp 
 Against each sob and quivering gasp. 
 Thus, in the depth of that dark wood 
 Long time he lay stretched on the sod, 
 So still, at length the rabbits gray 
 Came hopping timid where he lay. 
 
 His grazing steed unheeded strayed 
 
 With trailing bridle down the glade; 
 
 And the dead deer beside him lay, 
 
 Fall'n where his life-blood ebbed away, 
 
 The pain of his last wild death-cry 
 
 Still left in his half-human eye. 
 
 Fierce was the pain when through his heart 
 
 Had cut the keen and biting dart, 
 
 But fiercer pain burned unrepressed 
 
 Within the strong man's tortured breast. 
 
 Now was the day departing slow; 
 The wearied sun was bending low 
 From his huge arc that heaven spanned 
 To kiss the warm and fragrant land. 
 Each battlement and fretted spire 
 In echoing light flashed back his fire. 
 Earthward he wheeled in radiant heat, 
 The sparks struck 'neath his courser's feet, 
 
As wheeling down to earth he came, 
 Kindled the west to glowing flame ; 
 While thwart that west which blazing shone 
 Long streaming golden clouds were strewn, 
 That seemed the streaming manes back blown 
 From those fierce coursers of the sun; 
 Then came the twilight soft and gray, 
 The gentle child of night and day; 
 Anon night's pinions were unfurled, 
 And silence settled o'er the world. 
 
; 
 
HOW SIR CAVERLAYE AND THE WYVERN KNIGHT MET IN 
 DEADLY COMBAT. 
 
 WITHIX a forest's tangled heart, 
 Far from the fief of Brittomarte, 
 Some three leagues as the swart crow flies, 
 A little stone-built bridge there lies, 
 A relic of the Roman day 
 When Caesar's legions held the sway 
 Of Gaul, when Roman skill and art 
 Subdued the might of Gallic heart. 
 Scarce wider than the dun deer's leap, 
 Than his slim fetlock not as deep, 
 With dimpling cheek and laughing eye 
 The little stream goes dancing by. 
 
Beneath its rippling wavelets fleet 
 The hemlocks bathe their gnarled feet, 
 O'er it the oaks their strong arms cast 
 To shield it 'gainst the boisterous blast. 
 Its bottom where their shadows sleep 
 With fallen leaves is bedded deep. 
 
 At half a spear's cast from the bridge 
 (Thatched with the sun-dried matted sedge, 
 Built half with stone and half with peat, 
 And set back from the dusty heat, 
 That all day shimmered from the road, 
 Winding throughout the lonely wood) 
 A little hut, with vines o'ergrown, 
 Nestles secluded and alone. 
 Long time abandoned had it stood 
 In quiet peace and solitude. 
 But time there was, the legend said, 
 When there a saintly hermit stayed. 
 St. Cuthbert was this hermit's name, 
 And to the wood, the bridge, the stream, 
 The name of Cuthbert had been given 
 Long after he was called to heaven. 
 There had he lived while life remained ; 
 Though oft in want, he ne'er complained ; 
 Bowed down with age, all gaunt and gray, 
 Telling his beads the live-long day, 
 
 48 
 
Clothed in the penance shirt of hair, 
 And nourished on the meanest fare; 
 Such was his life, but of his death 
 Were rumors blown by vulgar breath, 
 And legends, various and quaint, 
 Clung to the mem'ry of the saint. 
 Some said to him it had been given 
 To be translated straight to heaven. 
 But some, that, when he saw at last 
 Death's shadow o'er his threshold cast, 
 With feeble hands and fluttering heart 
 He scooped himself a grave apart, 
 And, from some sacred, secret hole, 
 Drew forth a crook and 'broidered stole, 
 Robes of a long-forgotten day, 
 Yet stiff with gold and rich display; 
 When in this faded pomp arrayed 
 Within his grave himself he laid, 
 Open upon his breast his book, 
 His thin hands clasped above the crook, 
 Telling his prayers with latest breath, 
 Waiting with steadfast air for death. 
 That when, in deepest shades of night, 
 His struggling spirit winged its flight, 
 Unearthly hands in earthly toil 
 Filled in the grave with upturned soil. 
 However it was, the anchorite 
 Had long since passed from mortal sight, 
 
 49 
 
Leaving the hut forgotten, lone, 
 
 To be with velvet moss o'ergrown, 
 
 Till, flying from the world of men, 
 
 Light-headed from his gnawing pain, 
 
 Sir Caverlaye of Voysvenel 
 
 There came, in solitude to dwell. 
 
 Here had he come, but not in guise 
 
 Of hermit meek, with downcast eyes, 
 
 But housed in proof and lance in hand, 
 
 And on his thigh his four-foot brand, 
 
 His war-horse sheathed in panoply, 
 
 A very type of errantry. 
 
 Within his breast the swelling pain 
 
 At length had touched his trembling brain, 
 
 His thoughts unguided and overwhelmed 
 
 Like barks storm-driven and unhelmed. 
 
 And so he'd fallen upon a way 
 
 Not rare with ancient chivalry. 
 
 Upon the bridge's head all day, 
 
 Mounted and armed for instant fray, 
 
 He kept his post 'till dewy night; 
 
 Vowed to engage each coming knight. 
 
 The woodman, with his fagots bare, 
 
 The cow-herd, with his lowing care, 
 
 The huntsman, laden with his game, 
 
 The soldier, singing as he came, 
 
 And the stout burgher bent on gain, 
 
 Surrounded with his well-armed train, 
 
 50 
 
All these he let pass by unrecked ; 
 All these pursued their way unchecked. 
 But he beneath his vow was laid 
 On faith and holy relics made, 
 That soon as e'er his vizored eye 
 Atween the tree-boles should descry 
 An errant warrior's armor bright, 
 Then straight he should prepare for fight, 
 Arouse his steed, level his lance, 
 And do him combat ci I'outrance, 
 
 And bear him chivalrous and well, 
 All in the name of Yvernelle ! 
 But lonely was that forest vast, 
 And on that road there seldom passed 
 Or soldier, serf, or wayfarer, 
 And rare the burgher traveller, 
 And rarer still the errant-knight. 
 A score of times day's ruddy light 
 
 51 
 
'Neath western trees had sunk its ray, 
 And still none such had passed that way, 
 Until one day, when noon was high, 
 And Caverlaye at rest did lie, 
 (Though armored still from head to heel,) 
 Breaking his frugal mid-day meal. 
 Stretched on the grass, where yet was dew, 
 Within the shade the cabin threw, 
 At once his dozing Norway hound 
 Rose to his haunches from the ground, 
 Upreared his neck and frontlet proud, 
 Sniffed twice the air, then bayed aloud. 
 And then hard by the streamlet's dance, 
 There picketed unto his lance, 
 There came a shrill neigh from his steed, 
 Like trumpet-call to knightly deed. 
 
 And scarce the echo of such sound 
 Had died away the woods around, 
 When on Sir Caverlaye's quick ear 
 Came noise of hoof-beats drawing near, 
 And sound of jingling mail there came 
 That set his blood in quivering flame. 
 'Twas close at hand, 'twas on the road, 
 Near and more near the hoof-beats trod ; 
 They reached the banks with hollow tread, 
 They halted at the bridge's head. 
 
 52 
 
Caverlaye paused no more to hear, 
 
 Though girt with plate, e'en like a deer 
 
 He bounded downward toward the brook, 
 
 Eager upon his foe to look. 
 
 Ay, there he stood, the wished-for knight, 
 
 In mail and gleaming harness dight, 
 
 Nor moved, nor stirred, nor came, nor went: 
 
 A rigid, steel-carved monument. 
 
 His helm, a casque of Norman peak, 
 
 A camail covered lips and cheek ; 
 
 Of samite red the hauberk o'er 
 
 A sleeveless coat-of-arms he wore. 
 
 A mighty shield fenced o'er with plate 
 
 Struck neck and heel, a pond'rous weight. 
 
 His gauntlets were of leather made, 
 
 With boss and rivet bright arrayed ; 
 
 Of crarnoisy, with gold in-spun, 
 
 A blazoned caparison 
 
 Enwrapped his steed from black forelock 
 
 To far below the very hock ; 
 
 At his steel saddle-bow his sword; 
 
 While far above his head there tower'd, 
 
 So high it struck each lower branch, 
 
 His long and tap'ring steel-shod lance; 
 
 His shield no cognizance displayed, 
 
 No crest nor sign his name betrayed; 
 
 But on his banneret he bare 
 
 A wyvern, sejant, field of vair. 
 
 53 
 
All at a glance Sir Caverlaye 
 Beheld him stand in like array, 
 Vaulted upon his eager steed, 
 Seized his huge lance like hollow reed, 
 And cried in thunder accents, " Hold ! 
 Back on your life, Sir Warrior bold. 
 Know that all such as here pass by 
 Do first my challenge underlie; 
 And further know that here I stand, 
 In harness dight and lance in hand, 
 For fair or foul, for soon or late, 
 To keep this bridge in armed debate 
 Against all comers, high or low ; 
 And more, I give thee here to know, 
 And unto all do I proclaim, 
 That this I purpose in the name 
 Of Yvernelle, of Brittomarte, 
 The sovereign lady of my heart. 
 
 54 
 
Her do I name the fairest maid 
 That ever nerved a warrior's blade; 
 The fairest that can e'er be found 
 On Paynim or on Christian ground ; 
 And if a lady-love you claim, 
 Were she the most transcendent dame 
 Beneath the sun, yet do I swear 
 Than Yvernelle she is less fair." 
 The black brows of the Wyvern Knight 
 Below his casque gleamed dark as night, 
 And in a voice pitched deep and low 
 Thus he made answer to his foe : 
 "'Tis well for thee, beau-pere at arms, 
 That in war's hazards and alarms 
 I am forbidden to take part, 
 Though in a cause dear to my heart, 
 Else would my lady's colors gay 
 Ride down thine own in instant fray, 
 And the fair name of Isabelle 
 Would yet be talisman to quell. 
 But me, my holy vows restrain ; 
 My lance I ne'er must couch again 
 Till I shall couch it at the breast 
 Of him who is my present quest; 
 For upon vengeance I am boune 
 For deep wrong unto sister done. 
 Him do I seek who flung disdain 
 Upon a house without a stain, 
 
 55 
 
Who cast contumely and shame 
 
 On Guhaldrada's peerless name !" 
 
 With mighty shout that shook for ire, 
 
 With eyes that blazed like living fire, 
 
 Sir Caverlaye burst forth apace : 
 
 "Then seek no further, by God's grace 
 
 Let thy long quest be ended here. 
 
 Couch, couch for vengeance, couch thy spear, 
 
 And may St. Michael bless the chance 
 
 That brings such quarrel to my lance. 
 
 I I am he whom thus you seek, 
 
 On me you must your vengeance wreak; 
 
 To Guhaldrada do I owe 
 
 All my inheritance of woe. 
 
 'Tis she who by accursed spell 
 
 Hath torn the heart of Yvernelle; 
 
 'Tis she wrought all our misery, 
 
 And with the name of craven she 
 
 No, further speech were wasted air. 
 
 Go, take thy ground for thy career." 
 
 No more was said ; to take their ground 
 Each warrior wheeled his steed around 
 Six times their spears' length on the road, 
 Passed from each other, turned and stood. 
 Then silence fell, both were opposed. 
 Sir Caverlaye his vizor closed, 
 
 56 
 
Loosened his sword within its sheath, 
 Steadied his short and quivering breath, 
 Gave one thought to fair Yvernelle, 
 One thought that made his bosom swell, 
 One hurried prayer to Heaven addressed, 
 Then slowly brought his lance to rest. 
 In silence dread they stood short space 
 For mortal combat face to face, 
 Till, sharp and ringing as the clang 
 Of arbalist, there sudden rang 
 The battle-shout of Caverlaye, 
 That gave the signal for the fray. 
 
 
 
 Then with a furious tiger-bound 
 Each war-horse left his chosen ground 
 And, frenzied with the spur's deep gash, 
 Sprang forward with a jingling crash. 
 
 57 
 
The earth shook in their gallop fleet 
 And thundered 'neath their iron feet; 
 The wood the roar re-echoed clear 
 As each swept down in full career; 
 Right on the bridge's keystone rock 
 They closed in fierce and fearful shock, 
 With equal force, with equal skill, 
 Yet not with equal fortune still. 
 
 Knightly and well the stranger came, 
 
 Unerring was his lance's aim, 
 
 Upon its centre fair and true 
 
 He smote Sir Caverlaye's CM, 
 
 And from its surface glancing quick 
 
 His lance tore through the cuirass thick, 
 
 Rent wide a wound within his breast, 
 
 Then, sudden, splintered to the fist. 
 
 Yet Caverlaye right onward pressed 
 
 Full on his foe's broad mail-fenced breast. 
 
 He drave his lance in knightly way, 
 
 Out in the air a shining spray 
 
 Of burnished steel-wrought links there flew ; 
 
 The hauberk stout the lance passed through, 
 
 With blood the shaft was all besprent, 
 
 His foe to his steed's loins was bent 
 
 Across his high-backed saddle-bow, 
 
 His spine was fiercely snapped in two, 
 
 58 
 
From breast to neck the mail was ripped. 
 Sir Caverlaye's sharp lance-point slipped ; 
 Beneath his chin it caught again, 
 And, though bent bow-like with the strain, 
 Held him suspended by the head 
 And fairly bore him from his steed. 
 With mighty prowess was he flung 
 To earth, in dust, his harness rung ; 
 Thrice o'er he rolled upon the land, 
 Thrice his crooked fingers dug the sand, 
 But scarce the loam fouled his rich coat 
 Sir Caverlaye was at his throat; 
 One mailed knee he firmly pressed 
 Upon his gasping, laboring breast, 
 Raised his keen misericorde on high 
 And shouted, " Yield thee, Knight, or die !" 
 Then, all at once the brandished blade 
 Dropped from his grasp, he feebly swayed, 
 Muttered the name of Yvernelle, 
 Then lifeless on the dying fell ! 
 
 How long in swooning spell he lay 
 
 Sir Caverlaye could never say. 
 
 The last act he recalled aright 
 
 Was that he couched his lance for fight, 
 
 Gathered the reins within his hand, 
 
 And raised his shout of stern command. 
 
 59 
 
And then all sights became a blur, 
 All noises strange and mingled whirr; 
 There came a sense of motion swift, 
 Fleeter than fleetest storm-cloud's drift; 
 Then sudden 'thwart his darkened sight 
 Shot blood-red streaks of forked light ; 
 Within his ears a humming sound 
 Like flow of rivers underground ; 
 And then a tightening of the brain, 
 So fierce it seemed the mighty strain 
 Must burst, perforce, his burning head ; 
 And then it seemed as he were sped 
 Down through a fathomless abyss 
 Blacker than farthest shades of Dis; 
 And all the springs that ever burst 
 He thought would fail to quench his thirst. 
 The very air, thickened with heat, 
 Throbbed on his frame with measured beat, 
 While the red vortex of the fire 
 Burned in his breast with furious ire. 
 Nor space, nor place, nor time he knew ; 
 From him the mortal world withdrew. 
 When the impenetrable gloom 
 Dissolving, showed a darkened room, 
 The scorching fire which did him clasp 
 He felt had been the fever's grasp, 
 And the hot fire his bosom bound 
 He knew had been a grievous wound. 
 
 60 
 
Within the hermit's hut he lay ; 
 
 Not on his scanty bed of hay, 
 
 But on a couch which courted sleep, 
 
 Sunken in cushions soft and deep; 
 
 And by degrees he was aware 
 
 Of lordly meinie gathered near. 
 
 The door was draped, but from without 
 
 Came noise of speech and merry shout. 
 
 Steeds pawed, arms clashed, and to and fro 
 
 Before the cabin's door-way low 
 
 -^ 
 
 Passed many a tread in bustling haste, 
 As though some lordly camp was placed, 
 Now, as his consciousness returned, 
 And as his reason brighter burned, 
 
 61 
 
He felt his swathed and heated head 
 
 Within a rounded arm was laid; 
 
 And then, close to his lowly bed, 
 
 His roving eye at length was stayed 
 
 By sight of feminine attire. 
 
 He raised his straying glances higher, 
 
 Upward the silken folds pursued, 
 
 Until their wearer's face he viewed, 
 
 Viewed unmistakably and clear. 
 
 Then, " Guhaldrada ! art thou here ?" 
 
 And quick, in trembling speech, she cried : 
 
 " Oh, do not drive me from thy side ! 
 
 Turn not away in wrath again, 
 
 Nor greet me with deserved disdain ; 
 
 Forget each taunt I e'er let fall, 
 
 And only how I loved recall* 
 
 Vent not reproach or scorn on me, 
 
 For that I could not live from thee. 
 
 Once I believed myself to stand 
 
 The proudest woman in the land ; 
 
 But love was stronger, dear, than pride ; 
 
 For you I've flung it all aside, 
 
 Braved evil speech, braved e'en disgrace, 
 
 Once more to look upon thy face. 
 
 The day you left my castle hall 
 
 I thought my heart was changed to gall, 
 
 And while my heart still hotly burned 
 
 For vengeance to my brother turned ; 
 
So with my words inflamed his mind 
 
 That, with a vow, he did him bind 
 
 That fair or foul, whate'er betide, 
 
 Upon thy traces he would ride; 
 
 Seek thee without the realm of France, 
 
 And do thee combat, lance to lance. 
 
 And so departed ; and I thought 
 
 That peace of mind at length was bought. 
 
 But, when all things were done and said, 
 
 When thought succeeded word and deed, 
 
 The anger sprung from wounded pride 
 
 Began within me to subside, 
 
 And love, I deemed fled utterly, 
 
 Struggled once more for mastery. 
 
 Still its approaches I defied, 
 
 And battled with my stubborn pride. 
 
 Ah, thou canst never, never know 
 
 The misery of those days of woe. 
 
 I tried to stifle my regret 
 
 Because my brother I had set 
 
 To track thee with resentment fierce, 
 
 Sworn with his lance thy heart to pierce. 
 
 Within the turmoil of my brain 
 
 I seemed to see thee foully slain; 
 
 The eyes in which I wont to gaze 
 
 Dulled with the film of deathly glaze; 
 
 The voice which once was dearest sound 
 
 In death's chill silence ever bound; 
 
Thy lips, twin warders of thy breath, 
 Sealed with the signet pale of death. 
 All I once loved and called my own 
 Dying unfriended and alone. 
 And this, thy death, I I had willed ; 
 'Twas by my hand that thou wast killed. 
 At me, poor conscience-stricken wretch, 
 Thy lifejess finger seemed to stretch 
 In mute reproach ; thy latest breath 
 Named me the author of thy death, 
 And every wound in thy loved corse 
 With red lips seemed to gasp, ( Remorse P 
 At length pride yielded to the strain; 
 I only knew I loved again. 
 Hard on my brother's northward trace 
 I followed fast with eager pace, 
 My mad decision to revoke 
 Though 'twere a hundred vows he broke. 
 To change his mood and purpose dire, 
 To save thee from his burning ire, 
 To shield thee from all haps and harms, 
 Once more to fold thee in these arms. 
 I came too late ; deep in the wood, 
 Stretched in the middle of the road, 
 I found thee here, his breast thy bed; 
 Bleeding and lifeless, all but dead. 
 By scarce a point of time too late 
 To save thee from the dread debate; 
 
 64 
 
But not too late, as now, at length 
 To love thee back to life and strength. 
 And now, mine own, my well beloved, 
 When such a boundless love is proved, 
 When all my pride, you see, is dead, 
 And all my old resentment fled, 
 Surely thy heart is not so stern 
 But it can make some slight return? 
 And if 'tis so, if thou art rock, 
 And 'gainst my love your heart you lock, 
 Do but beside thee let me dwell, 
 And I will love thee, love so well, 
 Will be so kind, so patient hope, 
 That e'en thy heart at last will ope. 
 Even the rock, though chill the blast, 
 Is by the sunbeam warmed at last. 
 And I know all that hath been done 
 Since last we met, this other one, 
 How that she scorned your proffered hand 
 And banished thee from her proud land. 
 A thing of changing wile and art, 
 She was not worthy of thy heart. 
 Forget her!" Quick Sir Caverlaye 
 Rose on his elbow and cried, "Stay; 
 Thus far in patience have I heard, 
 But of her name breathe not a word. 
 'Twere treason 'gainst a memory dear, 
 And treason worse for me to hear." 
 
"Thou lov'st her yet?" "Ay, and e'er shall. 
 
 Would it were given me to fall 
 
 But now in battle for her name, 
 
 To prove my love's undying flame !" 
 
 "And art thou, then, so abject grown 
 
 That thou canst fix thy heart upon 
 
 One that repels that heart in scorn, 
 
 And for thy love gives in return 
 
 Contemptuous and haughty look, 
 
 Who e'en thy presence cannot brook?" 
 
 But calmly Caverlaye replied : 
 
 "Mine own respect and knightly pride 
 
 Are not sunk lower in love's war 
 
 Than woman's who could follow far, 
 
 In guise unmaidenly and bold, 
 
 One who was manifestly cold, 
 
 And when she plainly saw and knew 
 
 His heart was to another true." 
 
v 
 
 But Guhaldrada bowed her head, 
 
 And to his words she simply said : 
 
 "If, then, I so forgot my pride 
 
 As thus upon thy steps to ride, 
 
 Think not with words of slight or blame 
 
 That thou canst sting me into shame." 
 
 More had she said, but Caverlaye, 
 
 Impatient of a longer stay, 
 
 Rose, and, with w r ild eyes dimmed with dew, 
 
 About his neck her arms she threw. 
 
 " No, no, thou shalt not leave me so ! 
 
 I will not, cannot let thee go ! 
 
 Ah, surely heart of stone is thine 
 
 To be unmoved by love like mine !" 
 
 He rose impetuous to his knee, 
 
 And cried, " Unhand me, let me flee ! 
 
 Here every moment that I dwell 
 
 Is foulest wrong to Yvernelle !" 
 
 Then she grew passionate and wild ; 
 
 Nor closer mother to her child 
 
 E'er clung, when strong, blood-thirsty grasp 
 
 Threatened to tear it from her clasp, 
 
 Than she, with lovely, upturned face, 
 
 Clung to his neck in fond embrace. 
 
 In vain, with words and stern commands, 
 
 He strove to loose her tender hands; 
 
 And as with angel fair and bright 
 
 Once Jacob wrestled through the night, 
 
 67 
 
So, risen on his bended knee, 
 With her he wrestled to be free, 
 And still he shouted, " Let me go !" 
 And still she clung and cried, " No, no !" 
 And then once more, with low, soft speech, 
 She strove his fixed heart to reach. 
 "Oh, my beloved, dost think to quell 
 The love that in my heart doth dwell 
 By words or e'en by deeds of hate? 
 My love thy scorn cannot abate. 
 Behold, the very lips that frame 
 The cruel words of taunt and shame 
 I kiss in love and tenderness; 
 For curse returning a caress." 
 Scarcely her lips on his did close 
 When, with a bound, the Knight arose ; 
 For, swifter than the quivering spark 
 Of lightning 'thwart the midnight dark, 
 A thought had flashed across his brain, 
 Filling his life with light again. 
 So fierce and hurriedly he spoke 
 His words for very haste did choke : 
 "Now let thy curse fall back on thee; 
 The kiss that blights thee sets me free ! 
 The very lips that curse hath passed 
 Are those which lift it now at last ! 
 'Gainst innocence you railed your worst, 
 Now by your own spell are you cursed. 
 
The worst that I could wish for you 
 Is that your own words may come true: 
 * Cursed were the lips that next should press 
 Mine own in lovers' fond caress; 
 On her who next should press them first 
 Numberless ills and woes should burst. 
 From that same moment foulest shame 
 Should like a blight beset her name, 
 That kiss should e'en become a blot 
 Upon her life, and, fest'ring, rot, 
 And like a canker ever grow, 
 Until it had consumed slow 
 Her friends, her peace, her love, her life, 
 Turned fellowship to mortal strife, 
 Made her abhorred of her own mind, 
 Her name a byword to mankind, 
 And like that born of Judas' breath, 
 'Twould be the herald of her death.' 
 Such were thy words. Farewell to thee ; 
 The kiss that blights thee sets me free ! " 
 
 Fled was her strength, relaxed her clasp, 
 And from her feeble, loosening grasp 
 He freed himself with gesture rude. 
 In weary grief and lassitude 
 Down to the couch where he had lain 
 She flung herself, in mute, numb pain, 
 
And buried deep her lovely head 
 
 Within the cushions he had fled ; 
 
 Broken she lay upon the floor. 
 
 He looked not back, he gained the door, 
 
 He passed once more to daylight clear, 
 
 Leaped on the steed that first was near ; 
 
 Right through the thronging camp he pressed; 
 
 And ere the wond'ring meinie guessed 
 
 The cause of his wild disarray 
 
 Forth from the spot he'd sped away, 
 
 And his steed's hoof-beats as he rode 
 
 Were lessening on the distant road. 
 
 But from their speculations vain 
 
 The followers of that lordly train 
 
 Were summoned soon to graver care; 
 
 For, with a sad and solemn air, 
 
 The seneschal, Sir D'Entraguy, 
 
 Forth issuing from where did lie, 
 
 Mangled and broken from the fray, 
 
 The recent foe of Caverlaye, 
 
 Passed through their midst and sadly said : 
 
 " My Lord Tentiniac soon is dead ; 
 
 Where is his sister, that she may 
 
 Once see him e'er he pass away?" 
 
 Whereat some silent turned aside, 
 
 And others strove a smile to hide, 
 
 And some a shoulder slightly raised, 
 
 Or meaningly upon him gazed, 
 
 70 
 
Until one, marked of knightly grade, 
 In cruel bluntness roughly said: 
 "But now she tarried with the Knight 
 Who rode her brother down in fight." 
 More sad than angry, D'Entraguy 
 Turned to the hermit's hut near by, 
 And met his lady as she came, 
 Supported by attendant dame. 
 " Thy brother," thus he gently said, 
 " Thy brother, lady, soon is dead." 
 " My brother dies ! Oh, woe on woe ! 
 The curse's poison is not slow I" 
 No more she spake, but flew before, 
 And stooping at the tent's low door, 
 Before the pallet rude and drear 
 (Soon to become her brother's bier) 
 She sank, and, calling him by name, 
 Aroused life's faint and flick'ring flame. 
 But not in love his eyes grew wide; 
 Or e'er he knew at his bedside 
 His sister's form, how stern he gazed ! 
 Feebly the trembling arm was raised. 
 His words' disjointed, guttural sound 
 (For the sharp lance's hideous wound 
 Had crushed his jaw and cleft his tongue) 
 Still rung with hatred deep and strong. 
 But though strange sounds begat his throat 
 That seemed not of the human note, 
 
 71 
 
She read his features but too well; 
 
 His look was unmistakable, 
 
 And thus it spoke with meaning clear: 
 
 "Stretched mangled on my death-bed here 
 
 For sake of thee I part with life; 
 
 By thee was I urged to this strife, 
 
 And eagerly I pledged my faith 
 
 To fight thy quarrel to the death. 
 
 For then I thought 'twas for a cause 
 
 That merited high honor's laws; 
 
 And thy betrayer had I slain, 
 
 And in his blood purged out the stain, 
 
 With heart that knew itself aright; 
 
 Or if the chances of the fight, 
 
 As now, had snapped life's tightening thread, 
 
 And I been counted with the dead, 
 
 Fearless at death had been my glance, 
 
 In knightly wise with couchant lance. 
 
 But was it thus? No, by God's Host, 
 
 Mine honor with my life is lost. 
 
 When that we met and it was mine 
 
 To be unhorsed with shattered spine, 
 
 A*. \ when you came upon us twain, 
 
 You cared not were I hurt or slain, 
 
 You thought not, no, nor cast one glance, 
 
 Your only fear was lest my lance 
 
 The traitor's heart had cleft or no. 
 
 Ah ! would to God it had been so ! 
 
 72 
 
From me, who took my life in hand 
 
 To satisfy your proud command, 
 
 In wild forgetfulness you turned 
 
 To him whom most you should have spurned,- 
 
 Your traitor in your arms did bear, 
 
 Your brother left to menial care ! 
 
 And while I lay in cold neglect, 
 
 Tended by slaves with grudged respect, 
 
 Your care, your thought, your ev'ry power 
 
 Were lavished on your paramour, 
 
 And I had died without a thought 
 
 If hither you had not been brought 
 
 By vassal faithful still and true, 
 
 Who felt the shame forgot by you. 
 
 I knew not 'twas for you he went, 
 
 Believe me, I would ne'er have sent 
 
 To tear you from your lover's side, 
 
 Sooner abandoned had I died 
 
 Than to have reft one moment dear 
 
 From those passed in his tender care. 
 
 I marVel that thou cam'st at all; 
 
 Go, seek him, lest in vain he call ; 
 
 Go, thy seducer vile to nurse, 
 
 But going, take my dying curse !" 
 
 Next day upon the streamlet's verge 
 Sounded the mournful funeral dirge; 
 
 73 
 
With trailing arms and spears reversed 
 The men-at-arms his body hearsed : 
 Between the bridge where last he fought 
 And the deserted hermit's cot. 
 
 The grave is closed, the tapers gleam ; 
 With blessed water from the stream 
 The chaplain wets the new-made mound ; 
 Bare-headed stands the crowd around, 
 And Guhaldrada, veiled in weed, 
 Leans like a weak and broken reed 
 Upon the women of her train 
 While sounds the Miserere's strain. 
 But, when the last prayer had been said 
 In benediction for the dead, 
 
 74 
 
And when the last and mournful rite 
 
 Was ended for the perished knight, 
 
 With sullen port and silence strained 
 
 The knights and men-at-arms remained, 
 
 Till even Guhaldrada's eyes 
 
 Glanced round the throng in pained surprise, 
 
 And saw how in determined mood 
 
 Each mailed warrior gloomy stood, 
 
 Saw with a quick presentiment 
 
 That from her heart its warm blood sent, 
 
 Till D'Entraguy before the rest 
 
 Stood forward and such speech addressed : 
 
 " Lady, thy brother was our lord ; 
 
 Dishonor was of him abhorred. 
 
 We were, we are his vassals leal ; 
 
 Who did him wrong wronged us as well, 
 
 And (since strong deed strong word demands) 
 
 Foul wrong was done him at thy hands. 
 
 We honor and we love him still, 
 
 And one who did him deadly ill 
 
 We're bound no longer to obey. 
 
 On this his mournful burial day 
 
 We each and severally resolve 
 
 Our ties of homage to dissolve; 
 
 Did he still live, we all do know 
 
 He would approve of what we do. 
 
 And more, though this were set aside, 
 
 Longer with thee we would not bide; 
 
 75 
 
Beneath a flag we would not stir 
 
 That bore the dark bar sinister. 
 
 Our banner must have no defect; 
 
 We cannot serve without respect. 
 
 Such yoke upon our neck would gall ; 
 
 So we decide I speak for all 
 
 Thus, once for all, and all at once, 
 
 My leal allegiance I renounce." 
 
 Forth from his sheath his sword he drew, 
 
 Snapped its broad, glittering blade in two, 
 
 Then, without rage or passion's heat, 
 
 Dropped the two pieces at her feet. 
 
 On Guhaldrada's forehead dark 
 
 Her pride's last faint surviving spark 
 
 7fi 
 
Flamed like an adder's swelling crest, 
 Then died forever in her breast. 
 Of all the movements that ensued 
 She nothing heard, she nothing viewed, 
 But gazed without one sign or word 
 On the bright fragments of the sword, 
 Until she heard the trumpet's blast, 
 And saw her parting knights file past, 
 Pass o'er the bridge in silent mood 
 And on the far side gain the road. 
 
 Still with her stayed three maidens true, 
 And of her men-at-arms but two; 
 
 77 
 
And as she saw herself thus left 
 Of friends, of honor, love bereft, 
 " My curse has fall'n on me I" she said ; 
 " Storms are redoubling on my head ; 
 My lips are cursed since they did press 
 His own in love and tenderness; 
 All their life's deep and ruby hue 
 Fled from that pledge of lovers true. 
 That moment's brief and transient bliss, 
 That followed that one parting kiss 
 Which set my cheek in scarlet glow, 
 Was e'en the last I e'er shall know. 
 From that same moment foulest shame 
 Clings like a fungus to my name. 
 Black evil crouches at my back; 
 Misfortune presses on my track. 
 Sealed by that kiss my fate is doomed ; 
 Its curse, swift-spreading, hath consumed 
 Friends, brother, peace, and happiness, 
 Filled all my life with sore distress, 
 Made me abhorred of my own mind, 
 My name a byword to mankind ; 
 And, like that born of Judas' breath, 
 'Tis the forerunner of my death. 
 O'erwhelmed by brother's dying scorn, 
 Blast with his curse of hatred born, 
 The object of retainers' sneers, 
 Of every serf's that hates and fears; 
 
 78 
 
Dazed, stunned, bereft of every hope, 
 Eagerly downward do I grope, 
 Down to that tomb, my only rest, 
 Down to that self-dug grave unblest, 
 Buried in ruin self-devised, 
 Disowned, dishonored, and despised." 
 
-~ 
 
 HOW SIR CAVERLAYE CAME TO BRITTOMARTE, TO KAERENRAIS, 
 AND WHAT BEFELL HIM ON THE WAY. 
 
 TURN we from such sad scenes away 
 To follow after Caverlaye. 
 But fast, indeed, must be our flight 
 An we o'ertake the fleeing knight; 
 Riding as pinioned on the wind, 
 St. Cuthbert's bridge is far behind. 
 
 The underbrush and forest-trees 
 Grow scant and scanter as he flees; 
 Soon he is out of the dark wood, 
 E'en as he leaves his once dark mood. 
 
With every nerve at tensest strain 
 
 His foaming steed sweeps o'er the plain. 
 
 He leaps the stream, swift as a dart, 
 
 That bounds the fief of Brittomarte, 
 
 And the loud hoofs, with thunderous sound, 
 
 Are speeding o'er familiar ground. 
 
 Sir Caverlaye's impatient mood 
 Turned him from out the beaten road; 
 And 'neath the sunset's purple shades 
 He struck across the copse-wood glades. 
 
 At once hoarse croaking from their fare, 
 A cloud of ravens rise in air, 
 And on beholding their flock's cause 
 Sir Caverlaye cannot but pause. 
 The deer's white skeleton there lay 
 Upon the turf where, on that day 
 That seemed to him so long ago, 
 Old Raguenel had laid him low. 
 
 Here, then, he last had seen her face, 
 Here, then, that dreadful scene took place. 
 'Twas there she stood with pallid hue 
 And spoke to him her last adieu. 
 
 84 
 
Time vanished, long months passed away; 
 St. George ! it seemed but yesterday ! 
 In accents low and sweet tones clear 
 Her parting words rang in his ear, 
 " Farewell till joined beyond death's flood ; 
 I wait in calm and trustful mood." 
 There on that spot she turned away, 
 Casting on him her eyes' last ray. 
 
 And he 'fore God, no more, no more; 
 Ride on, the day is almost o'er, 
 On till he cleared the waving copse, 
 And sees the pinnacled proud tops 
 Of Brittomarte flashing the ray 
 Of sunset back towards dying day. 
 
 With scrambling leap and clattering bound 
 He gains the causeway that winds 'round 
 The crag-girt hill-side, high and steep, 
 Whereon is built the mighty keep, 
 And on the draw before the grate 
 Now lowered, for the hour is late, 
 He reins his steed and loudly calls, 
 To bring the warder to the walls. 
 
Yet, while he waited for reply, 
 He saw with apprehensive eye 
 That where once joy overflowed each tower, 
 An air of sadness seemed to lower. 
 
 Eising above the donjon vast, 
 
 The castle's banner at half-mast; 
 
 Above the deep and grated door 
 
 The hatchment was with black hung o'er. 
 
 Within the wide and open court, 
 
 Where once were scenes of noisy sport, 
 
 Where jessed falcons flapped and screamed, 
 
 Where horses pawed and lances gleamed, 
 
 Was now deserted, cold, and gray; 
 
 And over all a sadness lay, 
 
 Which did like sadness straight impart 
 
 To Caverlaye's fast-failing heart. 
 
 In answer to repeated call 
 
 There came at last the seneschal. 
 
 Though spent with years and hoary gray, 
 
 At once he knew Sir Caverlaye. 
 
 For in his former lusty prime 
 
 Sir Caverlaye full many a time, 
 
 A gleeful, roistering, laughing child, 
 
 His shoulders bare in frolic wild, 
 
 Or with him found the dun deer's haunts, 
 
 Or at the quintaine aimed his lance. 
 
Soon as he saw his well-known knight 
 Standing without in grievous plight, 
 He shouted quick to raise the grate ; 
 And ere its chains ceased to vibrate 
 He stood at his steed's saddle-bow 
 With welcome words and friendly show. 
 
 Scant courtesy the knight vouchsafed : 
 With fierce impatience he was chafed. 
 "How now, Sir Hugh, is all not well? 
 How fares my Lady Yvernelle? 
 Why flies the flag half-masted low? 
 Speak out. What mean these signs of woe?" 
 
 "Foul fell the day/ 7 Sir Hugh replied, 
 
 " That you departed from her side. 
 
 To her thou shouldst have e'er been true. 
 
 My lord, strange tales are told of you. 
 
 I choose to think that the Black Art 
 
 Hath changed in thee thy once firm heart, 
 
 As some have said, than to suppose 
 
 That wittingly thou'dst bring such woes 
 
 Upon the head of Yvernelle. 
 
 No, no, Sir Knight, all is not well. 
 
 87 
 
"Sir Raguenel, when thou wast gone, 
 
 Mourned as it were an only son. 
 
 At times his rage against thee burned, 
 
 At times to tears his ire was turned, 
 
 Or sat for hours in gloomy mood, 
 
 Or rode his lands in solitude. 
 
 For days from us he would be gone, 
 
 Riding afar and riding lone, 
 
 Until sweet Yvernelle's pale face 
 
 Recalled him to his 'customed place. 
 
 " I tell thee true, Sir Caverlaye, 
 From that same day you passed away 
 She drooped and pined before our sight, 
 Fading with each day's fading light ; 
 At last she always kept her bed, 
 So sweet, so pale, so mutely sad, 
 It would have moved a heart of stone, 
 Far more, Sir Caverlaye, thine own. 
 
 " Until one memorable night 
 
 Her eyes seemed lit with heavenly light; 
 
 So pale a hue was o'er her cast 
 
 We deemed each moment was her last. 
 
 Thus for full many a week she lay 
 
 'Twixt life and death, -just paused half-way,- 
 
And when was closed that anxious strife 
 And she was given back to life, 
 All that which life made once so fair 
 Seemed nought and profitless to her. 
 
 "She wished to bid the world farewell, 
 To seek the nun's secluded cell; 
 And deemed her life to her was given 
 But to become the bride of Heaven. 
 All Raguenel's persuasions failed ; 
 Commands, entreaties, nought availed ; 
 She loved, she said, her guardian well, 
 But duty called her to the cell. 
 
 " The chapel of the castle here 
 She daily visited in prayer. 
 Her jewels, robes, her fiefs as well, 
 She signed away to Raguenel; 
 The remnant of her dowery 
 She gave away in charity. 
 
 " The nunnery of Kaerenrais 
 Lies a day's journey from this place. 
 The abbess of that sisterhood, 
 A sainted lady and a good, 
 
Upon fair Yvernelle's behest, 
 Was summoned hither as a guest. 
 
 "But no, why lengthen out the tale? 
 She was resolved to take the veil. 
 And thus it was that yesterday 
 The cavalcade set on its way, 
 Seeking with slow and mournful pace 
 The nunnery of Kaerenrais. 
 
 Sir Raguenel led them in the van, 
 Grief hath much changed the aged man. 
 
 "In you he lost an only son, 
 
 In Yvernelle his daughter one, 
 
 And we, their friends, forgive these tears 
 
 Affections grow with growing years, 
 
We've lost our all, lord, lady, knight, 
 
 All that was dearest in our sight. 
 
 Thee I reproach not, Caverlaye; 
 
 Thou know'st thine own heart. Go thy way." 
 
 Sir Caverlaye sunk from his steed 
 
 And on the saddle bowed his head. 
 
 " Undone ! undone !" he hoarsely moaned, 
 
 And clinched his palms and deeply groaned. 
 
 "And thus we have," pursued Sir Hugh, 
 "Our hatchment draped in sombre hue; 
 And in the chapel, 'fore the shrine 
 Nineteen wax tapers burning shine, 
 And nineteen strokes will toll the bell 
 To mark the years of Yvernelle. 
 
 "At midnight in our chapel dim 
 To-night we chant the mournful hymn, 
 And say a mass with sombre show, 
 For at that hour to-night we know, 
 Within the walls of Kaerenrais, 
 The ceremony will take place, 
 That final step which Yvernelle 
 Takes ere o'er her will close the cell." 
 
 91 
 
Sir Caverlaye upraised his head, 
 And to Sir Hugh he quickly said : 
 "Dost say her vows are not yet ta'en? 
 Speak out, Sir Hugh, tell me again 
 The nun's black veil she hath not donned, 
 Nor will until midnight shall sound?" 
 
 "Ay, thus decided Yvernelle; 
 The midnight's chime shall be her knell, 
 And then she quits the realms of day." 
 " But not till then ?" cried Caverlaye. 
 "Now God be praised, there yet is time 
 Before that midnight's fateful chime !" 
 
 Then fast and faster grew his speech, 
 To old Sir Hugh his hand did reach. 
 "Sir Hugh, by Heaven I swear to you, 
 To Yvernelle I e'er was true ; 
 That all I did was for the right, 
 Though circumstance with baleful light 
 Distorted all I did for good. 
 My deed was e'er misunderstood. 
 And time, I trow, will surely prove 
 The purity of this my love. 
 Canst thou, old friend, such oath believe? 
 Unquestioning my tale receive?" 
 
 92 
 
Sir Hugh gazed sternly as he spoke, 
 And then his words impulsive broke : 
 "Now by St. George, Sir Caverlaye, 
 I will believe the words you say. 
 Thy life-long course of probity 
 With me shall be thy surety." 
 
 " Enough, then," cries Sir Caverlaye, 
 "No longer with thee must I stay. 
 Quick, frame no useless questions, man, 
 Bring me the fleetest steed ye can. 
 Quick, thy best movements are too slow ! 
 Minutes are very hours now." 
 
 "But where away?" Sir Hugh replied. 
 " To Kaerenrais," the knight loud cried. 
 With wild impatience stamped his heel 
 Till jingled every limb with steel. 
 
 Obedient to Sir Hugh's loud call, 
 The grooms and hostlers from his stall 
 Led forth a proud and trampling steed, 
 His muscles swoll'n with pent-up speed, 
 His blood-red nostrils rigid gaped, 
 Like bended bow his neck was shaped. 
 
 93 
 
His trembling ear caught every sound, 
 
 Starting thereat with furious bound ; 
 
 While from his chest his mane flowed black, 
 
 E'en like some swarthy cataract. 
 
 His rolling eyeballs gleamed with fire ; 
 
 His pride and rage, his fury dire, 
 
 The struggling grooms could scarce restrain, 
 
 Though twenty hands tugged at the rein. 
 
 " The time is short," quoth old Sir Hugh ; 
 
 "A toilsome journey lies for you, 
 
 An thou wouldst gain far Kaerenrais 
 
 Ere midnight. It will test the pace 
 
 Of Bayard to its utmost strain. 
 
 Spare not the spur, draw not the rein." 
 
 Sir Caverlaye sprang to the selle, 
 
 Yet paused to say, " Sir Hugh, farewell ; 
 
 Unless I bring her back with me 
 
 Never again my face thou'lt see. 
 
 Let go the bit, my merrie men; 
 
 Now, Bayard, to thy mettle strain." 
 
 An instant, the dropped drawbridge o'er, 
 The hoof-beats sound with hollow roar,' 
 
 94 
 

 A rattle on the causeway's stone, 
 A cloud of dust, and he is gone; 
 Gone like the whistling steel-sprung dart, 
 Gone like the tracked fleet-footed hart, 
 Gone like a witch o'er foss and fell, 
 To save his lady, Yvernelle ! 
 
 Fain would I tell thee of that ride, 
 Of Bayard's mighty, swinging stride, 
 That seemed to wing above the earth 
 Flying beneath his spattered girth. 
 
 My tardy Muse lags far behind 
 
 A speed that tires the panting wind. 
 
 She cannot follow otherwise 
 
 Than with her spent and straining eyes. 
 
Mount, mount we on that steed of air 
 That was, of old, her sisters' care, 
 And mark in winged course wondrous 
 Swift Bayard race with Pegasus ! 
 
 'Twas in the ruddy eventide 
 When Caverlaye began his ride, 
 And Bayard's glossy coat did seem 
 All bronzen in the flaming beam. 
 
 "While through St. Branches' town he swept 
 The sun still o'er the horizon kept; 
 But though he sped like stormy blast, 
 The flying light sped yet more fast. 
 
 Linger, O deep'ning shades of night; 
 Linger, ye beams of fading light ! 
 Oh for a second Joshua 
 To curb the flashing orb of day ! 
 
 St. Bault he left with parting light, 
 And at Chanceaux rode into night. 
 Now through the night in rapid beat 
 Resound the hurrying, rattling feet. 
 
 96 
 
But the loud heart of Caverlaye 
 Against his breast beat fast as they. 
 
 On, on upon his furious course 
 
 Dashed the unwearied, noble horse; 
 
 Fields, haycocks, rocks, dim through the night, 
 
 Kushed past beside his headlong flight. 
 
 Huts, clumps of trees, drew slowly near, 
 
 Then darted past in swift career. 
 
 Now lights within the darkness shine; 
 
 He hears the pealing hour of nine. 
 
 And soon through Loches the thundering hoofs 
 
 Re-echo from the red-tiled roofs. 
 
 The villagers in dumb surprise, 
 
 Roused from their sleep with wond'ring eyes, 
 
 Look forth to see who rides so late 
 
 And rides with such a furious gait. 
 
 He sees the castle shadowy frown, 
 
 A mighty pile, upon the town 
 
 Where, as was oft by legend told, 
 
 Sainte Luitgarde lived in days of old. 
 
 For him that legend old was nought ; 
 
 For him the one absorbing thought 
 
 Was that two hours had passed away 
 
 And still he was not yet half-way. 
 
 97 
 
At Loches, upon its bridge he crossed 
 The Indre, where beneath was tossed 
 The yellow river's crested mane, 
 And soon upon Sennevere's plain 
 Was speeding onward in the dark. 
 At Vittray flashed a silver spark 
 Above the hills, low in the east, 
 And soon, in mellow glory drest, 
 Rolled up the moon's broad silver shield, 
 Pouring her light o'er flood and field. 
 
 And on his hot and dusty sense 
 
 Rose all the cool night's sweet incense. 
 
 He felt the light and rising fogs, 
 
 He heard the piping of the frogs, 
 
 Peace seemed to rest on all around ; 
 
 The only jar was the fierce pound 
 
 Of Bayard's hoof-beats as he flew, 
 
 With flanks all flecked with foam and dew, 
 
 Past Villedomain, past Ecuille, 
 
 Past Jumalloche he held his way ; 
 
 And still with unrelaxing pow'rs 
 
 Bayard raced with the fleeting hours ! 
 
 His ears were flat, his head stretched low, 
 And every vein beat with the flow 
 
Of the fierce blood which in him boiled 
 And nerved him as he onward toiled. 
 At Wiherne Caverlaye cried out 
 With hopeful heart and lusty shout, 
 For there he passed the midway place 
 'Twixt Brittomarte and Kaerenrais. 
 But scanning close the wheeling heaven, 
 He felt it drawing towards eleven. 
 
 The country changed, the plain gave place 
 
 To scarped rocks of rugged face ; 
 
 And though scant foothold gained his feet, 
 
 The valiant courser fled as fleet 
 
 As e'er on lower, level ground, 
 
 The miles were measured by his bound. 
 
 'Twas 'twixt Dioris and St. Erste 
 That noble Bayard stumbled first; 
 
His rider saw it with a thrill 
 That smote his heart with deadly chill. 
 He named him by each praising name 
 That e'er his aching heart could frame ; 
 He stroked his reeking flank and neck, 
 And strove his parting fire to check. 
 
 Ride on, ride on, O Caverlaye ! 
 Still onward, Bayard, hold thy way ! 
 Thy strength, thy every sinew bend 
 Unto the race ; think on the end 
 That with each leap is drawing near ; 
 What praise, what glory, waits thee there 
 
 Ride on, ride on, O Caverlaye ! 
 Thou ridest toward thy dawning day ! 
 Rising from out thy sorrow's night, 
 Rising in hope and radiance bright, 
 Ride on, ride on, O Caverlaye ! 
 Love, joy, and blessing urge thy way. 
 
 Beyond yon hills that gently swell 
 Calls to thee fair-haired Yvernelle. 
 Reach her ere yet the solemn chime 
 Announce the hopeless midnight time ! 
 100 
 
And all thy future life is bliss, 
 One long, unending happiness. 
 
 Ride for thy happiness and life, 
 Ride for thy heart, thy love, thy wife; 
 Ride on o'er dew-drenched meadows wet ; 
 Ride on, the midnight tarries yet. 
 
 And thou, O Bayard, bear him well ; 
 Carry him safe to Yvernelle. 
 And knight and horse with purpose sole 
 Strain every nerve to reach the goal. 
 
 But now nor words nor touch avail : 
 
 Brave Bayard's strength begins to fail; 
 
 His breath in gasps comes short and quick ; 
 
 With blood the bit is clotted thick. 
 
 The ruddy spume-flakes faster fly, 
 
 And blood starts from his straining eye, 
 
 And oft he staggers in his race, 
 
 Though struggling still to keep the pace. 
 
 And as at such a gait he swung 
 Down into Brives, there quavering rung 
 101 
 
One single stroke, and Caverlaye 
 Saw by the moonlight, bright as day, 
 The tower clock with its finger stark 
 The half-hour of eleven mark. 
 
 He knew the country, far and near, 
 He knew the rapid running Cher 
 With swollen current swiftly flowed 
 One mile beyond, across his road, 
 Twelve feet across from edge to edge; 
 No ford was there, no boat, no bridge. 
 
 But an he would with safety cross, 
 He could, by precious minutes' loss, 
 Follow the river from the town, 
 And reach the shallows farther down. 
 
 But did he so, he knew 'twere vain 
 To strive in time his goal to gain ; 
 For Bayard, reeling in his track, 
 To breast the stream, he on his back, 
 Were vainer still : the swirling stream 
 Would 'whelm them like a drift-wood beam. 
 The only way there yet remained 
 Whereby the far bank might be gained 
 102 
 
Was, trusting to brave Bayard's strength, 
 To leap the stream, a fearful length. 
 
 To bridge that gap with widest bound, 
 To safely spring from ground to ground 
 Above the river's rushing course, 
 Was, for a fresh, unwearied horse, 
 A test which called for ev'ry nerve; 
 Hoof must not slip, eye must not swerve. 
 
 And now his steed was well-nigh spent; 
 
 Beneath his weight he almost bent. 
 
 The stream was wild, the banks were steep, 
 
 And Bayard might refuse the leap; 
 
 Or, leaping, all with good intent, 
 
 He might, like arrow slightly sent, 
 
 Fall short, and falling in mid-course 
 
 The stream, both struggling man and horse 
 
 Would carry to a certain grave, 
 
 With no one near to help or save. 
 
 But if he could not gain the bank 
 In time, what recked he if he sank? 
 If Yvernelle he could not save, 
 No place so welcome as the grave. 
 
 103 
 
But should he leap in safety o'er 
 And reach dry-shod the farther shore, 
 He knew on sainted ground he'd stand ; 
 For Kaerenrais would be at hand. 
 
 Then, for one last attempt aroused, 
 The mighty steel which cumb'rous housed 
 His lab'ring steed he tore away 
 To give his limbs a freer play; 
 
 Ripped off the chanfrein from his head ; 
 And, while he ever onward sped, 
 With his sharp poignard cut away 
 Each girth and strap, each knot and stay, 
 That bound the saddle to his back, 
 And flung it off beside the track. 
 Cast off his sword, his helm, his targe, 
 Unlaced his haubert and his gorge, 
 Threw off each tasset, cuissot, greave, 
 Naught weighty on his limbs did leave. 
 
 In Bayard's mane he wreathes his grasp, 
 And with his knees his flanks doth clasp. 
 He rides sans harness, bit, or mail, 
 Like galley stript to fight the gale. 
 
 104 
 
Now through the darkness drawing near 
 
 An angry roaring meets his ear: 
 
 The dreadful crisis is at hand ; 
 
 With voice and touch, prayer and command, 
 
 To his last pitch of failing force 
 
 He rouses the courageous horse. 
 
 The bank is reached, the flood is here, 
 Here rolls the swift and swarthy Cher. 
 
 Now, Bayard, now thy mettle prove ! 
 He rises the sheer bank above, 
 His forefeet gathered 'neath his breast, 
 His haunches to the soil firm pressed, 
 Then with one mighty upward bound, 
 Snorting, he leaves the safe, firm ground. 
 
 He cleared the stream, but as his stride 
 Closed on the farther shelving side 
 He slipped, he slid, and pitching o'er, 
 Fell on the dank and treacherous shore. 
 
 Sir Caverlaye springs to his feet, 
 What sounds are those his ears do greet? 
 
 105 
 
Faintly across the night's damp haze 
 The chimes of distant Kaerenrais 
 Are tolling from their ivied tower 
 The deep and fateful midnight hour. 
 
 Down in the solemn, sombre crypt 
 The sconces flared, the tapers dript; 
 The fearful shadows, fleeing light, 
 Hide in deep corners in their fright. 
 Each angle of the vaulted roof 
 Is rounded by the spider's woof. 
 
 The altar with its candle-light 
 Blinks feebly at the circling night, 
 And in long corridors of gloom, 
 Where sags the guttering candles' fume, 
 There comes a noise of scurrying rats 
 And the weird rustling of the bats. 
 
 The arches groined are arched with mould, 
 The air is thick and damp and cold; 
 And creeping things with clammy backs 
 Upon the walls leave slimy tracks. 
 A cavernous and gruesome place 
 Is the deep crypt of Kaerenrais. 
 
 106 
 
To that dim chapel underground 
 Faintly there comes the midnight sound; 
 And while its tone in air remains, 
 Rise in fainter tones the strains 
 Of distant choirs' even-song, 
 That echoed the dim aisles along. 
 
 "Heu! heu! mundi vita! 
 Quare me delectas ita? 
 Cum non possis mecum stare, 
 Quid me cogis te amare? 
 
 "Heu! vita fugitiva! 
 Omni fera plus nosciva! 
 Cum tenere te non queam, 
 Cur seducis mentein meam? 
 
 : Appropinquat tamen dies 
 In qua justis erit quies; 
 Qua cessabunt persequentes, 
 Et regnabunt patientes. 
 
 "Dies ilia, dies vitse, 
 Dies lucis inauditae, 
 Qua nox omnis destruetur, 
 Et mors ipsa morietur! 
 
 107 
 
Heu! heu! mundi vita! 
 Quare me delectas ita? 
 Cum non possis mecum stare, 
 Quid me cogis te amare? 
 
 Amen.' 
 
 Now through the heavy, low-bent arch 
 In hushed and solemn funeral march 
 The chanting nuns pass through the door, 
 With burning censers swung before, 
 With many a quaintly-carven pyx 
 And ebon fashioned crucifix 
 Borne o'er their humbly-bending heads, 
 Their gray gowns girt with saintly beads. 
 With pace sedate and footstep slow, 
 They form a long and double row 
 Along the dim crypt's chilly floor, 
 E'en from the altar to the door. 
 When ended was the chant's last sound, 
 Each knee bent humbly to the ground, 
 And every lip was fraught with prayer 
 As the young novice drew anear. 
 
 She came, her brow as purely pale 
 As her own white and flowing veil; 
 Leaning on Raguenel for aid, 
 Who oft her trembling footsteps stayed. 
 
 108 
 
Close in her weak and faltering track 
 There came two nuns robed all in black, 
 Bearing the veil, a sombre cloud, 
 Soon to become her living shroud. 
 
 The opening ritual is o'er, 
 The lady abbess stands before, 
 And at her feet kneels Yvernelle, 
 Striving her wayward thoughts to quell. 
 The white veil from her face is drawn, 
 Showing her visage pale and wan. 
 
 Yet within Yvernelle's sweet breast 
 Rise thoughts that cannot be repressed ; 
 Thoughts that she deems it foul disgrace 
 To harbor at such time and place. 
 But from her grasp her mind is slipped : 
 She sees no more the noisome crypt ; 
 The solemn chant she does not hear 
 Rising around in accents drear. 
 
 In place of pillars gray she sees 
 The green and columned forest-trees; 
 She hears the hunting-horn's blithe sound, 
 She sees the deer stretched on the ground; 
 
 109 
 
She sees Sir Raguenel o'er him stand 
 With keen-edged hunting-spear in hand. 
 
 She hears adown,the woodland's dale 
 The growing sounds of clashing mail ; 
 She sees that warrior drawing near, 
 She hears his summons loud and clear. 
 
 See ! how the rest breath-bated stand, 
 Awed at his tone of stern command. 
 Fools ! were their senses turned to stone ? 
 At once she'd known her lover's tone. 
 
 How vividly it all came back ! 
 Even the hoof-beats of his track 
 She almost heard, nearer they tread. 
 How fast he rides ! how swift his speed ! 
 Beneath the hoofs the hollow loam 
 Rattles like rattling of a drum. 
 
 And Ha ! how now ? no fancy mere ; 
 
 These are real -hoof-beats she doth hear; 
 Back into life recalled once more, 
 In haste she rises from the floor, 
 no 
 
The frightened nuns in silence all 
 
 Are gathering round their abbess tall ; 
 
 The ceremony grave is stayed, 
 
 Sir Raguenel hath drawn his blade; 
 
 And like a universal pall 
 
 A silence settles over all. 
 
 And through that silence all can hear 
 The furious gallop drawing near : 
 Now on the road, now on the bridge, 
 Now speeding up the shingled ledge. 
 Right through the gate one fiercely drove 
 And halted in the court above ; 
 And scarce a second had passed o'er 
 Ere Caverlaye burst through the door. 
 
 Reeling and swaying in his pace, 
 His matted hair flung o'er his face, 
 Covered with spume and dust and mud, 
 His hocqueton dark with half-dried blood, 
 His armor gone from heel to head, 
 Yet Caverlaye in very deed. 
 
 He looked not to the left nor right, 
 But sprang, and to his breast clasped tight 
 111 
 
Fair Yvernelle, then pressed in bliss 
 Upon her yielding lips a kiss, 
 And tore the veil from off her head 
 And rent it to a ribboned shred. 
 
 Idle it were to further dwell 
 On Caverlaye and Yvernelle. 
 She took the veil, as she did vow, 
 But 'twas the marriage veil, I trow. 
 
 And those same bells whose solemn chime 
 Upon that well-remembered time 
 Tolled in Sir Caverlaye's quick ear 
 That night upon the banks of Cher, 
 Anon from their hoarse, brazen throats 
 Shook out the joyous marriage-notes. 
 The peal that was to sound her knell 
 Was turned to joyous wedding-bell. 
 Loving and loved in wedlock both 
 They plighted their true lovers' troth ; 
 And Raguenel in happiness 
 Gave them his blessing and his peace. 
 
 And when an old man bent and gray 
 Oft, from their mimic martial play, 
 112 
 
To him his grandchildren would call, 
 Within high Brittomarte's great hall, 
 And to their never-wearied ears 
 He'd tell this tale of by-gone years, 
 How that Sir Caverlaye's fair bride 
 Was won by that wild midnight ride. 
 
 And shall stout Bayard be forgot? 
 Not while I live and write, I wot. 
 
 Long, long and honored was his day, 
 
 And through full many a bloody fray 
 
 Sir Caverlaye he bravely bore, 
 
 And brought him safely home once more. 
 
 Till, gray at length, and full of years, 
 
 Honored and praised, and mourned with tears, 
 
 113 
 
He died. Ah, me ! I would 'twere given 
 That horses, too, might have their heaven 
 And if 'twere so, I have no fear 
 But you would find brave Bayard there. 
 
 And Guhaldrada? What of her? 
 I know not, loath am I to stir 
 The memories which like fallen leaves 
 Hide long, past, long, forgotten graves. 
 
 I know not, but St. Cuthbert's wood 
 And Cuthbert bridge, long as it stood, 
 And the turf hut of saintly fame, 
 Came all to have an evil name. 
 
 The peasant shuddered as he passed 
 Beneath the shade the cabin cast. 
 Upon the bridge the wayfarer 
 Would cross himself and say a prayer. 
 The huntsman sunk his blithe halloo 
 Or e'er he came within that view ; 
 The woodman with his fagots' hoard 
 In awe sought out another ford ; 
 The burgher ceased to count his gold 
 And listened while the tale was told; 
 
 114 
 
And the brave errant-knight alone 
 Would pause upon the arched keystone, 
 And while the sunbeams ever glanced, 
 And while the streamlet ever danced, 
 And while the leaves among themselves 
 Were whispering like hidden elves, 
 And while the oaks their long arms flung 
 Above the place in benison, 
 Recalled, half credulous, again 
 The legend of that lonely glen. 
 
 For it was said were seen strange sights 
 
 About the place on moonlit nights; 
 
 The cabin's window oft would seem 
 
 Alight with some unnatural gleam; 
 
 And from the water dark and cool 
 
 Hard by, where slept a still deep pool, 
 
 And where 'twas rumored had been found 
 
 A woman's body newly drowned, 
 
 A wraith, they said, at times would rise, 
 
 Dark-browed, dark-haired, with sad, dark eyes, 
 
 And mourning sit, or was it vain 
 
 And idle talk of idler brain? 
 
 I know not; I could never trace 
 The end of Guhaldrada's days. 
 
 115 
 
Give o'er, the vision fades, my tale is told. 
 
 Farewell ! the day is done, the twilight wears. 
 Farewell ! O day of Romance quaint and old ; 
 
 Thy sun is setting through the mist of years. 
 
 The dust of ages, which from Time's swift feet 
 Is shaken o'er thee in his endless flight, 
 
 Gently would I disturb, with reverence meet, 
 And bring thy dimmed resplendence into light. 
 
 The knight, the ladye, minstrel, all are dead ! 
 
 Their memories fade, their old-time splendors pale. 
 My story's done. God rest them that are sped ! 
 
 "And so, 'tis ended like an old wife's tale." 
 
 116 
 

 &ara