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

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

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

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

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

Greane's answer was a swift, confirming swoon.
Up through the gates they bore her Christalan,
Dressed in the garments of the neophyte,
That erst were spotless white, but then were soiled,
Bedraggled and dust-stained. His golden hair
A matted mass, of sunny curls unkempt,--
And yet how beautiful he wa