th flowers he had gathered ere she woke;
At night he led her to her chamber door,
With boyish homage touched with stately grace,
And Agathar said to her widowed heart,
"How like his father in his courtesy'"
Often she kissed him, whispering the while,
"Beloved Christalan, my more than knight,
You bear your bitter lot so patiently.
Thank God you are so valiant and so true'"

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, I can save him; God be thanked fo