The Catholic World
Chapter 309 : "Ay, quiver and quail in thy coat of mail, For hark to the eagle's shriek; S

"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.

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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.

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"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.

They have left the lands where the tall hemp springs, Where the clover bends to the bee; They have left the hills where the red vine flings Her cl.u.s.tered curls of a thousand rings Round the arms of the mulberry tree.

They have left the lands where the walnut lines The roads, and the chestnuts blow; Beneath them the thread of the cataract s.h.i.+nes, Around them the plumes of the warrior pines.

Above them the rock and the snow.

Thick on his shoulders the foam flakes lay.

Fast the big drops roll from his chest, Yet on, ever on, goes the gallant Grey, Bearing the maiden as smoothly as spray Asleep on the ocean's breast.

Onward and upward, bound after bound, By Bruno's Bridge he goes; And now they are treading holy ground, For the feet of her flying Caliph sound By the cells of the Grand Chartreuse.

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Around them the darkling cloisters frown, The sun in the valley hath sunk; When right in her path, lo! the long white gown, The withered face and the shaven crown And the shrivelled hand of a monk.

A light like a glittering halo played Round the brow of the holy man; With lifted finger her course he stayed, "All is not well," the pale lips said, "With the heir of Miolan.

"But in Chambery hangs a relic rare Over the altar stone: Take it, and speed to thy Bridegroom's bier; If the Sacristan question who sent thee there, Say, 'Bruno, the Monk of Cologne.'"

She bent to the mane while the cross he signed Thrice o'er the suppliant head: "Away with thee, child!" and away like the wind She went, with a startled glance behind, For she heard an ominous tread.

The moon is up, 'tis a glorious night, They are leaving the rock and the snow, Mont Blanc is before her, phantom white, While the swift Isere, with its line of light, Cleaves the heart of the valley below.

But hark to the challenge, "Who rideth alone?"-- "O warder, bid me not wait!-- My lover lies dead and the Dauphin o'erthrown-- A message I bear from the Monk of Cologne"-- And she swept thro' Chambery's gate.

The Sacristan kneeleth in midnight prayer By Chamber's altar stone.

"What meaneth this haste, my daughter fair?"

She stooped and murmured in his ear The name of the Monk of Cologne.

Slowly he took from its jewelled case A kerchief that sparkled like snow.

And the Minster shone like a lighted vase As the deacon unveiled the gleaming face Of the Santo Sudario.

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A prayer, a tear, and to saddle she springs, Clasping the relic bright; Away, away, for the fell hoof rings Down the hillside behind her--G.o.d give her wings!

The fiend and his horse are in sight.

On, on, the gorge of the Doriat's won, She is nearing her Savoyard's home, By the grand old road where the warrior son Of Hanno swept with his legions dun, On his mission of hatred to Rome.

The ancient oaks seem to rock and reel As the forest rushes by her, But nearer cometh the clash of steel, And nearer falleth the fatal heel, With its flickering trail of fire.

Then first the brave young heart grew sick 'Neath its load of love and fear, For the Grey is breathing faint and quick, And his nostrils burn and the drops fall thick From the point of each drooping ear.

His glorious neck hath lost its pride, His back fails beneath her weight.

While steadily gaining, stride by stride, The Black Knight thunders to her side-- Heaven, must she meet her fate?

She shook the loose rein o'er the trembling head, She laid her soft hand on his mane, She called him her Caliph, her desert-bred, She named the sweet springs where the palm trees spread Their arms o'er the burning plain.

But the Grey looked back and sadly scanned The maid with his earnest eyes-- A moment more and her cheek is fanned By the black steed's breath, and the demon hand Stretches out for the virgin prize.

But she calls on Christ, and the kerchief white Waves full in the face of her foe: Back with an oath reeled the Wizard Knight As his steed crouched low in the wondrous light Of the Santo Sudario.