Christine [pp. 335-353]

OChristine: A TroubadozV's Song.
And the Baron clasps his son with a cry
Of joy as his sorrows cease;
While the I-Hermit, wrapt in his Rosary,
Feels that the world beneath the sky
Hath yet its planet of peace.
But hark! by the drawbridge, shrill and clear,
A trumpet's challenge rude;
The heart of Christine grew faint with fear,
But the Savoyard shook his mighty spear,
And the blood in his forehead stood.
"Beware, beware,'tis the Fiend!" quoth she:
"Whither now?" asks the ancient Knight,
"What meanest thou, boy?-Leave the knave to me:
Wizard, or fiend, or whatever he be,
By the bones of my fathers, he shall flee
Or ne'er look on morning light.
"What, thou just risen from the grave,
Atilt with an armed man?
Dost dream that youth alone is brave,
Dost deem these sinews too old to save
The honor of Miolan?"
But the y6uth he answered with gentlest tone,
"I know thee a warrior staunch,
But this meeting is meant for me alone.
Unhand me, my lord, have I woman grown?
Wouldst stop the rushing of the Rhone,
Or stay the avalanche?'
He broke from his sire as breaks the flash
From the soul of the circling storm:
You could hear the grasp of his gauntlet crash
On his quivering lance and the armor clash
Round that tall young warrior form.
"Be this thy shield?" the maiden cried,
Her hand on the kerchief of snow;
"If forth to the combat thou wilt ride,
'ace to face be the Fiend defied
With the Santo Sudario!"
But the young Knight laid the relic rare
On the ancient altar-stone;
"Holy weapons to men of prayer,
Lance in rest and falchion bare
Must answer for Miolan's son."
346