It was a long way to the court, through dense
Unbroken forest, with a single path
Trodden between the trees; he had no horse,
No strength, and little time before the deed—­
The dreadful deed—­be done.  Not since his hurt
Had he walked fast, or far, without great pain;
Now it will follow every step he takes—­
But what is that, he goes to save his King!

Prepared to brave the pain, all stealthily
He started from the shadow of the trees;
When suddenly two of the bandit band
Came riding back again, ere he could hide—­
The one had dropped his javelin and returned
To seek it.  Heavy coats of mail incased
The stalwart frames scarce needing a defense,
So strong they were.

Silent stood Christalan
And faced their coming, not a trace of fear
Or tremor in his bearing, slight and frail
In his white doublet, holding in his hand
The wayside lilies he forgot to drop,
Which to the Lady Agathar shall come,
Alas! without his greeting or his kiss.

“Ho!” cried the bandits.  “Eavesdropping?  By hell
And all the devils! we will slash his tongue
Too fine to tell our secrets, if he heard! 
Speak, man, or die!  Heard you our converse now?”

“Strike, ye base cowards,” answered Christalan. 
“I am unarmed, alone, and weaponless: 
I cannot wield the sword, nor wear my helm,
But God is with me to defend me now,
So strike against His power, if you dare!”

The sunlight, slanting westward through the trees,
Fell first upon his lifted, golden head,
Making a shining helmet of his curls,
And then upon the lilies in his hand;
His eyes had a defiant, fearless glow;
Against the sombre background of the wood,
He looked scarce human.

“Mother of our Lord!”
In frightened breath, the bandit rebels cried. 
“It is a spirit; no mere mortal man
Would stand and face us boldly so, unarmed. 
Look at the Virgin’s lilies in his hand! 
Great God, preserve us, save us from our doom!”

And turning in a panic of swift fear,
They vanished quickly through the shadowed wood,
While Christalan sped on to save his King.

He sees the castle, and he hears the horn
That calls the court together for the hunt;
His strength is failing, and his heart grows faint. 
Quick, ere it cease to beat!  Faster, more fast! 
O but to save his noble lord!  One swift,
Last run, and he has reached them; breathlessly
He stands before the charger of the King,
With arms uplifted and imploring eyes,
Until words come, between sharp gasps of pain. 
“Go not, my liege, upon the hunt to-day,
I pray you, for the glory of the realm.”

With cheeks that paled and flushed, and panting breath,
He told his story in disjointed words,
And, with unconscious frank simplicity,
The tale of his high courage on the way,
To prove, what it had proved to his own heart,
The care of God to shield his lord the King. 
Then he fell prostrate at the great King’s feet,
And tired life ebbed fast to leave him rest.