by Frank Norris
All in the name of Yvernelle!
But lonely was that forest vast,
And on that road there seldom passed
Or soldier, serf, or wayfarer,
And rare the burgher traveller,
And rarer still the errant-knight.
A score of times day’s ruddy light
‘Neath western trees had sunk its ray,
And still none such had passed that way,
Until one day, when noon was high,
And Caverlaye at rest did lie,
(Though armored still from head to heel,)
Breaking his frugal mid-day meal.
Stretched on the grass, where yet was dew,
Within the shade the cabin threw,
At once his dozing Norway hound
Rose to his haunches from the ground,
Upreared his neck and frontlet proud,
Sniffed twice the air, then bayed aloud.
And then hard by the streamlet’s dance,
There picketed unto his lance,
There came a shrill neigh from his steed,
Like trumpet-call to knightly deed.
And scarce the echo of such sound
Had died away the woods around,
When on Sir Caverlaye’s quick ear
Came noise of hoof-beats drawing near,
And sound of jingling mail there came
That set his blood in quivering flame.
’Twas close at hand, ’twas on the road,
Near and more near the hoof-beats trod;
They reached the banks with hollow tread,
They halted at the bridge’s head.
Caverlaye paused no more to hear,
Though girt with plate, e’en like a deer
He bounded downward toward the brook,
Eager upon his foe to look.
Ay, there he stood, the wished-for knight,
In mail and gleaming harness dight,
Nor moved, nor stirred, nor came, nor went:
A rigid, steel-carved monument.
His helm, a casque of Norman peak,
A camail covered lips and cheek;
Of samite red the hauberk o’er
A sleeveless coat-of-arms he wore.
A mighty shield fenced o’er with plate
Struck neck and heel, — a pond’rous weight.
His gauntlets were of leather made,
With boss and rivet bright arrayed;
Of cramoisy, with gold in-spun,
A blazonéd caparison
Enwrapped his steed from black forelock
To far below the very hock;
At his steel saddle-bow his sword;
While far above his head there tower’d,
So high it struck each lower branch,
His long and tap’ring steel-shod lance;
His shield no cognizance displayed,
No crest nor sign his name betrayed;
But on his banneret he bare
A wyvern, sejant, field of vair.
All at a glance Sir Caverlaye
Beheld him stand in like array,
Vaulted upon his eager steed,
Seized his huge lance like hollow reed,
And cried in thunder accents, “Hold!
Back on your life, Sir Warrior bold.
Know that all such as here pass by
Do first my challenge underlie;
And further know that here I stand,
In harness dight and lance in hand,
For fair or foul, for soon or late,
To keep this bridge in armed debate
Against all comers, high or low;
And more, I give thee here to know,
And unto all do I proclaim,
That this I purpose in the name
Of Yvernelle, of Brittomarte,
The sov’reign lady of my heart.
Her do I name the fairest maid
That ever nerved a warrior’s blade;
The fairest that can e’er be found
On Paynim or on Christian ground;
And if a lady-love you claim,
Were she the most transcendent dame
Beneath the sun, yet do I swear
Than Yvernelle she is less fair.”
The black brows of the Wyvern Knight
Below his casque gleamed dark as night,
And in a voice pitched deep and low
Thus he made answer to his foe:
“’Tis well for thee, beau-pere at arms,
That in war’s hazards and alarms
I am forbidden to take part,
Though in a cause dear to my heart,
Else would my lady’s colors gay
Ride down thine own in instant fray,
And the fair name of Isabelle
Would yet be talisman to quell.
But me, my holy vows restrain;
My lance I ne’er must couch again
Till I shall couch it at the breast
Of him who is my present quest;
For upon vengeance I am boune
For deep wrong unto sister done.
Him do I seek who flung disdain
Upon a house without a stain,
Who cast contumely and shame
On Guhaldrada’s peerless name!”
With mighty shout that shook for ire,
With eyes that blazed like living fire,
Sir Caverlaye burst forth apace:
“Then seek no further, by God’s grace
Let thy long quest be ended here.
Couch, couch for vengeance, couch thy spear,
And may St. Michael bless the chance
That brings such quarrel to my lance.
I — I am he whom thus you seek,
On me you must your vengeance wreak;
To Guhaldrada do I owe
All my inheritance of woe.
’Tis she who by accursed spell
Hath torn the heart of Yvernelle;
’Tis she wrought all our misery,
And with the name of craven she —
No, further speech were wasted air.
Go, take thy ground for thy career.”
No more was said; to take their ground
Each warrior wheeled his steed around
Six times their spears’ length on the road,
Passed from each other, turned and stood.
Then silence fell, — both were opposed.
Sir Caverlaye his vizor closed,
Loosened his sword within its sheath,
Steadied his short and quivering breath,
Gave one thought to fair Yvernelle,
One thought that made his bosom swell,
One hurried prayer to Heaven addressed,
Then slowly brought his lance to rest.
In silence dread they stood short space
For mortal combat face to face,
Till, sharp and ringing as the clang
Of arbalist, there sudden rang
The battle-shout of Caverlaye,
That gave the signal for the fray.
Then with a furious tiger-bound
Each war-horse left his chosen ground
And, frenzied with the spur’s deep gash,
Sprang forward with a jingling crash.
The earth shook in their gallop fleet
And thundered ‘neath their iron feet;
The wood the roar re-echoed clear
As each swept down in full career;
Right on the bridge’s keystone rock
They closed in fierce and fearful shock, —
With equal force, with equal skill,
Yet not with equal fortune still.
Knightly and well the stranger came,
Unerring was his lance’s aim, —
Upon its centre fair and true
He smote Sir Caverlaye’s écu,
And from its surface glancing quick
His lance tore through the cuirass thick,
Rent wide a wound within his breast,
Then, s
udden, splintered to the fist.
Yet Caverlaye right onward pressed
Full on his foe’s broad mail-fenced breast.
He drave his lance in knightly way, —
Out in the air a shining spray —
Of burnished steel-wrought links there flew;
The hauberk stout the lance passed through,
With blood the shaft was all besprent,
His foe to his steed’s loins was bent
Across his high-backed saddle-bow,
His spine was fiercely snapped in two,
From breast to neck the mail was ripped.
Sir Caverlaye’s sharp lance-point slipped;
Beneath his chin it caught again,
And, though bent bow-like with the strain,
Held him suspended by the head
And fairly bore him from his steed.
With mighty prowess was he flung
To earth, in dust, his harness rung;
Thrice o’er he rolled upon the land,
Thrice his crooked fingers dug the sand,
But scarce the loam fouled his rich coat
Sir Caverlaye was at his throat;
One mailéd knee he firmly pressed
Upon his gasping, laboring breast,
Raised his keen misericorde on high
And shouted, “Yield thee, Knight, or die!”
Then, all at once the brandished blade
Dropped from his grasp, — he feebly swayed,
Muttered the name of Yvernelle,
Then lifeless on the dying fell!
How long in swooning spell he lay
Sir Caverlaye could never say.
The last act he recalled aright
Was that he couched his lance for fight,
Gathered the reins within his hand,
And raised his shout of stern command.
And then all sights became a blur,
All noises strange and mingled whirr;
There came a sense of motion swift,
Fleeter than fleetest storm-cloud’s drift;
Then sudden ‘thwart his darkened sight
Shot blood-red streaks of forkéd light;
Within his ears a humming sound
Like flow of rivers underground;
And then a tightening of the brain,
So fierce it seemed the mighty strain
Must burst, perforce, his burning head;
And then it seemed as he were sped
Down through a fathomless abyss
Blacker than farthest shades of Dis;
And all the springs that ever burst
He thought would fail to quench his thirst.
The very air, thickened with heat,
Throbbed on his frame with measured beat,
While the red vortex of the fire
Burned in his breast with furious ire.
Nor space, nor place, nor time he knew;
From him the mortal world withdrew.
When the impenetrable gloom
Dissolving, showed a darkened room,
The scorching fire which did him clasp
He felt had been the fever’s grasp,
And the hot fire his bosom bound
He knew had been a grievous wound.
Within the hermits hut he lay;
Not on his scanty bed of hay,
But on a couch which courted sleep,
Sunken in cushions soft and deep;
And by degrees he was aware
Of lordly meinie gathered near.
The door was draped, but from without
Came noise of speech and merry shout.
Steeds pawed, arms clashed, and to and fro
Before the cabin’s door-way low
Passed many a tread in bustling haste,
As though some lordly camp was placed.
Now, as his consciousness returned,
And as his reason brighter burned,
He felt his swathed and heated head
Within a rounded arm was laid;
And then, close to his lowly bed,
His roving eye at length was stayed
By sight of feminine attire.
He raised his straying glances higher,
Upward the silken folds pursued,
Until their wearer’s face he viewed, —
Viewed unmistakably and clear.
Then, “Guhaldrada! art thou here?”
And quick, in trembling speech, she cried
“Oh, do not drive me from thy side!
Turn not away in wrath again,
Nor greet me with deserved disdain;
Forget each taunt I e’er let fall,
And only how I loved recall.
Vent not reproach or scorn on me,
For that I could not live from thee.
Once I believed myself to stand
The proudest woman in the land;
But love was stronger, dear, than pride;
For you I’ve flung it all aside,
Braved evil speech, braved e’en disgrace,
Once more to look upon thy face.
The day you left my castle hall
I thought my heart was changed to gall,
And while my heart still hotly burned
For vengeance to my brother turned;
So with my words inflamed his mind
That, with a vow, he did him bind
That fair or foul, whatever betide,
Upon thy traces he would ride;
Seek thee without the realm of France,
And do thee combat, lance to lance.
And so departed; and I thought
That peace of mind at length was bought.
But, when all things were done and said,
When thought succeeded word and deed,
The anger sprung from wounded pride
Began within me to subside,
And love, I deemed fled utterly,
Struggled once more for mastery.
Still its approaches I defied,
And battled with my stubborn pride.
Ah, thou canst never, never know
The misery of those days of woe.
I tried to stifle my regret
Because my brother I had set
To track thee with resentment fierce,
Sworn with his lance thy heart to pierce.
Within the turmoil of my brain
I seemed to see thee foully slain;
The eyes in which I wont to gaze
Dulled with the film of deathly glaze;
The voice which once was dearest sound
In death’s chill silence ever bound;
Thy lips, twin warders of thy breath,
Sealed with the signet pale of death.
All I once loved and called my own
Dying unfriended and alone.
And this, thy death, I — I had willed;
’Twas by my hand that thou wast killed.
At me, poor conscience-stricken wretch,
Thy lifeless finger seemed to stretch
In mute reproach; thy latest breath
Named me the author of thy death,
And every wound in thy loved corse
With red lips seemed to gasp, ‘Remorse!’
At length pride yielded to the strain;
I only knew I loved again.
Hard on my brother’s northward trace
I followed fast with eager pace,
My mad decision to revoke
Though ‘twere a hundred vows he broke.
To change his mood and purpose dire,
To save thee from his burning ire,
To shield thee from all haps and harms,
Once more to fold thee in these arms.
I came too late; deep in the wood,
Stretched in the middle of the road,
I found thee here, his breast thy bed;
Bleeding and lifeless, — all but dead.
By scarce a point of time too late
To save thee from the dread de
bate;
But not too late, as now, at length
To love thee back to life and strength.
And now, mine own, my well beloved,
When such a boundless love is proved,
When all my pride, you see, is dead,
And all my old resentment fled,
Surely thy heart is not so stern
But it can make some slight return?
And if ’tis so, — if thou art rock,
And ‘gainst my love your heart you lock, —
Do but beside thee let me dwell,
And I will love thee, love so well,
Will be so kind, so patient hope,
That e’en thy heart at last will ope.
Even the rock, though chill the blast,
Is by the sunbeam warmed at last.
And I know all that hath been done
Since last we met, — this other one, —
How that she scorned your proffered hand
And banished thee from her proud land.
A thing of changing wile and art,
She was not worthy of thy heart.
Forget her!” Quick Sir Caverlaye
Rose on his elbow and cried, “Stay;
Thus far in patience have I heard,
But of her name breathe not a word.
‘Twere treason ‘gainst a memory dear,
And treason worse for me to hear.”
“Thou lov’st her yet?”
“Ay, and e’er shall.
Would it were given me to fall
But now in battle for her name,
To prove my love’s undying flame!”
“And art thou, then, so abject grown
That thou canst fix thy heart upon
One that repels that heart in scorn,
And for thy love gives in return
Contemptuous and haughty look,
Who e’en thy presence cannot brook?”
But calmly Caverlaye replied:
“Mine own respect and knightly pride
Are not sunk lower in love’s war
Than woman’s who could follow far,
In guise unmaidenly and bold,
One who was manifestly cold,
And when she plainly saw and knew
His heart was to another true.”
But Guhaldrada bowed her head,
And to his words she simply said:
“If, then, I so forgot my pride
As thus upon thy steps to ride,
Think not with words of slight or blame
That thou canst sting me into shame.”
More had she said, but Caverlaye,
Impatient of a longer stay,
Rose, and, with wild eyes dimmed with dew,
About his neck her arms she threw.
“No, no, thou shalt not leave me so!
I will not, cannot let thee go!
Ah, surely heart of stone is thine
To be unmoved by love like mine!”
He rose impetuous to his knee,
And cried, “Unhand me, let me flee!
Here every moment that I dwell