by Frank Norris
Or rode his lands in solitude.
For days from us he would be gone,
Riding afar and riding lone,
Until sweet Yvernelle’s pale face
Recalled him to his ‘customed place.
“I tell thee true, Sir Caverlaye,
From that same day you passed away
She drooped and pined before our sight,
Fading with each day’s fading light;
At last she always kept her bed,
So sweet, so pale, so mutely sad,
It would have moved a heart of stone,
Far more, Sir Caverlaye, thine own.
“Until one memorable night
Her eyes seemed lit with heavenly light;
So pale a hue was o’er her cast
We deemed each moment was her last.
Thus for full many a week she lay
‘Twixt life and death, — just paused half-way, —
And when was closed that anxious strife
And she was given back to life,
All that which life made once so fair
Seemed nought and profitless to her.
“She wished to bid the world farewell,
To seek the nun’s secluded cell;
And deemed her life to her was given
But to become the bride of Heaven.
All Raguenel’s persuasions failed;
Commands, entreaties, nought availed;
She loved, she said, her guardian well,
But duty called her to the cell.
“The chapel of the castle here
She daily visited in prayer.
Her jewels, robes, her fiefs as well,
She signed away to Raguenel;
The remnant of her dowery
She gave away in charity.
“The nunnery of Kaerenrais
Lies a day’s journey from this place.
The abbess of that sisterhood,
A sainted lady and a good,
Upon fair Yvernelle’s behest,
Was summoned hither as a guest.
“But no, — why lengthen out the tale?
She was resolved to take the veil.
And thus it was that yesterday
The cavalcade set on its way,
Seeking with slow and mournful pace
The nunnery of Kaerenrais.
Sir Raguenel led them in the van, —
Grief hath much changed the agéd man.
“In you he lost an only son,
In Yvernelle his daughter one,
And we, their friends, — forgive these tears:
Affections grow with growing years, —
We’ve lost our all, — lord, lady, knight,
All that was dearest in our sight.
Thee I reproach not, Caverlaye;
Thou know’st thine own heart. Go thy way.”
Sir Caverlaye sunk from his steed
And on the saddle bowed his head.
“Undone! undone!” he hoarsely moaned,
And clinched his palms and deeply groaned.
“And thus we have,” pursued Sir Hugh,
“Our hatchment draped in sombre hue;
And in the chapel, ‘fore the shrine
Nineteen wax tapers burning shine,
And nineteen strokes will toll the bell
To mark the years of Yvernelle.
“At midnight in our chapel dim
To-night we chant the mournful hymn,
And say a mass with sombre show,
For at that hour to-night we know,
Within the walls of Kaerenrais,
The ceremony will take place, —
That final step which Yvernelle
Takes ere o’er her will close the cell.”
Sir Caverlaye upraised his head,
And to Sir Hugh he quickly said:
“Dost say her vows are not yet ta’en?
Speak out, Sir Hugh, tell me again
The nun’s black veil she hath not donned,
Nor will until midnight shall sound?”
“Ay, thus decided Yvernelle;
The midnight’s chime shall be her knell,
And then she quits the realms of day.”
“But not till then?” cried Caverlaye.
“Now God be praised, there yet is time
Before that midnight’s fateful chime!”
Then fast and faster grew his speech, —
To old Sir Hugh his hand did reach.
“Sir Hugh, by Heaven I swear to you,
To Yvernelle I e’er was true;
That all I did was for the right,
Though circumstance with baleful light
Distorted all I did for good.
My deed was e’er misunderstood.
And time, I trow, will surely prove
The purity of this my love.
Canst thou, old friend, such oath believe?
Unquestioning my tale receive?”
Sir Hugh gazed sternly as he spoke,
And then his words impulsive broke:
“Now by St. George, Sir Caverlaye,
I will believe the words you say.
Thy life-long course of probity
With me shall be thy surety.”
“Enough, then,” cries Sir Caverlaye,
“No longer with thee must I stay.
Quick, — frame no useless questions, man, —
Bring me the fleetest steed ye can.
Quick, — thy best movements are too slow!
Minutes are very hours now.”
“But where away?” Sir Hugh replied.
“To Kaerenrais,” the knight loud cried.
With wild impatience stamped his heel
Till jingled every limb with steel.
Obedient to Sir Hugh’s loud call,
The grooms and hostlers from his stall
Led forth a proud and trampling steed,
His muscles swoll’n with pent-up speed,
His blood-red nostrils rigid gaped,
Like bended bow his neck was shaped.
His trembling ear caught every sound,
Starting thereat with furious bound;
While from his chest his mane flowed black,
E’en like some swarthy cataract.
His rolling eyeballs gleamed with fire;
His pride and rage, his fury dire,
The struggling grooms could scarce restrain,
Though twenty hands tugged at the rein.
“The time is short,” quoth old Sir Hugh;
“A toilsome journey lies for you,
An thou wouldst gain far Kaerenrais
Ere midnight. It will test the pace
Of Bayard to its utmost strain.
Spare not the spur, draw not the rein.”
Sir Caverlaye sprang to the selle,
Yet paused to say, “Sir Hugh, farewell;
Unless I bring her back with me
Never again my face thou’lt see.
Let go the bit, my merrie men;
Now, Bayard, to thy mettle strain.”
An instant, the dropped drawbridge o’er,
The hoof-beats sound with hollow roar,
A rattle on the causeway’s stone,
A cloud of dust, and he is gone;
Gone like the whistling steel-sprung dart,
Gone like the tracked fleet-footed hart,
Gone like a witch o’er foss and fell,
To save his lady, Yvernelle!
Fain would I tell thee of that ride,
Of Bayard’s mighty, swinging stride,
That seemed to wing above the earth
Flying beneath his spattered girth.
My tardy Muse lags far behind
A speed that tires the panting wind.
She cannot follow otherwise
Than with her spent and straining eyes.
Mount, mount we on that steed of air
That was, of old, her sisters’ care,
And mark in winged course
wondrous
Swift Bayard race with Pegasus!
’Twas in the ruddy eventide
When Caverlaye began his ride,
And Bayard’s glossy coat did seem
All bronzen in the flaming beam.
While through St. Branches’ town he swept
The sun still o’er the horizon kept;
But though he sped like stormy blast,
The flying light sped yet more fast.
Linger, O deep’ning shades of night;
Linger, ye beams of fading light!
Oh for a second Joshua
To curb the flashing orb of day!
St. Bault he left with parting light,
And at Chanceaux rode into night.
Now through the night in rapid beat
Resound the hurrying, rattling feet.
But the loud heart of Caverlaye
Against his breast beat fast as they.
On, on upon his furious course
Dashed the unwearied, noble horse;
Fields, haycocks, rocks, dim through the night,
Rushed past beside his headlong flight.
Huts, clumps of trees, drew slowly near,
Then darted past in swift career.
Now lights within the darkness shine;
He hears the pealing hour of nine.
And soon through Loches the thundering hoofs
Re-echo from the red-tiled roofs.
The villagers in dumb surprise,
Boused from their sleep with wondering eyes,
Look forth to see who rides so late
And rides with such a furious gait.
He sees the castle shadowy frown,
A mighty pile, upon the town
Where, as was oft by legend told,
Sainte Luitgarde lived in days of old.
For him that legend old was nought;
For him the one absorbing thought
Was that two hours had passed away
And still he was not yet half-way.
At Loches, upon its bridge he crossed
The Indre, where beneath was tossed
The yellow river’s crested mane,
And soon upon Sennevere’s plain
Was speeding onward in the dark.
At Vittray flashed a silver spark
Above the hills, low in the east,
And soon, in mellow glory drest,
Rolled up the moon’s broad silver shield,
Pouring her light o’er flood and field.
And on his hot and dusty sense
Rose all the cool night’s sweet incense.
He felt the light and rising fogs,
He heard the piping of the frogs, —
Peace seemed to rest on all around;
The only jar was the fierce pound
Of Bayard’s hoof-beats as he flew,
With flanks all flecked with foam and dew.
Past Villedomain, past Ecuillé,
Past Jumalloche he held his way;
And still with unrelaxing pow’rs
Bayard raced with the fleeting hours!
His ears were flat, his head stretched low,
And every vein beat with the flow
Of the fierce blood which in him boiled
And nerved him as he onward toiled.
At Wiherne Caverlaye cried out
With hopeful heart and lusty shout,
For there he passed the midway place
‘Twixt Brittomarte and Kaerenrais.
But scanning close the wheeling heaven,
He felt it drawing towards eleven.
The country changed, the plain gave place
To scarpéd rocks of rugged face;
And though scant foothold gained his feet,
The valiant courser fled as fleet
As e’er on lower, level ground, —
The miles were measured by his bound.
’Twas ‘twixt Dioris and St. Erste
That noble Bayard stumbled first;
His rider saw it with a thrill
That smote his heart with deadly chill.
He named him by each praising name
That e’er his aching heart could frame;
He stroked his reeking flank and neck,
And strove his parting fire to check.
Ride on, ride on, O Caverlaye!
Still onward, Bayard, hold thy way!
Thy strength, thy every sinew bend
Unto the race; think on the end
That with each leap is drawing near;
What praise, what glory, waits thee there!
Ride on, ride on, O Caverlaye!
Thou ridest toward thy dawning day!
Rising from out thy sorrow’s night,
Rising in hope and radiance bright,
Ride on, ride on, O Caverlaye!
Love, joy, and blessing urge thy way.
Beyond you hills that gently swell
Calls to thee fair-haired Yvernelle.
Reach her ere yet the solemn chime
Announce the hopeless midnight time!
And all thy future life is bliss, —
One long, unending happiness.
Ride for thy happiness and life,
Ride for thy heart, thy love, thy wife;
Ride on o’er dew-drenched meadows wet;
Ride on, the midnight tarries yet.
And thou, O Bayard, bear him well;
Carry him safe to Yvernelle.
And knight and horse with purpose sole
Strain every nerve to reach the goal.
But now nor words nor touch avail:
Brave Bayard’s strength begins to fail;
His breath in gasps comes short and quick;
With blood the bit is clotted thick.
The ruddy spume-flakes faster fly,
And blood starts from his straining eye,
And oft he staggers in his race,
Though struggling still to keep the pace.
And as at such a gait he swung
Down into Brives, there quavering rung
One single stroke, and Caverlaye
Saw by the moonlight, bright as day,
The tower clock with its finger stark
The half-hour of eleven mark.
He knew the country, far and near,
He knew the rapid running Cher
With swollen current swiftly flowed
One mile beyond, across his road,
Twelve feet across from edge to edge;
No ford was there, no boat, no bridge.
But an he would with safety cross,
He could, by precious minutes’ loss,
Follow the river from the town,
And reach the shallows farther down.
But did he so, he knew ‘twere vain
To strive in time his goal to gain;
For Bayard, reeling in his track,
To breast the stream, he on his back,
Were vainer still: the swirling stream
Would ‘whelm them like a drift-wood beam.
The only way there yet remained
Whereby the far bank might be gained
Was, trusting to brave Bayard’s strength,
To leap the stream, a fearful length.
To bridge that gap with widest bound,
To safely spring from ground to ground
Above the river’s rushing course,
Was, for a fresh, unwearied horse,
A test which called for ev’ry nerve;
Hoof must not slip, eye must not swerve.
And now his steed was well-nigh spent;
Beneath his weight he almost bent.
The stream was wild, the banks were steep,
And Bayard might refuse the leap;
Or, leaping, all with good intent,
He might, like arrow slightly sent,
Fall short, and falling in mid-course
The stream, both struggling man and horse
Would carry to a certain grave,
/> With no one near to help or save.
But if he could not gain the bank
In time, what recked he if he sank?
If Yvernelle he could not save,
No place so welcome as the grave.
But should he leap in safety o’er
And reach dry-shod the farther shore,
He knew on sainted ground he’d stand;
For Kaerenrais would be at hand.
Then, for one last attempt aroused,
The mighty steel which cumb’rous housed
His lab’ring steed he tore away
To give his limbs a freer play;
Ripped off the chanfrein from his head;
And, while he ever onward sped,
With his sharp poignard cut away
Each girth and strap, each knot and stay,
That bound the saddle to his back,
And flung it off beside the track.
Cast off his sword, his helm, his targe,
Unlaced his haubert and his gorge,
Threw off each tasset, cuissot, greave,
Naught weighty on his limbs did leave.
In Bayard’s mane he wreathes his grasp,
And with his knees his flanks doth clasp.
He rides sans harness, bit, or mail,
Like galley stript to fight the gale.
Now through the darkness drawing near
An angry roaring meets his ear:
The dreadful crisis is at hand;
With voice and touch, prayer and command,
To his last pitch of failing force
He rouses the courageous horse.
The bank is reached, the flood is here, —
Here rolls the swift and swarthy Cher.
Now, Bayard, now thy mettle prove!
He rises the sheer bank above,
His forefeet gathered ‘neath his breast,
His haunches to the soil firm pressed,
Then with one mighty upward bound,
Snorting, he leaves the safe, firm ground.
He cleared the stream, but as his stride
Closed on the farther shelving side
He slipped, he slid, and pitching o’er,
Fell on the dank and treacherous shore.
Sir Caverlaye springs to his feet, —
What sounds are those his ears do greet?
Faintly across the night’s damp haze
The chimes of distant Kaerenrais
Are tolling from their ivied tower
The deep and fateful midnight hour.
Down in the solemn, sombre crypt
The sconces flared, the tapers dript;
The fearful shadows, fleeing light,
Hide in deep corners in their fright.
Each angle of the vaulted roof
Is rounded by the spider’s woof.
The altar with its candle-light
Blinks feebly at the circling night,
And in long corridors of gloom,
Where sags the guttering candles’ fume,
There comes a noise of scurrying rats