She spoke her thoughts aloud in pride-thrilled tones--
"Almost a knight, my Greane, is Christalan;
How valiant, faithful, noble he has been,
And will be ever, my true-hearted son!"
"Greane! Greane! they come! I see a dusty cloud
That hides and heralds the approach of men.
Look, is it Christalan? They come more near,
Nearer and nearer! God in Heaven! Greane,
What is it that they bring? Not Christalan?
O no; that silent form they bear so slow
Can not, and must not, be my Christalan!
Come, Greane, and contradict my eyes for me."
Greane's answer was a swift, confirming swoon.
Up through the gates they bore her Christalan,
Dressed in the garments of the neophyte,
That erst were spotless white, but then were soiled,
Bedraggled and dust-stained. His golden hair
A matted mass, of sunny curls unkempt,--
And yet how beautiful he was withal!
Into the hall they brought and laid him down,
While Agathar gave thanks, from her despair,
That death had not yet conquered him. He lived,
Although he spoke not, moved not, scarcely breathed.
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