The Noël-garde retainers, come to greet
The noble boy, and say a long farewell.

The Lady Agathar still smiles, and fills
The moment with all pleasure and delight,
No shadow of her sorrow or her pain
Shall fall upon her Christalan to-day,
But deep within her heart she maketh moan,
"My Christalan goes forth to-morrow morn."

Amid the revel Greane and Christalan
Are missing for a time from the gay feast,
And Agathar's quick eyes have followed them
To where they sit apart, the two young heads,
Of golden beauty and of softest brown,
Forming a picture that for evermore
Her memory will hold to solace grief,
Or make it greater, as her mood may be.

"O Christalan how can I let you go?"
Says sweet Greane, weeping "Who will climb with me
The rocks to find the bird's nest? who will play
At arms, forgetting that I am a girl,
And helping me forget it?"

Christalan,
Lifting the nut-brown curl to find her ear,
Low whispers tenderly, "I love you, Greane,
A hundred times more than were you a boy,
And always have, e'en when I laughed at you."