Greane nestles to him, lays her pretty head
Upon his breast, her slender shapely hand,
Sun-browned and thorn scratched, wanders lovingly
Over his face and hair,--then to the words
Upon his doublet, tracing thoughtfully
Their broidered curving with her forefinger,

"_Valiant and True_" she says: "My Christalan,
When you are great and famous in the world,
Which would you be, could you be only one?"

"Why, Greane, they go together, like the light
And morning: no knight could be really true
And not be valiant to the death; and yet,
No valiant knight could live and not be true."

"But if you _could_ be only one?" says Greane,
With child's persistency.

Quickly he starts,
Throws back his head impatiently, replies,
"I would be valiant, could I be but one."

"O Christalan, _I_ would be true," says Greane.

"Well, Greane, you teased me into saying it,
So do not look so scornful! I should die
If I could not exalt my father's name
In valiant deeds of knighthood and of war.