THE DEATH OF THE COUNT OF ARMANAC by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON

"THERE'S nothing in the world so dear
To a true knight," he cried,
"As his own sister's honour!
Now God be on our side!"

The walls of Alexandria
That stand so broad and high,
The walls of Alexandria
They answered to his cry.

And thrice, his trumpets blaring,
He rides around those walls;
"Come forth, ye knights of Lombardy,
Ye craven knights!" he calls.

O luckless Count of Armanac,
Why rode ye forth at noon?
Was there no hour at even?
No morning cool and boon?

The swords of Alexandria
You kept them all at bay.
But oh, the summer sun at noon
It strikes more deep than they.

Oh for a drink of water!
Oh for a moment's space
To loose the iron helm and let
The wind blow on his face!

He turned his eyes from left to right,
And at his hand there stood
The shivering white poplars
That fringe a little wood.

And as he reeled along the grass,
Behold, as chill as ice
The water ran beneath his foot,
And he thought it Paradise.

"Armanac! O Armanac!"
His distant knights rang out;
And "Armanac" there answered them
The mountains round about.

O luckless Count of Armanac,
The day is lost and won:
Your hosts fight ill without a chief,
And the foe is three to one.

At dusk there rides a Lombard squire,
With his train, into the copse,
And when they reach the water-side
The horse whinnies and stops.

For dead beside the white water
A fallen knight they find;
His helmet lies upon the grass,
His locks stir in the wind.

"Now speak a word, my prisoners!
What great captain is he
Who died away from battle
Alone and piteously?"

Woe! and woe for Armanac,
And woe for all of us,
And for his sister's honour, woe,
That he be fallen thus!

For "where's the Count of Armanac?"
The Lombard women sing:
"He died at Alexandria --
Of the water of a spring!"

Thy name is made a mock, my Lord,
Thy vengeance still to pay,
And we must pine in Lombardy
For many and many a day!

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