THE TROUBADOUR.
135
But sadness moved him when he gave
De Valence to his lowly grave,—
The grave where the wild flowers were sleeping,
And one pale olive-tree was weeping,—
And placed the rude stone cross to show
A Christian hero lay below.
With the next morning's dawning light
Was Raymond by the wounded knight.
He heard strange tales,—none knew his name,
And none might say from whence he came;
He wore no cognizance, his steed
Was raven black, and black his weed.
All owned his fame, but yet they deem'd
More desperate than brave he seem'd;
Or as he only dared the field
For the swift death that it might yield.
