A boy makes ready, praying, dressing himself in his crude rags, his sandals, carrying a handful of pebbles and a flapping leather bundle to throw them with. He is pale, his golden hair loose and disordered, his light eyes calm, and the people take his elbows and lead him out of the tent, into the lists, flooded with sunlight.
There the crowd roars, and the enemy waits, sword held easily in one long hand, smile wide and white against his dark face. The boy can hardly believe the length of his adversary's arms, hanging gaunt from his shoulders like wax from a candle; there is strength there, but it is only strength, the boy knows. It will not matter.
"God has laid His hands upon all things," the boy says, his voice young and certain. "It is He who holds your sword and it is He who brought you here to fight. I am His weapon. I cannot miss." Quick and wild the man starts forward, but God's hand holds him back, and he falters. The boy lays a stone in his sling, spins it and lets it go: God holds it in His hand now, and He guides it through the sweltering air, over the bloody dust, to the ritually scarred brow of the enormous enemy He has brought here to be laid low by His people. God strikes the enemy down and lays him in the dust, releasing him at last. "So do I prove that my God is the stronger," says the boy.
God's will must prevail because all battles are fought by God alone.
Out of the castle storms the Sheriff of Nottingham, or Prince John, bent on evil. He has commanded his minion, Smith, to go forth and do his evil work, but Smith has seen an omen and he will not go; he trots at the Sheriff's heels now, anxiously, warning him. The princely feet stride across a open field, damp grass trampled to mud by the horses. His cloak of ermine swirls behind him. His face is set in the fierce scowl of a tyrant. The sky is clouded.
There is a rainbow over the field, a smooth and gentle arch, and it moves lazily behind the angry lord. Closer it comes, and all it once passes over him, drenching him in blue, and sliding past; he does not notice. Smith tries to warn him. But he will not stop, and soon he will reach the gate.
The rainbow changes its curve, and washes over him again; how can he not see it? But it does not hurt him, does not slow him, stays him not from wickedness. Again it slides through him, and again, to no avail. Smith is terrified, cowering.
At last the rainbow bends so far as to break in half, jaggedly, and it straightens; lying low over the turf, it makes ready, and rushes all at once toward the prince like a battering ram. Its fractured end pierces him, and smoothly hoists him high in the air, gasping, spitted like meat. It lowers him again, hurt grievously, and swings away to stand upright above the field. And at last, as the blade of the rainbow hangs above the broken villain and his cowering subject, the kingly figure is visible behind it: mailed all in shining silver, his face stern and bearded, his helm topped with a crown. His right hand grips the hilt of the broken rainbow firmly, and his eyes gaze across the field, into the impartial distance, fearless.
Christine, Dreaming