"Alas," said the squire, "you were greatly to blame for so displeasing King Arthur."

"As for that," said Balin, "I will go with all the haste I can to meet King Rience that I may destroy him or die myself. If perchance I may happen to overthrow him, then Arthur will forgive me and be my gracious lord."

"Where shall I meet you?" said the squire.

"In King Arthur's court," answered Balin.

When Balin left King Arthur's court, Lanceor, a proud and arrogant knight who counted himself the best of Arthur's followers, went and offered to ride after Balin and bring him back dead or alive.

"Go," said King Arthur, "for I am wroth with Balin and would have revenge for the insult he has shown me."

So Lanceor departed to arm himself, and in the meantime, Merlin arrived, and hearing of the death of the Lady of the Lake, by the sword of Balin, went in to King Arthur.

"Now," said Merlin, "you should know that this damsel who brought the sword to the court is the falsest woman living. She has a brother whom she hates beyond measure, and it was to compass his death that she came hither, for it had been decreed that whoso drew the sword should slay her brother. This I know to be true. Would to God she had never come to this court, for the knight that drew the sword shall die by that sword, and this shall be a great reproach to you and your court; for no man liveth of greater ability and prowess than this same knight Balin, and much good will he do you. It is a great pity he may not live to serve you with his strength and hardiness."

In the meantime Lanceor, armed at all points, rode at full speed after Balin, and when he caught sight of him he called in a loud voice, "Stop, you false knight, for you shall return with me whether you will or not, and your shield and your sword shall not help you."

When Balin heard the voice he turned his horse fiercely and said, "What is it you will with me? Will you joust with me?"

"Yes," said the Irish knight. "For that reason have I followed you."

"Perchance," said Balin, "it would have been better if you had remained at home, for many a man who strives to overthrow his enemy falls himself in the struggle. From what court do you come?"

"I am from the court of King Arthur," said Lanceor, "and I came to seek revenge for the insult you showed Arthur and his court this day."

"I see," said Balin, "that I must fight with you, but I much regret that I have done wrong before King Arthur and his court. Your quarrel with me is foolish, for the lady that I slew did me, through falsehood and treachery, the greatest harm on earth, else would I have been as loath as any knight that lives to slay a lady."

"Cease talking," said Lanceor, "and face me, for only one of us shall remain alive."

Then they levelled their spears and clashed together as hard as their horses could. The spear of the Irish knight struck Balin on the shield and broke all in pieces, but Balin's spear pierced the shield of Lanceor, passed through his hauberk and body and even into his horse, so that Lanceor fell, a dead man.

Regretting much that he had slain one of Arthur's knights, Balin buried Lanceor and proceeded on his way.

He had not ridden far into the forest when he saw a knight coming towards him whom by his arms he recognized as his brother Balan. When they met they dismounted and kissed each other and wept for pure joy.

When they had calmed themselves a little, Balan said, "I had no thought of meeting you here; I had supposed you were still in prison, for a knight that I met at the castle of Four Stones told me how you had been imprisoned by the king. I came this way hoping to serve you."

Balin in reply told him of his adventures until the time they met, and added, "Truly I am very sad that King Arthur is displeased with me, for he is the most worshipful knight that reigneth on this earth. Now I mean to regain his love or perish in the attempt. King Rience is even now besieging the Castle Terrabil, and thither do I ride to see what I can do against him."

"I will go with you," said Balan, "and we will help each other as true knights and good brethren ought to do."

As they talked they saw coming toward them a misshapen old man. This was Merlin in a strange disguise, though the brothers did not know him.

"Ah, Balin," said the old dwarf, "too ready are you to strike in anger, for here you have slain one of the noblest knights of Arthur's court, and his kinsmen will follow you through the world till they have slain you."

"As for that," said Balin, "I have little fear, but I regret beyond words that I have displeased my lord, King Arthur."

"Be that as it may," answered Merlin, "you have given the saddest blow ever struck; and yet worse is to come, for with that same sword will you slay your brother."

"If I believed that," the sad knight replied, "I should kill myself now to prove you a liar."

At that moment the crippled old man vanished suddenly, and the brothers saw Merlin in his own person riding toward them.

"Where are you going?" inquired Merlin.

"At present we have little to do and ride as we please."

"I can tell you where you are going," said the magician. "You go to meet King Rience, but your journey will be a failure unless you are guided by my counsel."

"Ah, Merlin," said Balin, "we will be ruled by you."

"Come on then; but see that you fight manfully, for you will need all your strength and valor."

"Fear not," they both exclaimed. "We will do all that men can do."

"Then," said the magician, "conceal yourselves here in the woods behind the leaves. Hide your horses and rest in patience, for soon will Rience with sixty of his best knights come this way. You can fall upon them from ambush and easily destroy them."

It happened just as Merlin had predicted, and the brothers soon saw the sixty knights riding down the lane.

"Which is Rience?" asked Balin.

"There," said he, "the knight that rides in the midst—that is Rience."

The brothers waited till Rience was opposite them, and then they rushed upon him and bore him down, wounding him severely. Wheeling from the charge they fell upon the followers of Rience and smote them to right and left, so that many fell dead or wounded and the remainder broke into flight.

Returning to King Rience the brothers would have killed him, but he cried, "Slay me not. By my death you will win nothing, but by my life you may win."

"That is so," the two agreed: and they made a litter, and Balan bore Rience to King Arthur, but Balin would not go to the court till he had done more for Arthur.

The tale of Balin's deeds is too long for recital here, but it may be read in the book of King Arthur's knights. At last, after many days of wandering and many exciting combats, Balin saw by the roadside a cross upon which in letters of gold was written, "No man must ride to this castle alone."

Then, too, an old man came toward him and said, "Balin le Savage, turn now before it is too late. You have already passed the bounds of prudence." With these words the old man vanished, and Balin heard the blast of a horn, like that blown when a huntsman kills an animal.

"That blast," said Balin to himself, "is for me, for I am the prize, yet am I not dead."

As the echoes of the horn died away, Balin saw coming toward him a hundred knights and ladies: who rode up to him and smilingly greeted him.

"Come with us to the castle," said they, "and there shall be music and dancing and feasting and much joy."

Balin followed them to the castle and was surprised at the good cheer that awaited him. In the midst of the feast, when joy was at its height, the chief lady of the feast looked at Balin and said, "Knight with the two swords, no man may pass this way unless he fight with a knight who keeps an island near by. Now must you joust with him."

"That is an unhappy custom," said Balin, "that a knight may not pass this way unless he fight."

"You need to fight with but one man," said the lady.

"Well," said Balin, "if I must fight, then must I fight, but a traveling man and his horse are oft-times weary. However, though my horse and my body are weary, my heart is not weary, and I will go where danger awaits me."

"Sir," said one of the knights to Balin, "it seems to me that your shield is not in good condition. Take mine; it is a larger one, and you are quite welcome to it."

So Balin took the strange shield and left his own, with his arms blazoned on it, at the castle, and rode forth to the island. On his way he met a maid who called to him, "O Balin, why have you left your own shield behind? You have now put yourself in the gravest danger, for by the arms upon your shield all men might know you. It is a great pity, indeed, that evil should befall you, for you are the peer of any knight now living."

"I repent exceedingly," said Balin, "that I ever came into this country, but now that I have set foot upon this adventure I may not turn back without shame to myself. Be it life or death, now will I take whatsoever God willeth."

Then he looked carefully at his armor and saw that it was all in good condition and that his shield and spear were in good trim, and then, blessing himself, he mounted his horse. Out of the castle there now came riding toward him a knight on a powerful charger. Red was the armor of the knight, red his shield, without any arms or device, and red were the trappings on his horse. Now this knight in red was Balan, and when he saw coming toward him a knight with two swords he thought it must be his brother Balin, but when he looked at the shield it was strange, and thus, neither brother knowing the other, they levelled their spears and dashed together at full speed.

The spear of each struck fair in the center of the shield of the other, and their spears were so strong and their charge so fierce that both horses were thrown to the ground and the men lay on the ground unconscious. Balin was sadly bruised by the fall of his horse, and besides he was weary of travel, so that Balan was the first to get up and draw his sword. Balin, however, was little behind him, and was ready with his weapon to meet the onset. Balan was first to strike, and though Balin put up his shield the sword passed through it and cut through his helm. Balin returned the blow with that unhappy sword that carried so much misery with it, and well-nigh killed his brother, but both recovered themselves and fought together, charging back and forth until their breath failed them.

As they rested for a moment Balin looked up to the castle walls and saw that the towers were filled with ladies. Inspired by the sight, both went into battle again, and both were wounded many times. Often they rested and often renewed the combat, until the ground around them was red with blood. Both had been wounded seven times or more, and each wound so serious that it would have been the death of any less mighty man. Both were weary and weak from their exertions, but still they fought on. Their helmets were hewed off and their armor fell to pieces till they were almost naked and defenseless.

At last Balan withdrew a little and lay down in utter exhaustion.

"What knight art thou?" said Balin le Savage. "Never have I found a knight that so well matched me."

"My name," he said, "is Balan, brother of the great knight Balin."

"Alas," said Balin, "that ever I should see this day." And with these words he fell back unconscious.

Balan, on his hands and knees, crept to his brother and took the helm from off his head, but even then he did not know him, so bloody and wounded was his face.

When a few minutes later Balin recovered consciousness, he cried, "Oh Balan, my brother, thou hast slain me and I thee. On this account all the world shall speak of us."

"Alas," said Balan, "that I ever saw this day, and shame on me that I knew you not, for I saw your two swords; but because you had a strange shield I thought you were some strange knight."

"There is a false knight in the castle," said Balin, "that got me to leave my own shield and gave me his, and for this reason are we both to die. Would that I might live to destroy the castle and prevent the foul customs that pertain here."

"That, indeed, were the right thing to do," said Balan, "for on the day that I came hither I happened to kill the knight that kept the island, and since then never have I been able to depart but have been compelled to keep this island against all comers. If you had slain me, then must you have kept the island, for no man may leave because of an enchantment."



While they were still talking, the chief lady of the castle, with four knights and six ladies and six yeomen, came to them and listened to their complaining.

"We are two brothers," said they, "born from one mother, and in one grave must we lie, so we pray you to bury us here where the battle was fought."

Weeping at the sad spectacle the lady granted their request and promised that they should be interred with great ceremonies.

"Now," said Balin, "will you send us a priest that we may receive our sacrament, the blessed body of our Lord Jesus Christ?"

"Yes," said the lady, "I will send at once."

When the priest had come and administered the last rite, Balin said, "When we are buried in a single tomb, and when the inscription upon it reads that two brothers in ignorance slew each other, then will every good knight who comes this way see our tomb and pray for the peace of our souls."

Amidst the weeping of the ladies and the gentlewomen there, Balan died, but Balin lingered on until after midnight. The lady kept her promise and buried both in one tomb, and placed before it the inscription:

HERE LIE TWO BRETHREN, EACH SLAIN BY HIS BROTHER'S HAND.

She knew not their names, but in the morning Merlin came that way, and in letters of gold wrote on the tomb, "Here lieth Balin le Savage, the knight with two swords, and Balan his brother." Then Merlin took the famous sword, unfastened the pommel, and offered the sword to a knight to try; but the knight could not handle it, and Merlin laughed in his face.

"Why do you laugh?" said the knight, angrily.

"For this reason," said Merlin. "No man shall ever handle this sword except Sir Launcelot or else Galahad, his son."

All this Merlin wrote in letters of gold on the pommel of the sword. The scabbard of Balin's sword he left on the side of the island where Sir Galahad would find it.



GERAINT AND ENID[1]

[Footnote 1: Tennyson, in his collection of poems known as the Idyls of the King worked up in beautiful form many of the legends which had grown up around the names of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table Geraint and Enid is one of the most popular of these.]

By ALFRED TENNYSON



I

The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's court, A tributary prince of Devon, one Of that great order of the Table Round, Had married Enid, Yniol's only child, And loved her, as he loved the light of Heaven. And as the light of Heaven varies, now At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night With moon and trembling stars, so loved Geraint To make her beauty vary day by day, In crimsons and in purples and in gems. And Enid, but to please her husband's eye, Who first had found and loved her in a state Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him In some fresh splendor; and the Queen herself, Loved her, and often with her own white hands Array'd and deck'd her, as the loveliest, Next after her own self, in all the court. And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart Adored her, as the stateliest and the best And loveliest of all women upon earth. At last, forsooth, because his princedom lay Close on the borders of a territory, Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff knights, Assassins, and all flyers from the hand Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law: He craved a fair permission to depart, And there defend his marches; and the King Mused for a little on his plea, but, last, Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode, And fifty knights rode with them, to the shores Of Severn, and they past to their own land; Where, thinking, that if ever yet was wife True to her lord, mine shall be so to me, He compass'd her with sweet observances And worship, never leaving her, and grew Forgetful of his promise to the King, Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt, Forgetful of the tilt and tournament, Forgetful of his glory and his name, Forgetful of his princedom and its cares. And this forgetfulness was hateful to her. And by and by the people, when they met In twos and threes, or fuller companies, Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him As of a prince whose manhood was all gone, And molten down in mere uxoriousness. And this she gather'd from the people's eyes: This too the women who attired her head, To please her, dwelling on his boundless love, Told Enid, and they sadden'd her the more: And day by day she thought to tell Geraint, But could not out of bashful delicacy; While he that watch'd her sadden, was the more Suspicious that her nature had a taint.

At last, it chanced that on a summer morn (They sleeping each by either) the new sun Beat thro the blindless casement of the room, And heated the strong warrior in his dreams; Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside, And bared the knotted column of his throat, The massive square of his heroic breast, And arms on which the standing muscle sloped, As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone, Running too vehemently to break upon it. And Enid woke and sat beside the couch, Admiring him, and thought within herself, Was ever man so grandly made as he? Then, like a shadow, past the people's talk And accusation of uxoriousness Across her mind, and bowing over him, Low to her own heart piteously she said:

"O noble breast and all-puissant arms, Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men Reproach you, saying all your force is gone? I am the cause, because I dare not speak And tell him what I think and what they say. And yet I hate that he should linger here; I cannot love my lord and not his name. Far liefer had I gird his harness on him, And ride with him to battle and stand by, And watch his mightful hand striking great blows At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world. Far better were I laid in the dark earth, Not hearing any more his noble voice, Not to be folded more in these dear arms, And darken'd from the high light in his eyes, Than that my lord thro' me should suffer shame. Am I so bold, and could I so stand by, And see my dear lord wounded in the strife, Or maybe pierced to death before mine eyes, And yet not dare to tell him what I think, And how men slur him, saying all his force Is melted into mere effeminacy? O me, I fear that I am no true wife."

Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke, And the strong passion in her made her weep True tears upon his broad and naked breast, And these awoke him, and by great mischance He heard but fragments of her later words, And that she fear'd she was not a true wife. And then he thought, "In spite of all my care, For all my pains, poor man, for all my pains, She is not faithful to me, and I see her Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur's hall." Right thro' his manful breast darted the pang That makes a man, in the sweet face of her Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable. At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out of bed, And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried, "My charger and her palfrey;" then to her "I will ride forth into the wilderness, For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to win, I have not fall'n so low as some would wish. And thou, put on thy worst and meanest dress And ride with me." And Enid ask'd, amazed, "If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault." But he, "I charge thee, ask not, but obey."

Then she bethought her of a faded silk, A faded mantle and a faded veil, And moving toward a cedarn cabinet, Wherein she kept them folded reverently With sprigs of summer laid between the folds, She took them, and array'd herself therein, Remembering when first he came on her Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, And all her foolish fears about the dress, And all his journey to her, as himself Had told her, and their coming to the court.

For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk. There on a day, he sitting high in hall, Before him came a forester of Dean, Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart Taller than all his fellows, milky-white, First seen that day: these things he told the King. Then the good King gave order to let blow His horns for hunting on the morrow morn. And when the Queen petition'd for his leave To see the hunt, allow'd it easily. So with the morning all the court were gone. But Guinevere lay late into the morn, But rose at last, a single maiden with her, Took horse, and forded Usk, and gain'd the wood; There, on a little knoll beside it, stay'd Waiting to hear the hounds; but heard instead A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraint, Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand, Came quickly flashing thro' the shallow ford Behind them, and so gallop'd up the knoll.

A purple scarf, at either end whereof There swung an apple of the purest gold, Sway'd round about him, as he gallop'd up To join them, glancing like a dragon-fly In summer suit and silks of holiday. Low bow'd the tributary Prince, and she, Sweetly and statelily, and with all grace Of womanhood and queenhood, answer'd him: "Late, late, Sir Prince," she said, "later than we!" "Yea, noble Queen," he answer'd, "and so late That I but come like you to see the hunt, Not join it." "Therefore wait with me," she said; "For on this little knoll, if anywhere, There is good chance that we shall hear the hounds: Here often they break covert at our feet." And while they listen'd for the distant hunt, And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, King Arthur's hound of deepest mouth, there rode Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf; Whereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and the knight Had vizor up, and show'd a youthful face, Imperious and of haughtiest lineaments. And Guinevere, not mindful of his face In the King's hall, desired his name, and sent Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf; Who being vicious, old and irritable, And doubling all his master's vice of pride, Made answer sharply that she should not know. "Then will I ask it of himself," she said. "Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not," cried the dwarf; "Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak of him;" And when she put her horse toward the knight, Struck at her with his whip, and she return'd Indignant to the Queen; whereat Geraint Exclaiming, "Surely I will learn the name," Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask'd it of him, Who answer'd as before; and when the Prince Had put his horse in motion toward the knight, Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek. The Prince's blood spurted upon the scarf, Dyeing it; and his quick, instinctive hand Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him: But he, from his exceeding manfulness And pure nobility of temperament, Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrain'd From ev'n a word, and so returning said:

"I will avenge this insult, noble Queen, Done in your maiden's person to yourself: And I will track this vermin to their earths; For tho' I ride unarm'd, I do not doubt To find, at some place I shall come at, arms On loan, or else for pledge; and, being found, Then will I fight him, and will break his pride, And on the third day will again be here, So that I be not fall'n in fight. Farewell."

"Farewell, fair Prince," answer'd the stately Queen. "Be prosperous in this journey, as in all; And may you light on all things that you love, And live to wed with her whom first you love: But ere you wed with any, bring your bride, And I, were she the daughter of a king, Yea, tho' she were a beggar from the hedge, Will clothe her for her bridals like the sun."

Geraint, now thinking that he heard [Transcriber's note: Illegible]t at bay, now the far horn, A little vext at losing of the hunt, A little at the vile occasion, rode, By ups and downs, thro' many a grassy glade And valley, with fixt eye following the three. At last they issued from the world of wood, And climb'd upon a fair and even ridge, And show'd themselves against the sky, and sank. And thither came Geraint, and underneath Beheld the long street of a little town In a long valley, on one side whereof, White from the mason's hand, a fortress rose; And on one side a castle in decay, Beyond a bridge that spann'd a dry ravine: And out of town and valley came a noise As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed Brawling, or like a clamor of the rooks At distance, ere they settle for the night.

And onward to the fortress rode the three, And enter'd, and were lost behind the walls. "So," thought Geraint, "I have track'd him to his earth." And down the long street riding wearily, Found every hostel full, and everywhere Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss And bustling whistle of the youth who scour'd His master's armor; and of such a one He ask'd, "What means the tumult in the town?" Who told him, scouring still, "The sparrow-hawk!" Then riding close behind an ancient churl, Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam, Went sweating underneath a sack of corn, Ask'd yet once more what meant the hubbub here? Who answer'd gruffly, "Ugh! the sparrow-hawk."

Then riding further past an armorer's, Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd above his work, Sat riveting a helmet on his knee, He put the self-same query, but the man Not turning round, nor looking at him, said: "Friend, he that labors for the sparrow-hawk Has little time for idle questioners." Whereat Geraint flash'd into sudden spleen: "A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk! Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings peck him dead! Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg The murmur of the world! What is it to me? O wretched set of sparrows, one and all, Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks! Speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk-mad, Where can I get me harborage for the night? And arms, arms, arms to fight the enemy? Speak!" Whereat the armorer turning all amazed And seeing one so gay in purple silks, Came forward with the helmet yet in hand And answer'd, "Pardon me, O stranger knight; We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn, And there is scantly time for half the work. Arms? truth! I know not: all are wanted here. Harborage? truth, good truth, I know not, save, It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the bridge Yonder." He spoke and fell to work again.

Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet, Across the bridge that spann'd the dry ravine. There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl, (His dress a suit of fray'd magnificence, Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said: "Whither, fair son?" to whom Geraint replied, "O friend, I seek a harborage for the night." Then Yniol, "Enter therefore and partake The slender entertainment of a house Once rich, now poor, but ever open-door'd." "Thanks, venerable friend," replied Geraint; "So that you do not serve me sparrow-hawks For supper, I will enter, I will eat With all the passion of a twelve hours' fast." Then sigh'd and smiled the hoary-headed Earl, And answer'd, "Graver cause than yours is mine To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk: But in, go in; for save yourself desire it, We will not touch upon him ev'n in jest."

Then rode Geraint into the castle court, His charger trampling many a prickly star Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones. He look'd and saw that all was ruinous. Here stood a shatter'd archway plumed with fern; And here had fall'n a great part of a tower, Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff, And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers: And high above a piece of turret stair, Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms, And suck'd the joining of the stones, and look'd A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove.

And while he waited in the castle court, The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang Clear thro' the open casement of the hall, Singing; and as the sweet voice of a bird, Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, Moves him to think what kind of bird it is That sings so delicately clear, and make Conjecture of the plumage and the form; So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint; And made him like a man abroad at morn When first the liquid note beloved of men Comes flying over many a windy wave To Britain, and in April suddenly Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with green and red, And he suspends his converse with a friend, Or it may be the labor of his hands, To think or say, "There is the nightingale;" So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said, "Here, by God's grace, is the one voice for me."

It chanced the song that Enid sang was one Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang:

"Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud; Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

"Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; With that wild wheel we go not up or down; Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

"Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; For man is man and master of his fate.

"Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd; Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate."



"Hark, by the bird's song ye may learn the nest," Said Yniol; "enter quickly." Entering then, Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones, The dusky-rafter'd many-cobweb'd hall, He found an ancient dame in dim brocade; And near her, like a blossom vermeil-white,[2] That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath, Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk, Her daughter. In a moment thought Geraint, "Here by God's rood is the one maid for me." But none spake word except the hoary Earl: "Enid, the good knight's horse stands in the court; Take him to stall, and give him corn, and then Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine; And we will make us merry as we may. Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great."

[Footnote 2: Vermeil-white means red and white, or reddish white.]

He spake: the Prince, as Enid past him, fain To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol caught His purple scarf, and held, and said, "Forbear! Rest! the good house, tho' ruin'd, O my son, Endures not that her guest should serve himself." And reverencing the custom of the house Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore.

So Enid took his charger to the stall; And after went her way across the bridge, And reach'd the town, and while the Prince and Earl Yet spoke together, came again with one, A youth, that following with a costrel[3] bore

[Footnote 3: A costrel was a leather, wooden or earthenware bottle, provided with ears, by which it might be hung at the side.]

The means of goodly welcome, flesh and wine. And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer, And in her veil unfolded, manchet[4] bread.

[Footnote 4: Manchet bread is fine white bread.]

And then, because their hall must also serve For kitchen, boil'd the flesh, and spread the board, And stood behind, and waited on the three. And seeing her so sweet and serviceable, Geraint had longing in him evermore To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb, That crost the trencher as she laid it down: But after all had eaten, then Geraint, For now the wine made summer in his veins, Let his eye rove in following, or rest On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work, Now here, now there, about the dusky hall; Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl:

"Fair Host and Earl, I pray your courtesy; This sparrow-hawk, what is he? tell me of him. His name? but no, good faith, I will not have it: For if he be the knight whom late I saw Ride into that new fortress by your town, White from the mason's hand, then have I sworn From his own lips to have it—I am Geraint Of Devon—for this morning when the Queen Sent her own maiden to demand the name, His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing, Struck at her with his whip, and she return'd Indignant to the Queen; and then I swore That I would track this caitiff to his hold, And fight and break his pride, and have it of him. And all unarm'd I rode, and thought to find Arms in your town, where all the men are mad; They take the rustic murmur of their bourg For the great wave that echoes round the world; They would not hear me speak: but if ye know Where I can light on arms, or if yourself Should have them, tell me, seeing I have sworn That I will break his pride and learn his name, Avenging this great insult done the Queen."

Then cried Earl Yniol, "Art thou he indeed, Geraint, a name far-sounded among men For noble deeds? and truly I, when first I saw you moving by me on the bridge, Felt ye were somewhat, yea, and by your state And presence might have guess'd you one of those That eat in Arthur's hall at Camelot. Nor speak I now from foolish flattery; For this dear child hath often heard me praise Your feats of arms, and often when I paused Hath ask'd again, and ever loved to hear; So grateful is the noise of noble deeds To noble hearts who see but acts of wrong: O never yet had woman such a pair Of suitors as this maiden; first Limours, A creature wholly given to brawls and wine, Drunk even when he woo'd; and be he dead I know not, but he passed to the wild land. The second was your foe, the sparrow-hawk, My curse, my nephew—I will not let his name Slip from my lips if I can help it—he, When I that knew him fierce and turbulent Refused her to him, then his pride awoke; And since the proud man often is the mean, He sow'd a slander in the common ear, Affirming that his father left him gold, And in my charge, which was not render'd to him; Bribed with large promises the men who served About my person, the more easily Because my means were somewhat broken into Thro' open doors and hospitality; Raised my own town against me in the night Before my Enid's birthday, sack'd my house; From mine own earldom foully ousted me; Built that new fort to overawe my friends, For truly there are those who love me yet; And keeps me in this ruinous castle here, Where doubtless he would put me soon to death, But that his pride too much despises me: And I myself sometimes despise myself; For I have let men be, and have their way; Am much too gentle, have not used my power: Nor know I whether I be very base Or very manful, whether very wise Or very foolish; only this I know, That whatsoever evil happen to me, I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb, But can endure it all most patiently."

"Well said, true heart," replied Geraint, "but arms, That if the sparrow-hawk, this nephew, fight In next day's tourney I may break his pride."

And Yniol answer'd, "Arms, indeed, but old And rusty, old and rusty, Prince Geraint, Are mine, and therefore at thine asking, thine. But in this tournament can no man tilt, Except the lady he loves best be there. Two forks are fixt into the meadow ground, And over these is placed a silver wand. And over that a golden sparrow-hawk, The prize of beauty for the fairest there. And this what knight soever be in field Lays claim to for the lady at his side, And tilts with my good nephew thereupon, Who being apt at arms and big of bone Has ever won it for the lady with him, And toppling over all antagonism Has earn'd himself the name of sparrow-hawk. But thou, that hast no lady, canst not fight."

To whom Geraint with eyes all bright replied, Leaning a little toward him, "Thy leave! Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host, For this dear child, because I never saw, Tho' having seen all beauties of our time, Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair. And if I fall her name will yet remain Untarnish'd as before; but if I live, So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost, As I will make her truly my true wife."

Then, howsoever patient, Yniol's heart Danced in his bosom, seeing better days, And looking round he saw not Enid there, (Who hearing her own name had stol'n away) But that old dame, to whom full tenderly And fondling all her hand in his he said, "Mother, a maiden is a tender thing, And best by her that bore her understood. Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest Tell her, and prove her heart toward the Prince."

So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she With frequent smile and nod departing found, Half disarray'd as to her rest, the girl; Whom first she kiss'd on either cheek, and then On either shining shoulder laid a hand, And kept her off and gazed upon her face, And told her all their converse in the hall, Proving her heart: but never light and shade Coursed one another more on open ground Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale Across the face of Enid hearing her; While slowly falling as a scale that falls, When weight is added only grain by grain, Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast; Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word, Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of it; So moving without answer to her rest She found no rest, and ever fail'd to draw The quiet night into her blood, but lay Contemplating her own unworthiness; And when the pale and bloodless east began To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised Her mother too, and hand in hand they moved Down to the meadow where the; ousts were held, And waited there for Yniol and Geraint.

And thither came the twain, and when Geraint Beheld her first in field, awaiting him, He felt, were she the prize of bodily force, Himself beyond the rest pushing could move The chair of Idris. Yniol's rusted arms Were on his princely person, but thro' these Princelike his bearing shone; and errant knights And ladies came, and by and by the town Flow'd in, and settling circled all the lists. And there they fixt the forks into the ground, And over these they placed the silver wand, And over that the golden sparrow-hawk Then Yniol's nephew, after trumpet blown, Spake to the lady with him and proclaim'd "Advance and take as fairest of the fair. For I these two years past have won it for thee, The prize of beauty." Loudly spake the Prince, "Forbear: there is a worthier," and the knight With some surprise and thrice as much disdain Turn'd, and beheld the four, and all his face Glow'd like the heart of a great fire at Yule So burnt he was with passion, crying out "Do battle for it then," no more; and thrice They clash'd together, and thrice they brake their spears. Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lash'd at each So often and with such blows, that all the crowd Wonder'd, and now and then from distant walls There came a clapping as of phantom hands. So twice they fought, and twice they brathed, and still The dew of their great labor, and the blood Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain'd their force. But either's force was match'd till Yniol's cry "Remember that great insult done the Queen," Increased Geraint's, who heaved his blade aloft, And crack'd the helmet thro', and bit the bone And fell'd him, and set foot upon his breast And said, "Thy name?" To whom the fallen man Made answer, groaning, "Edyrn, son of Nudd! Ashamed am I that I should tell it them. My pride is broken: men have seen my fall."

"Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd," replied Geraint, "These two things shalt thou do, or else thou diest. First, thou thyself, with damsel and with dwarf, Shalt ride to Arthur's court, and coming there, Crave pardon for that insult done the Queen, And shalt abide her judgment on it; next, Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin. These two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt die." And Edyrn answered, "These things will I do, For I have never yet been overthrown, And thou hast overthrown me, and my pride Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall!" And rising up, he rode to Arthur's court, And there the Queen forgave him easily. And being young, he changed and came to loathe His crime of traitor, slowly drew himself Bright from his old dark life, and fell at last In the great battle fighting for the King.

But when the third day from the hunting-morn Made a low splendor in the world, and wings Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay With her fair head in the dim-yellow light, Among the dancing shadows of the birds, Woke and bethought her of her promise given No later than last eve to Prince Geraint— So bent he seem'd on going the third day, He would not leave her, till her promise given— To ride with him this morning to the court, And there be made known to the stately Queen, And there be wedded with all ceremony. At this she cast her eyes upon her dress, And thought it never yet had look'd so mean. For as a leaf in mid-November is To what it was in mid-October, seem'd The dress that now she look'd on to the dress She look'd on ere the coming of Geraint. And still she look'd, and still the terror grew Of that strange, bright and dreadful thing, a court, All staring at her in her faded silk: And softly to her own sweet heart she said:

"This noble prince who won our earldom back, So splendid in his acts and his attire, Sweet heaven, how much I shall discredit him! Would he could tarry with us here awhile, But being so beholden to the Prince, It were but little grace in any of us, Bent as he seem'd on going this third day, To seek a second favor at his hands. Yet if he could but tarry a day or two, Myself would work eye dim, and finger lame, Far liefer than so much discredit him."

And Enid fell in longing for a dress All branch'd and flower'd with gold, a costly gift Of her good mother, given her on the night Before her birthday, three sad years ago. That night of fire, when Edyrn sack'd their house, And scatter'd all they had to all the winds: For while the mother show'd it, and the two Were turning and admiring it, the work To both appear'd so costly, rose a cry That Edyrn's men were on them, and they fled With little save the jewels they had on, Which being sold and sold had bought them bread: And Edyrn's men had caught them in their flight, And placed them in this ruin; and she wish'd The Prince had found her in her ancient home; Then let her fancy flit across the past, And roam the goodly places that she knew; And last bethought her how she used to watch, Near that old home, a pool of golden carp; And one was patch'd and blurr'd and lustreless Among his burnish'd brethren of the pool; And half asleep she made comparison Of that and these to her own faded self And the gay court, and fell asleep again; And dreamt herself was such a faded form Among her burnish'd sisters of the pool; But this was in the garden of a king; And tho' she lay dark in the pool, she knew That all was bright; that all about were birds Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work; That all the turf was rich in plots that look'd Each like a garnet or a turkis in it; And lords and ladies of the high court went In silver tissue talking things of state; And children of the King in cloth of gold Glanced at the doors or gambol'd down the walks; And while she thought "They will not see me," came A stately queen whose name was Guinevere, And all the children in their cloth of gold Ran to her, crying, "If we have fish at all Let them be gold; and charge the gardeners now To pick the faded creature from the pool, And cast it on the mixen[5] that it die." And therewithal one came and seized on her, And Enid started waking, with her heart All overshadow'd by the foolish dream, And lo! it was her mother grasping her To get her well awake; and in her hand A suit of bright apparel, which she laid Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly:

[Footnote 5: Mixen is an old word for dunghill]

"See here, my child, how fresh the colors look, How fast they hold like colors of a shell That keeps the wear and polish of the wave. Why not? It never yet was worn, I trow: Look on it, child, and tell me if ye know it."

And Enid look'd, but all confused at first, Could scarce divide it from her foolish dream: Then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced, And answer'd, "Yea, I know it; your good gift, So sadly lost on that unhappy night; Your own good gift!" "Yea, surely," said the dame, "And gladly given again this happy morn. For when the jousts were ended yesterday, Went Yniol thro' the town, and everywhere He found the sack and plunder of our house All scatter'd thro' the houses of the town; And gave command that all which once was ours Should now be ours again; and yester-eve, While ye were talking sweetly with your Prince, Came one with this and laid it in my hand, For love or fear, or seeking favor of us, Because we have our earldom back again. And yester-eve I would not tell you of it, But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn. Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise? For I myself unwillingly have worn My faded suit, as you, my child, have yours, And howsoever patient, Yniol his. Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house, With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare, And page, and maid, and squire, and seneschal, And pastime both of hawk and hound, and all That appertains to noble maintenance. Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house; But since our fortune swerved from sun to shade, And all thro' that young traitor, cruel need Constrain'd us, but a better time has come; So clothe yourself in this, that better fits Our mended fortunes and a Prince's bride: For tho' ye won the prize of fairest fair, And tho' I heard him call you fairest fair, Let never maiden think, however fair, She is not fairer in new clothes than old. And should some great court-lady say, the Prince Hath pick'd a ragged-robin from the hedge, And like a madman brought her to the court, Then were ye shamed, and, worse, might shame the Prince To whom we are beholden; but I know, When my dear child is set forth at her best, That neither court nor country, tho' they sought Thro' all the provinces like those of old That lighted on Queen Esther, has her match."

Here ceased the kindly mother out of breath; And Enid listen'd brightening as she lay; Then, as the white and glittering star of morn Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by Slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose, And left her maiden couch, and robed herself, Help'd by the mother's careful hand and eye, Without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown; Who, after, turn'd her daughter round, and said, She never yet had seen her half so fair. * * *

"And I can scarcely ride with you to court, For old am I, and rough the ways and wild; But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall dream I see my princess as I see her now, Clothed with my gift, and gay among the gay.'"

But while the women thus rejoiced, Geraint Woke where he slept in the high hall, and call'd For Enid, and when Yniol made report Of that good mother making Enid gay In such apparel as might well beseem His princess, or indeed the stately Queen, He answer'd: "Earl, entreat her by my love, Albeit I give no reason but my wish, That she ride with me in her faded silk." Yniol with that hard message went; it fell Like flaws in summer laying lusty corn: For Enid, all abash'd she knew not why, Dared not to glance at her good mother's face, But silently, in all obedience, Her mother silent too, nor helping her, Laid from her limbs the costly-broider'd gift, And robed them in her ancient suit again, And so descended. Never man rejoiced More than Geraint to greet her thus attired; And glancing all at once as keenly at her As careful robins eye the delver's toil, Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall, But rested with her sweet face satisfied; Then seeing cloud upon the mother's brow, Her by both hands he caught, and sweetly said,

"O my new mother, be not wroth or grieved At thy new son, for my petition to her. When late I left Caerleon, our great Queen, In words whose echo lasts, they were so sweet, Made promise, that whatever bride I brought, Herself would clothe her like the sun in Heaven. Thereafter, when I reach'd this ruin'd hall, Beholding one so bright in dark estate, I vow'd that could I gain her, our fair Queen, No hand but hers, should make your Enid burst Sunlike from cloud—and likewise thought perhaps, That service done so graciously would bind The two together; fain I would the two Should love each other: how can Enid find A nobler friend? Another thought was mine; I came among you here so suddenly, That tho' her gentle presence at the lists Might well have served for proof that I was loved, I doubted whether daughter's tenderness, Or easy nature, might not let itself Be moulded by your wishes for her weal; Or whether some false sense in her own self Of my contrasting brightness, overbore Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall; And such a sense might make her long for court And all its perilous glories: and I thought, That could I someway prove such force in her Link'd with such love for me, that at a word (No reason given her) she could cast aside A splendor dear to women, new to her, And therefore dearer; or if not so new, Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power Of intermitted usage; then I felt That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows, Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I do rest, A prophet certain of my prophecy, That never shadow of mistrust can cross Between us. Grant me pardon for my thoughts: And for my strange petition I will make Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day, When your fair child shall wear your costly gift Beside your own warm hearth, with, on her knees, Who knows? another gift of the high God, Which, maybe, shall have learn'd to lisp you thanks."

He spoke: the mother smiled, but half in tears, Then brought a mantle down and wrapt her in it, And claspt and kiss'd her, and they rode away.

Now thrice that morning Guinevere had climb'd The giant tower, from whose high crest, they say, Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, And white sails flying on the yellow sea; But not to goodly hill or yellow sea Look'd the fair Queen, but up the vale of Usk, By the flat meadow, till she saw them come; And then descending met them at the gates, Embraced her with all welcome as a friend, And did her honor as the Prince's bride, And clothed her for her bridals like the sun; And all that week was old Caerleon gay, For by the hands of Dubric, the high saint, They twain were wedded with all ceremony.

And this was on the last year's Whitsuntide. But Enid ever kept the faded silk, Remembering how first he came on her, Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, And all her foolish fears about the dress, all his journey toward her, as himself Had told her, and their coming to the court.

And now this morning when he said to her, "Put on your worst and meanest dress," she found And took it, and array'd herself therein.



II

O purblind race of miserable men, How many among us at this very hour Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, By taking true for false, or false for true; Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this world Groping, how many, until we pass and reach That other, where we see as we are seen!

So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth That morning, when they both had got to horse, Perhaps because he loved her passionately, And felt that tempest brooding round his heart, Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce Upon a head so dear in thunder, said: "Not at my side. I charge thee ride before, Ever a good way on before; and this I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife, Whatever happens, not to speak to me, No, not a word!" and Enid was aghast; And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on, When crying out, "Effeminate as I am, I will not fight my way with gilded arms All shall be iron;" he loosed a mighty purse, Hung at his belt, and hurl'd it toward the squire. So the last sight that Enid had of home Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown With gold and scatter'd coinage, and the squire Chafing his shoulder: then he cried again, "To the wilds!" and Enid leading down the tracks Thro' which he bade her lead him on, they past The marches, and by bandit-haunted holds, Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern, And wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode: Round was their pace at first, but slacken'd soon: A stranger meeting them had surely thought They rode so slowly and they look'd so pale, That each had suffered some exceeding wrong. For he was ever saying to himself, "O I that wasted time to tend upon her, To compass her with sweet observances, To dress her beautifully and keep her true"— And there he broke the sentence in his heart Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue May break it, when his passion masters him, And she was ever praying the sweet heavens To save her dear lord whole from any wound. And ever in her mind she cast about For that unnoticed failing in herself, Which made him look so cloudy and so cold; Till the great plover's human whistle amazed Her heart, and glancing round the waste she fear'd In every wavering brake an ambuscade. Then thought again, "If there be such in me, I might amend it by the grace of Heaven, If he would only speak and tell me of it."

But when the fourth part of the day was gone, Then Enid was aware of three tall knights On horseback, wholly arm d, behind a rock In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all; And heard one crying to his fellow, "Look, Here comes a laggard hanging down his head, Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound; Come, we will slay him and will have his horse And armor, and his damsel shall be ours."



Then Enid ponder'd in her heart, and said: "I will go back a little to my lord, And I will tell him all their caitiff talk; For, be he wroth even to slaying me, Far liefer by his dear hand had I die, Than that my lord should suffer loss or shame."

Then she went back some paces of return, Met his full frown timidly firm, and said: "My lord, I saw three bandits by the rock Waiting to fall on you, and heard them boast That they would slay you, and possess your horse And armor, and your damsel should be theirs."

He made a wrathful answer: "Did I wish Your warning or your silence? one command I laid upon you, not to speak to me, And thus ye keep it! Well then, look—for now, Whether ye wish me victory or defeat, Long for my life, or hunger for my death, Yourself shall see my vigor is not lost."

Then Enid waited pale and sorrowful, And down upon him bare the bandit three. And at the midmost charging, Prince Geraint Drave the long spear a cubit thro' his breast And out beyond; and then against his brace Of comrades, each of whom had broken on him A lance that splinter'd like an icicle, Swung from his brand a windy buffet out Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunn'd the twain Or slew them, and dismounting like a man That skins the wild beast after slaying him, Stript from the three dead wolves of woman born The three gay suits of armor which they wore, And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits Of armor on their horses, each on each, And tied the bridle-reins of all the three Together, and said to her, "Drive them on Before you;" and she drove them thro' the waste. He follow'd nearer: ruth began to work Against his anger in him, while he watch'd The being he loved best in all the world, With difficulty in mild obedience Driving them on: he fain had spoken to her, And loosed in words of sudden fire the wrath And smoulder'd wrong that burnt him all within; But evermore it seem'd an easier thing At once without remorse to strike her dead, Than to cry "Halt," and to her own bright face Accuse her of the least immodesty: And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more That she could speak whom his own ear had heard Call herself false: and suffering thus he made Minutes an age: but in scarce longer time Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk, Before he turn to fall seaward again, Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold In the first shallow shade of a deep wood, Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks, Three other horsemen waiting, wholly arm'd, Whereof one seem'd far larger than her lord, And shook her pulses, crying, "Look, a prize! Three horses and three goodly suits of arms, And all in charge of whom? a girl: set on." "Nay," said the second, "yonder comes a knight." The third, "A craven; how he hangs his head." The giant answer'd merrily, "Yea, but one? Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him."

And Enid ponder'd in her heart and said, "I will abide the coming of my lord, And I will tell him all their villany. My lord is weary with the fight before, And they will fall upon him unawares. I needs must disobey him for his good; How should I dare obey him to his harm? Needs must I speak, and tho' he kill me for it, I save a life dearer to me than mine."

And she abode his coming, and said to him With timid firmness, "Have I leave to speak?" He said, "Ye take it, speaking," and she spoke.

"There lurk three villains yonder in the wood, And each of them is wholly arm'd, and one Is larger-limb'd than you are, and they say That they will fall upon you while ye pass."

To which he flung a wrathful answer back: "And if there were an hundred in the wood, And every man were larger-limb'd than I, And all at once should sally upon me, I swear it would not ruffle me so much As you that not obey me. Stand aside, And if I fall, cleave to the better man."

And Enid stood aside to wait the event, Not dare to watch the combat, only breathe Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath. And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him. Aim'd at the helm, his lance err'd; but Geraint's, A little in the late encounter strain'd, Struck thro' the bulky bandit's corselet home, And then brake short, and down his enemy roll'd, And there lay still; as he that tells the tale Saw once a great piece of a promontory, That had a sapling growing on it, slide From the long shore-cliff's windy walls to the beach, And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew: So lay the man transfixt. His craven pair Of comrades making slowlier at the Prince, When now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood; On whom the victor, to confound them more, Spurr'd with his terrible war-cry; for as one, That listens near a torrent mountain-brook, All thro' the crash of the near cataract hears The drumming thunder of the huger fall At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear His voice in battle, and be kindled by it, And foemen scared, like that false pair who turn'd Flying, but, overtaken, died the death Themselves had wrought on many an innocent.

Thereon Geraint, dismounting, pick'd the lance That pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolves Their three gay suits of armor, each from each, And bound them on their horses, each on each. And tied the bridle-reins of all the three Together, and said to her, "Drive them on Before you," and she drove them thro' the wood.

He follow'd nearer still: the pain she had To keep them in the wild ways of the wood, Two sets of three laden with jingling arms, Together, served a little to disedge The sharpness of that pain about her heart: And they themselves, like creatures gently born But into bad hands fall'n, and now so long By bandits groom'd, prick'd their light ears, and felt Her low firm voice and tender government.

So thro' the green gloom of the wood they past, And issuing under open heavens beheld A little town with towers, upon a rock, And close beneath, a meadow gemlike chased In the brown wild, and mowers mowing in it: And down a rocky pathway from the place There came a fair-hair'd youth, that in his hand Bare victual for the mowers: and Geraint Had ruth again on Enid looking pale: Then, moving downward to the meadow ground, He, when the fair-hair'd youth came by him, said, "Friend, let her eat; the damsel is so faint." "Yea, willingly," replied the youth; "and thou, My lord, eat also, tho' the fare is coarse, And only meet for mowers;" then set down His basket, and dismounting on the sward They let the horses graze, and ate themselves. And Enid took a little delicately, Less having stomach for it than desire To close with her lord's pleasure; but Geraint Ate all the mowers' victuals unawares, And when he found all empty, was amazed; And, "Boy," said he, "I have eaten all, but take A horse and arms for guerdon; choose the best." He, reddening in extremity of delight, "My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold." "Ye will be all the wealthier," cried the Prince. "I take it as free gift, then," said the boy, "Not guerdon; for myself can easily, While your good damsel rests, return, and fetch Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl; For these are his, and all the field is his, And I myself am his; and I will tell him How great a man thou art: he loves to know When men of mark are in his territory: And he will have thee to his palace here, And serve thee costlier than with mowers' fare."

Then said Geraint, "I wish no better fare: I never ate with angrier appetite Than-when I left your mowers dinnerless. And into no Earl's palace will I go. I know, God knows, too much of palaces! And if he want me, let him come to me. But hire us some fair chamber for the night, And stalling for the horses, and return With victual for these men, and let us know."

"Yea, my kind lord," said the glad youth, and went, Held his head high, and thought himself a knight, And up the rocky pathway disappear'd, Leading the horse, and they were left alone.

But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance At Enid, where she droopt: his own false doom, That shadow of mistrust should never cross Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sigh'd; Then with another humorous ruth remark'd The lusty mowers laboring dinnerless, And watched the sun blaze on the turning scythe,

And after nodded sleepily in the heat. But she, remembering her old ruin'd hall, And all the windy clamor of the daws About her hollow turret, pluck'd the grass There growing longest by the meadow's edge, And into many a listless annulet, Now over, now beneath her marriage ring, Wove and unwove it, till the boy return'd And told them of a chamber, and they went; Where, after saying to her, "if ye will, Call for the woman of the house," to which She answer'd, "Thanks, my lord;" the two remain'd Apart by all the chamber's width, and mute As creatures voiceless thro' the fault of birth, Or two wild men supporters of a shield, Painted, who stare at open space, nor glance The one at other, parted by the shield.

On a sudden, many a voice along the street, And heel against the pavement echoing, burst Their drowse; and either started while the door, Push'd from without, drave backward to the wall, And midmost of a rout of roisterers, Femininely fair and dissolutely pale, Her suitor in old years before Geraint, Enter'd, the wild lord of the place, Limours. He moving up with pliant courtliness, Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily, In the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt hand, Found Enid with the corner of his eye, And knew her sitting sad and solitary. Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly cheer To feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously According to his fashion, bade the host Call in what men soever were his friends, And feast with these in honor of their Earl; "And care not for the cost; the cost is mine." And wine and food were brought, and Earl Limours Drank till he jested with all ease, and told Free tales, and took the word and play'd upon it, And made it of two colors; for his talk, When wine and free companions kindled him, Was wont to glance and sparkle like a gem Of fifty facets; thus he moved the Prince To laughter and his comrades to applause. Then, when the Prince was merry, ask'd Limours "Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and speak To your good damsel there who sits apart, And seems so lonely?" "My free leave," he said; "Get her to speak: she doth not speak to me." Then rose Limours, and looking at his feet, Like him who tries the bridge he fears may fail, Crost and came near, lifted adoring eyes, Bow'd at her side and utter'd whisperingly:

"Enid, the pilot star of my lone life, Enid, my early and my only love, Enid, the loss of whom hath turn'd me wild— What chance is this? how is it I see you here? Ye are in my power at last, are in my power. Yet fear me not: I call mine own self wild, But keep a touch of sweet civility Here in the heart of waste and wilderness. I thought, but that your father came between, In former days you saw me favorably. And if it were so do not keep it back: Make me a little happier: let me know it: Owe you me nothing for a life half-lost? Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you are. And, Enid, you and he, I see with joy, Ye sit apart, you do not speak to him, You come with no attendance, page or maid, To serve you—doth he love you as of old? For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know Tho' men may bicker with the things they love, They would not make them laughable in all eyes, Not while they loved them; and your wretched dress, A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks Your story, that this man loves you no more. Your beauty is no beauty to him now: A common chance—right well I know it—pall'd— For I know men: nor will ye win him back, For the man's love once gone never returns. But here is one who loves you as of old; With more exceeding passion than of old: Good, speak the word: my followers ring him round: He sits unarm'd; I hold a finger up; They understand: nay; I do not mean blood: Nor need ye look so scared at what I say: My malice is no deeper than a moat, No stronger than a wall: there is the keep; He shall not cross us more; speak but the word: Or speak it not; but then by him that made me The one true lover whom you ever own'd, I will make use of all the power I have. O pardon me! the madness of that hour, When first I parted from thee, moves me yet."

At this the tender sound of his own voice And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it Made his eye moist; but Enid fear'd his eyes, Moist as they were, wine-heated from the feast; And answered with such craft as women use, Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance That breaks upon them perilously, and said:

"Earl, if you love me as in former years, And do not practice on me, come with morn, And snatch me from him as by violence; Leave me to-night: I am weary to the death."

Low at leave-taking, with his brandish'd plume Brushing his instep, bow'd the all-amorous Earl. And the stout Prince bade him a loud good-night. He moving homeward babbled to his men, How Enid never loved a man but him, Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her lord.

But Enid left alone with Prince Geraint, Debating his command of silence given, And that she now perforce must violate it, Held commune with herself, and while she held He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart To wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly pleased To find him yet unwounded after fight, And hear him breathing low and equally. Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heap'd The pieces of his armor in one place, All to be there against a sudden need; Then dozed awhile herself, but over-toil'd By that day's grief and travel, evermore Seem'd catching at a rootless thorn, and then Went slipping down horrible precipices, And strongly striking out her limbs awoke; Then thought she heard the wild Earl at the door, With all his rout of random followers, Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summoning her; Which was the red cock shouting to the light, As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy world, And glimmer'd on his armor in the room. And once again she rose to look at it, But touch'd it unawares: jangling, the casque Fell, and he started up and stared at her. Then breaking his command of silence given, She told him all that Earl Limours had said, Except the passage that he loved her not; Nor left unto the craft herself had used; But ended with apology so sweet, Low-spoken, and of so few words, and seem'd So justified by that necessity, That tho' he thought "was it for him she wept In Devon?" he but gave a wrathful groan, Saying, "Your sweet faces make good fellows fools And traitors. Call the host and bid him bring Charger and palfrey." So she glided out Among the heavy breathings of the house, And like a household Spirit at the walls Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and return'd. Then tending her rough lord, tho' all unask'd, In silence, did him service as a squire; Till issuing arm'd he found the host and cried, "Thy reckoning, friend?" and ere he learnt it, "Take Five horses and their armors;" and the host Suddenly honest, answer'd in amaze, "My lord, I scarce have spent the worth of one!" "Ye will be all the wealthier," said the Prince, And then to Enid, "Forward! and to-day I charge you, Enid, more especially, What thing soever ye may hear, or see, Or fancy (tho' I count it of small use To charge you) that ye speak not but obey."

And Enid answer'd, "Yea, my lord, I know Your wish, and would obey; but riding first, I hear the violent threats you do not hear, I see the danger which you cannot see: Then not to give you warning, that seems hard; Almost beyond me: yet I would obey."

"Yea so," said he, "do it: be not too wise; Seeing that ye are wedded to a man, Not all mismated with a yawning clown, But one with arms to guard his head and yours, With eyes to find you out however far, And ears to hear you even in his dreams."

With that he turn'd and look'd as keenly at her As careful robins eye the delver's toil; And that within her, which a wanton fool, Or hasty judger would have call'd her guilt, Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall. And Geraint look'd and was not satisfied.

Then forward by a way which, beaten broad, Led from the territory of false Limours To the waste earldom of another earl, Doorm, whom his shaking vassals call'd the Bull, Went Enid with her sullen follower on. Once she look'd back, and when she saw him ride More near by many a rood than yestermorn, It wellnigh made her cheerful; till Geraint Waving an angry hand as who should say "Ye watch me," sadden'd all her heart again. But while the sun yet beat a dewy blade, The sound of many a heavily-galloping hoof Smote on her ear, and turning round she saw Dust, and the points of lances bicker in it. Then not to disobey her lord's behest, And yet to give him warning, for he rode As if he heard not, moving back she held Her finger up, and pointed to the dust. At which the warrior in his obstinacy, Because she kept the letter of his word, Was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood. And in the moment after, wild Limours, Borne on a black horse, like a thunder-cloud Whose skirts are loosen'd by the breaking storm, Half ridden off with by the thing he rode, And all in passion uttering a dry shriek, Dash'd on Geraint, who closed with him, and bore Down by the length of lance and arm beyond The crupper, and so left him stunn'd or dead, And overthrew the next that follow'd him, And blindly rush'd on all the rout behind. But at the flash and motion of the man They vanish'd panic-stricken, like a shoal Of darting fish, that on a summer morn Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot Come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand, But if a man who stands upon the brink But lift a shining hand against the sun, There is not left the twinkle of a fin Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower; So, scared but at the motion of the man, Fled all the boon companions of the Earl, And left him lying in the public way; So vanish friendships only made in wine.

Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint, Who saw the chargers of the two that fell Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly, Mixt with the flyers. "Horse and man," he said, "All of one mind and all right-honest friends! Not a hoof left: and I methinks till now Was honest—paid with horses and with arms; I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg: And so what say ye, shall we strip him there Your lover? has your palfrey heart enough To bear his armor? shall we fast, or dine? No?—then do thou, being right honest, pray That we may meet the horsemen of Earl Doorm. I too would still be honest." Thus he said: And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins, And answering not a word, she led the way.

But as a man to whom a dreadful loss Falls in a far land and he knows it not, But coming back he learns it, and the loss So pains him that he sickens nigh to death; So fared it with Geraint, who being prick'd In combat with the follower of Limours, Bled underneath his armor secretly, And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife What ail'd him, hardly knowing it himself, Till his eye darken'd and his helmet wagg'd; And at a sudden swerving of the road, Tho' happily down on a bank of grass, The Prince, without a word, from his horse fell.

And Enid heard the clashing of his fall, Suddenly came, and at his side all pale Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms, Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound, And tearing off her veil of faded silk Had bared her forehead to the blistering sun, And swathed the hurt that drain'd her dear lord's life. Then after all was done that hand could do, She rested, and her desolation came Upon her, and she wept beside the way.

And many past, but none regarded her, For in that realm of lawless turbulence, A woman weeping for her murder'd mate Was cared as much for as a summer shower: One took him for a victim of Earl Doorm, Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him: Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms, Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl; Half whistling and half singing a coarse song, He drove the dust against her veilless eyes: Another, flying from the wrath of Doorm Before an ever-fancied arrow, made The long way smoke beneath him in his fear; At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel And scour'd into the coppices and was lost, While the great charger stood, grieved like a man.

But at the point of noon the huge Earl Doorm, Broad-faced with under-fringe of russet beard, Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey, Came riding with a hundred lances up; But ere he came, like one that hails a ship, Cried out with a big voice, "What, is he dead?" "No, no, not dead!" she answer'd in all haste. "Would some of your kind people take him up, And bear him hence out of this cruel sun? Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead."

Then said Earl Doorm: "Well, if he be not dead, Why wail ye for him thus? ye seem a child. And be he dead, I count you for a fool; Your wailing will not quicken him: dead or not, Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears. Yet, since the face is comely—some of you, Here, take him up, and bear him to our hall: An if he live, we will have him of our band; And if he die, why earth has earth enough To hide him. See ye take the charger too, A noble one."

He spake, and past away, But left two brawny spearmen, who advanced, Each growling like a dog, when his good bone Seems to be pluck'd at by the village boys Who love to vex him eating, and he fears To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it, Gnawing and growling: so the ruffians growl'd, Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man, Their chance of booty from the morning's raid, Yet raised and laid him on a litter-bier, Such as they brought upon their forays out For those that might be wounded; laid him on it All in the hollow of his shield, and took And bore him to the naked hall of Doorm, (His gentle charger following him unled) And cast him and the bier in which he lay Down on an oaken settle in the hall, And then departed, hot in haste to join Their luckier mates, but growling as before, And cursing their lost time, and the dead man, And their own Earl, and their own souls, and her. They might as well have blest her: she was deaf To blessing or to cursing save from one.

So for long hours sat Enid by her lord, There in the naked hall, propping his head, And chafing his pale hands, and calling to him. Till at the last he waken'd from his swoon, And found his own dear bride propping his head, And chafing his faint hands, and calling to him; And felt the warm tears falling on his face; And said to his own heart, "She weeps for me:" And yet lay still, and feign'd himself as dead, That he might prove her to the uttermost, And say to his own heart, "She weeps for me."

But in the falling afternoon return'd The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall. His lusty spearmen follow'd him with noise: Each hurling down a heap of things that rang Against the pavement, cast his lance aside, And doff'd his helm: and then there flutter'd in, Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes, A tribe of women, dress'd in many hues, And mingled with the spearmen: and Earl Doorm Struck with a knife's haft hard against the board, And call'd for flesh and wine to feed his spears. And men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves. And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh:



And none spake word, but all sat down at once, And ate with tumult in the naked hall, Feeding like horses when you hear them feed; Till Enid shrank far back into herself, To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe. But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would, He roll'd his eyes about the hall, and found A damsel drooping in a corner of it. Then he remember'd her, and how she wept; And out of her there came a power upon him; And rising on the sudden he said, "Eat! I never yet beheld a thing so pale. God's curse, it makes me mad to see you weep. Eat! Look yourself. Good luck had your good man, For were I dead who is it would weep for me? Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath Have I beheld a lily like yourself. And so there lived some color in your cheek, There is not one among my gentlewomen Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove. But listen to me, and by me be ruled, And I will do the thing I have not done, For ye shall share my earldom with me, girl, And we will live like two birds in one nest, And I will fetch you forage from all fields, For I compel all creatures to my will."

He spoke: the brawny spearman let his cheek Bulge with the unswallowed piece, and turning stared; While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawn Down, as the worm draws in the wither'd leaf And makes it earth, hiss'd each at other's ear What shall not be recorded—women they, Women, or what had been those gracious things, But now desired the humbling of their best, Yea, would have help'd him to it: and all at once They hated her, who took no thought of them, But answer'd in low voice, her meek head yet Drooping, "I pray you of your courtesy, He being as he is, to let me be."

She spake so low he hardly heard her speak, But like a mighty patron, satisfied With what himself had done so graciously, Assumed that she had thank'd him, adding, "Yea, Eat and be glad, for I account you mine."

She answer'd meekly, "How should I be glad Henceforth in all the world at anything, Until my lord arise and look upon me?"

Here the huge Earl cried out upon her talk, As all but empty heart and weariness And sickly nothing; suddenly seized on her, And bare her by main violence to the board, And thrust the dish before her, crying, "Eat." "No, no," said Enid, vext, "I will not eat Till yonder man upon the bier arise, And eat with me." "Drink, then," he answer'd. "Here!" (And fill'd a horn with wine and held it to her.) "Lo! I, myself, when flush'd with fight, or hot, God's curse, with anger—often I myself, Before I well have drunken, scarce can eat: Drink therefore and the wine will change your will."

"Not so," she cried, "By Heaven, I will not drink Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it, And drink with me; and if he rise no more, I will not look at wine until I die."

At this he turned all red and paced his hall, Now gnaw'd his under, now his upper lip, And coming up close to her, said at last: "Girl, for I see ye scorn my courtesies, Take warning: yonder man is surely dead; And I compel all creatures to my will. Not eat nor drink? And wherefore wail for one, Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn By dressing it in rags? Amazed am I, Beholding how ye butt against my wish, That I forbear you thus: cross me no more. At least put off to please me this poor gown, This silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed: I love that beauty should go beautifully: For see ye not my gentlewomen here, How gay, how suited to the house of one Who loves that beauty should go beautifully? Rise therefore; robe yourself in this: obey."

He spoke, and one among his gentlewomen Display'd a splendid silk of foreign loom, Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue Play'd into green, and thicker down the front With jewels than the sward with drops of dew, When all night long a cloud clings to the hill, And with the dawn ascending lets the day Strike where it clung: so thickly shone the gems.

But Enid answer'd, harder to be moved Than hardest tyrants in their day of power, With life-long injuries burning unavenged, And now their hour has come: and Enid said:

"In this poor gown my dear lord found me first, And loved me serving in my father's hall: In this poor gown I rode with him to court, And there the Queen array'd me like the sun: In this poor gown he bade me clothe myself, When now we rode upon this fatal quest Of honor, where no honor can be gain'd: And this poor gown I will not cast aside Until himself arise a living man, And bid me cast it. I have griefs enough: Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be: I never loved, can never love but him: Yea, God, I pray you of your gentleness, He being as he is, to let me be."

Then strode the brute Earl up and down his hall, And took his russet beard between his teeth; Last, coming up quite close, and in his mood Crying, "I count it of no more avail, Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you; Take my salute," unknightly with flat hand, However, lightly, smote her on the cheek.

Then Enid, in her utter helplessness, And since she thought, "He had not dared to do it, Except he surely knew my lord was dead," Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry, As of a wild thing taken in the trap, Which sees the trapper coming thro' the wood.

This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword, (It lay beside him in the hollow shield), Made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it Shore thro' the swarthy neck, and like a ball The russet-bearded head roll'd on the floor. So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead. And all the men and women in the hall Rose when they saw the dead man rise, and fled Yelling as from a spectre, and the two Were left alone together, and he said: "Enid, I have used you worse than that dead man; Done you more wrong: we both have undergone That trouble which has left me thrice your own: Henceforward I will rather die than doubt. And here I lay this penance on myself, Not, tho' mine own ears heard you yestermorn— You thought me sleeping, but I heard you say, I heard you say, that you were no true wife: I swear I will not ask your meaning in it: I do believe yourself against yourself, And will henceforward rather die than doubt."

And Enid could not say one tender word, She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart: She only pray'd him, "Fly, they will return And slay you; fly, your charger is without, My palfrey lost." "Then, Enid, shall you ride Behind me." "Yea," said Enid, "let us go." And moving out they found the stately horse, Who now no more a vassal to the thief, But free to stretch his limbs in lawful fight, Neigh'd with all gladness as they came, and stoop'd With a low whinny toward the pair: and she Kiss'd the white star upon his noble front, Glad also; then Geraint upon the horse Mounted, and reach'd a hand, and on his foot She set her own and climb'd; he turn'd his face And kiss'd her climbing, and she cast her arms About him, and at once they rode away.

And never yet, since high in Paradise O'er the four rivers the first roses blew, Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind Than lived thro' her, who in that perilous hour Put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart, And felt him hers again: she did not weep, But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist Like that which kept the heart of Eden green Before the useful trouble of the rain: Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes As not to see before them on the path, Right in the gateway of the bandit hold, A knight of Arthur's court, who laid his lance In rest, and made as if to fall upon him. Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of blood, She, with her mind all full of what had chanced, Shriek'd to the stranger "Slay not a dead man!" "The voice of Enid," said the knight; but she, Beholding it was Edyrn, son of Nudd, Was moved so much the more, and shriek'd again, "O cousin, slay not him who gave you life." And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake: "My lord Geraint, I greet you with all love; I took you for a bandit knight of Doorm; And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him, Who love you, Prince, with something of the love Wherewith we love the Heaven that chastens us. For once, when I was up so high in pride That I was half-way down the slope to Hell, By overthrowing me you threw me higher. Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table Round, And since I knew this Earl, when I myself Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, I come the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm (The King is close behind me) bidding him Disband himself, and scatter all his powers, Submit, and hear the judgment of the King."