Gareth And Lynette
Lines:1430Movement:Victorian
The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent,And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful springStared at the spate. A slender-shafted PineLost footing, fell, and so was whirled away.'How he went down,' said Gareth, 'as a false knightOr evil king before my lance if lanceWere mine to use--O senseless cataract,Bearing all down in thy precipitancy--And yet thou art but swollen with cold snowsAnd mine is living blood: thou dost His will,The Maker's, and not knowest, and I that know,Have strength and wit, in my good mother's hallLinger with vacillating obedience,Prisoned, and kept and coaxed and whistled to--Since the good mother holds me still a child!Good mother is bad mother unto me!A worse were better; yet no worse would I.Heaven yield her for it, but in me put forceTo weary her ears with one continuous prayer,Until she let me fly discaged to sweepIn ever-highering eagle-circles upTo the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoopDown upon all things base, and dash them dead,A knight of Arthur, working out his will,To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he cameWith Modred hither in the summertime,Asked me to tilt with him, the proven knight.Modred for want of worthier was the judge.Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said,"Thou hast half prevailed against me," said so--he--Though Modred biting his thin lips was mute,For he is alway sullen: what care I?' And Gareth went, and hovering round her chairAsked, 'Mother, though ye count me still the child,Sweet mother, do ye love the child?' She laughed,'Thou art but a wild-goose to question it.''Then, mother, an ye love the child,' he said,'Being a goose and rather tame than wild,Hear the child's story.' 'Yea, my well-beloved,An 'twere but of the goose and golden eggs.' And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes,'Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mineWas finer gold than any goose can lay;For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laidAlmost beyond eye-reach, on such a palmAs glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours.And there was ever haunting round the palmA lusty youth, but poor, who often sawThe splendour sparkling from aloft, and thought"An I could climb and lay my hand upon it,Then were I wealthier than a leash of kings."But ever when he reached a hand to climb,One, that had loved him from his childhood, caughtAnd stayed him, "Climb not lest thou break thy neck,I charge thee by my love," and so the boy,Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor brake his neck,But brake his very heart in pining for it,And past away.' To whom the mother said,'True love, sweet son, had risked himself and climbed,And handed down the golden treasure to him.' And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes,'Gold?' said I gold?--ay then, why he, or she,Or whosoe'er it was, or half the worldHad ventured--HAD the thing I spake of beenMere gold--but this was all of that true steel,Whereof they forged the brand Excalibur,And lightnings played about it in the storm,And all the little fowl were flurried at it,And there were cries and clashings in the nest,That sent him from his senses: let me go.' Then Bellicent bemoaned herself and said,'Hast thou no pity upon my loneliness?Lo, where thy father Lot beside the hearthLies like a log, and all but smouldered out!For ever since when traitor to the KingHe fought against him in the Barons' war,And Arthur gave him back his territory,His age hath slowly droopt, and now lies thereA yet-warm corpse, and yet unburiable,No more; nor sees, nor hears, nor speaks, nor knows.And both thy brethren are in Arthur's hall,Albeit neither loved with that full loveI feel for thee, nor worthy such a love:Stay therefore thou; red berries charm the bird,And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the wars,Who never knewest finger-ache, nor pangOf wrenched or broken limb--an often chanceIn those brain-stunning shocks, and tourney-falls,Frights to my heart; but stay: follow the deerBy these tall firs and our fast-falling burns;So make thy manhood mightier day by day;Sweet is the chase: and I will seek thee outSome comfortable bride and fair, to graceThy climbing life, and cherish my prone year,Till falling into Lot's forgetfulnessI know not thee, myself, nor anything.Stay, my best son! ye are yet more boy than man.' Then Gareth, 'An ye hold me yet for child,Hear yet once more the story of the child.For, mother, there was once a King, like ours.The prince his heir, when tall and marriageable,Asked for a bride; and thereupon the KingSet two before him. One was fair, strong, armed--But to be won by force--and many menDesired her; one good lack, no man desired.And these were the conditions of the King:That save he won the first by force, he needsMust wed that other, whom no man desired,A red-faced bride who knew herself so vile,That evermore she longed to hide herself,Nor fronted man or woman, eye to eye--Yea--some she cleaved to, but they died of her.And one--they called her Fame; and one,--O Mother,How can ye keep me tethered to you--Shame.Man am I grown, a man's work must I do.Follow the deer? follow the Christ, the King,Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King--Else, wherefore born?' To whom the mother said'Sweet son, for there be many who deem him not,Or will not deem him, wholly proven King--Albeit in mine own heart I knew him King,When I was frequent with him in my youth,And heard him Kingly speak, and doubted himNo more than he, himself; but felt him mine,Of closest kin to me: yet--wilt thou leaveThine easeful biding here, and risk thine all,Life, limbs, for one that is not proven King?Stay, till the cloud that settles round his birthHath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet son.' And Gareth answered quickly, 'Not an hour,So that ye yield me--I will walk through fire,Mother, to gain it--your full leave to go.Not proven, who swept the dust of ruined RomeFrom off the threshold of the realm, and crushedThe Idolaters, and made the people free?Who should be King save him who makes us free?' So when the Queen, who long had sought in vainTo break him from the intent to which he grew,Found her son's will unwaveringly one,She answered craftily, 'Will ye walk through fire?Who walks through fire will hardly heed the smoke.Ay, go then, an ye must: only one proof,Before thou ask the King to make thee knight,Of thine obedience and thy love to me,Thy mother,--I demand. And Gareth cried,'A hard one, or a hundred, so I go.Nay--quick! the proof to prove me to the quick!' But slowly spake the mother looking at him,'Prince, thou shalt go disguised to Arthur's hall,And hire thyself to serve for meats and drinksAmong the scullions and the kitchen-knaves,And those that hand the dish across the bar.Nor shalt thou tell thy name to anyone.And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth and a day.' For so the Queen believed that when her sonBeheld his only way to glory leadLow down through villain kitchen-vassalage,Her own true Gareth was too princely-proudTo pass thereby; so should he rest with her,Closed in her castle from the sound of arms. Silent awhile was Gareth, then replied,'The thrall in person may be free in soul,And I shall see the jousts. Thy son am I,And since thou art my mother, must obey.I therefore yield me freely to thy will;For hence will I, disguised, and hire myselfTo serve with scullions and with kitchen-knaves;Nor tell my name to any--no, not the King.' Gareth awhile lingered. The mother's eyeFull of the wistful fear that he would go,And turning toward him wheresoe'er he turned,Perplext his outward purpose, till an hour,When wakened by the wind which with full voiceSwept bellowing through the darkness on to dawn,He rose, and out of slumber calling twoThat still had tended on him from his birth,Before the wakeful mother heard him, went. The three were clad like tillers of the soil.Southward they set their faces. The birds madeMelody on branch, and melody in mid air.The damp hill-slopes were quickened into green,And the live green had kindled into flowers,For it was past the time of Easterday. So, when their feet were planted on the plainThat broadened toward the base of Camelot,Far off they saw the silver-misty mornRolling her smoke about the Royal mount,That rose between the forest and the field.At times the summit of the high city flashed;At times the spires and turrets half-way downPricked through the mist; at times the great gate shoneOnly, that opened on the field below:Anon, the whole fair city had disappeared. Then those who went with Gareth were amazed,One crying, 'Let us go no further, lord.Here is a city of Enchanters, builtBy fairy Kings.' The second echoed him,'Lord, we have heard from our wise man at homeTo Northward, that this King is not the King,But only changeling out of Fairyland,Who drave the heathen hence by sorceryAnd Merlin's glamour.' Then the first again,'Lord, there is no such city anywhere,But all a vision.' Gareth answered themWith laughter, swearing he had glamour enowIn his own blood, his princedom, youth and hopes,To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian sea;So pushed them all unwilling toward the gate.And there was no gate like it under heaven.For barefoot on the keystone, which was linedAnd rippled like an ever-fleeting wave,The Lady of the Lake stood: all her dressWept from her sides as water flowing away;But like the cross her great and goodly armsStretched under the cornice and upheld:And drops of water fell from either hand;And down from one a sword was hung, from oneA censer, either worn with wind and storm;And o'er her breast floated the sacred fish;And in the space to left of her, and right,Were Arthur's wars in weird devices done,New things and old co-twisted, as if TimeWere nothing, so inveterately, that menWere giddy gazing there; and over allHigh on the top were those three Queens, the friendsOf Arthur, who should help him at his need. Then those with Gareth for so long a spaceStared at the figures, that at last it seemedThe dragon-boughts and elvish emblemingsBegan to move, seethe, twine and curl: they calledTo Gareth, 'Lord, the gateway is alive.' And Gareth likewise on them fixt his eyesSo long, that even to him they seemed to move.Out of the city a blast of music pealed.Back from the gate started the three, to whomFrom out thereunder came an ancient man,Long-bearded, saying, 'Who be ye, my sons?' Then Gareth, 'We be tillers of the soil,Who leaving share in furrow come to seeThe glories of our King: but these, my men,(Your city moved so weirdly in the mist)Doubt if the King be King at all, or comeFrom Fairyland; and whether this be builtBy magic, and by fairy Kings and Queens;Or whether there be any city at all,Or all a vision: and this music nowHath scared them both, but tell thou these the truth.' Then that old Seer made answer playing on himAnd saying, 'Son, I have seen the good ship sailKeel upward, and mast downward, in the heavens,And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air:And here is truth; but an it please thee not,Take thou the truth as thou hast told it me.For truly as thou sayest, a Fairy KingAnd Fairy Queens have built the city, son;They came from out a sacred mountain-cleftToward the sunrise, each with harp in hand,And built it to the music of their harps.And, as thou sayest, it is enchanted, son,For there is nothing in it as it seemsSaving the King; though some there be that holdThe King a shadow, and the city real:Yet take thou heed of him, for, so thou passBeneath this archway, then wilt thou becomeA thrall to his enchantments, for the KingWill bind thee by such vows, as is a shameA man should not be bound by, yet the whichNo man can keep; but, so thou dread to swear,Pass not beneath this gateway, but abideWithout, among the cattle of the field.For an ye heard a music, like enowThey are building still, seeing the city is builtTo music, therefore never built at all,And therefore built for ever.' Gareth spakeAngered, 'Old master, reverence thine own beardThat looks as white as utter truth, and seemsWellnigh as long as thou art statured tall!Why mockest thou the stranger that hath beenTo thee fair-spoken?' But the Seer replied,'Know ye not then the Riddling of the Bards?"Confusion, and illusion, and relation,Elusion, and occasion, and evasion"?I mock thee not but as thou mockest me,And all that see thee, for thou art not whoThou seemest, but I know thee who thou art.And now thou goest up to mock the King,Who cannot brook the shadow of any lie.' Unmockingly the mocker ending hereTurned to the right, and past along the plain;Whom Gareth looking after said, 'My men,Our one white lie sits like a little ghostHere on the threshold of our enterprise.Let love be blamed for it, not she, nor I:Well, we will make amends.' With all good cheerHe spake and laughed, then entered with his twainCamelot, a city of shadowy palacesAnd stately, rich in emblem and the workOf ancient kings who did their days in stone;Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at Arthur's court,Knowing all arts, had touched, and everywhereAt Arthur's ordinance, tipt with lessening peakAnd pinnacle, and had made it spire to heaven.And ever and anon a knight would passOutward, or inward to the hall: his armsClashed; and the sound was good to Gareth's ear.And out of bower and casement shyly glancedEyes of pure women, wholesome stars of love;And all about a healthful people steptAs in the presence of a gracious king. Then into hall Gareth ascending heardA voice, the voice of Arthur, and beheldFar over heads in that long-vaulted hallThe splendour of the presence of the KingThroned, and delivering doom--and looked no more--But felt his young heart hammering in his ears,And thought, 'For this half-shadow of a lieThe truthful King will doom me when I speak.'Yet pressing on, though all in fear to findSir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor oneNor other, but in all the listening eyesOf those tall knights, that ranged about the throne,Clear honour shining like the dewy starOf dawn, and faith in their great King, with pureAffection, and the light of victory,And glory gained, and evermore to gain.Then came a widow crying to the King,'A boon, Sir King! Thy father, Uther, reftFrom my dead lord a field with violence:For howsoe'er at first he proffered gold,Yet, for the field was pleasant in our eyes,We yielded not; and then he reft us of itPerforce, and left us neither gold nor field.' Said Arthur, 'Whether would ye? gold or field?'To whom the woman weeping, 'Nay, my lord,The field was pleasant in my husband's eye.' And Arthur, 'Have thy pleasant field again,And thrice the gold for Uther's use thereof,According to the years. No boon is here,But justice, so thy say be proven true.Accursed, who from the wrongs his father didWould shape himself a right!' And while she past,Came yet another widow crying to him,'A boon, Sir King! Thine enemy, King, am I.With thine own hand thou slewest my dear lord,A knight of Uther in the Barons' war,When Lot and many another rose and foughtAgainst thee, saying thou wert basely born.I held with these, and loathe to ask thee aught.Yet lo! my husband's brother had my sonThralled in his castle, and hath starved him dead;And standeth seized of that inheritanceWhich thou that slewest the sire hast left the son.So though I scarce can ask it thee for hate,Grant me some knight to do the battle for me,Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for my son.' Then strode a good knight forward, crying to him,'A boon, Sir King! I am her kinsman, I.Give me to right her wrong, and slay the man.' Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, and cried,'A boon, Sir King! even that thou grant her none,This railer, that hath mocked thee in full hall--None; or the wholesome boon of gyve and gag.' But Arthur, 'We sit King, to help the wrongedThrough all our realm. The woman loves her lord.Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves and hates!The kings of old had doomed thee to the flames,Aurelius Emrys would have scourged thee dead,And Uther slit thy tongue: but get thee hence--Lest that rough humour of the kings of oldReturn upon me! Thou that art her kin,Go likewise; lay him low and slay him not,But bring him here, that I may judge the right,According to the justice of the King:Then, be he guilty, by that deathless KingWho lived and died for men, the man shall die.' Then came in hall the messenger of Mark,A name of evil savour in the land,The Cornish king. In either hand he boreWhat dazzled all, and shone far-off as shinesA field of charlock in the sudden sunBetween two showers, a cloth of palest gold,Which down he laid before the throne, and knelt,Delivering, that his lord, the vassal king,Was even upon his way to Camelot;For having heard that Arthur of his graceHad made his goodly cousin, Tristram, knight,And, for himself was of the greater state,Being a king, he trusted his liege-lordWould yield him this large honour all the more;So prayed him well to accept this cloth of gold,In token of true heart and felty. Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, to rendIn pieces, and so cast it on the hearth.An oak-tree smouldered there. 'The goodly knight!What! shall the shield of Mark stand among these?'For, midway down the side of that long hallA stately pile,--whereof along the front,Some blazoned, some but carven, and some blank,There ran a treble range of stony shields,--Rose, and high-arching overbrowed the hearth.And under every shield a knight was named:For this was Arthur's custom in his hall;When some good knight had done one noble deed,His arms were carven only; but if twainHis arms were blazoned also; but if none,The shield was blank and bare without a signSaving the name beneath; and Gareth sawThe shield of Gawain blazoned rich and bright,And Modred's blank as death; and Arthur criedTo rend the cloth and cast it on the hearth. 'More like are we to reave him of his crownThan make him knight because men call him king.The kings we found, ye know we stayed their handsFrom war among themselves, but left them kings;Of whom were any bounteous, merciful,Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, them we enrolledAmong us, and they sit within our hall.But as Mark hath tarnished the great name of king,As Mark would sully the low state of churl:And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of gold,Return, and meet, and hold him from our eyes,Lest we should lap him up in cloth of lead,Silenced for ever--craven--a man of plots,Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside ambushings--No fault of thine: let Kay the seneschalLook to thy wants, and send thee satisfied--Accursed, who strikes nor lets the hand be seen!' And many another suppliant crying cameWith noise of ravage wrought by beast and man,And evermore a knight would ride away. Last, Gareth leaning both hands heavilyDown on the shoulders of the twain, his men,Approached between them toward the King, and asked,'A boon, Sir King (his voice was all ashamed),For see ye not how weak and hungerwornI seem--leaning on these? grant me to serveFor meat and drink among thy kitchen-knavesA twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my name.Hereafter I will fight.' To him the King,'A goodly youth and worth a goodlier boon!But so thou wilt no goodlier, then must Kay,The master of the meats and drinks, be thine.' He rose and past; then Kay, a man of mienWan-sallow as the plant that feels itselfRoot-bitten by white lichen, 'Lo ye now!This fellow hath broken from some Abbey, where,God wot, he had not beef and brewis enow,However that might chance! but an he work,Like any pigeon will I cram his crop,And sleeker shall he shine than any hog.' Then Lancelot standing near, 'Sir Seneschal,Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, and all the hounds;A horse thou knowest, a man thou dost not know:Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and fine,High nose, a nostril large and fine, and handsLarge, fair and fine!--Some young lad's mystery--But, or from sheepcot or king's hall, the boyIs noble-natured. Treat him with all grace,Lest he should come to shame thy judging of him.' Then Kay, 'What murmurest thou of mystery?Think ye this fellow will poison the King's dish?Nay, for he spake too fool-like: mystery!Tut, an the lad were noble, he had askedFor horse and armour: fair and fine, forsooth!Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands? but see thou to itThat thine own fineness, Lancelot, some fine dayUndo thee not--and leave my man to me.' So Gareth all for glory underwentThe sooty yoke of kitchen-vassalage;Ate with young lads his portion by the door,And couched at night with grimy kitchen-knaves.And Lancelot ever spake him pleasantly,But Kay the seneschal, who loved him not,Would hustle and harry him, and labour himBeyond his comrade of the hearth, and setTo turn the broach, draw water, or hew wood,Or grosser tasks; and Gareth bowed himselfWith all obedience to the King, and wroughtAll kind of service with a noble easeThat graced the lowliest act in doing it.And when the thralls had talk among themselves,And one would praise the love that linkt the KingAnd Lancelot--how the King had saved his lifeIn battle twice, and Lancelot once the King's--For Lancelot was the first in Tournament,But Arthur mightiest on the battle-field--Gareth was glad. Or if some other told,How once the wandering forester at dawn,Far over the blue tarns and hazy seas,On Caer-Eryri's highest found the King,A naked babe, of whom the Prophet spake,'He passes to the Isle Avilion,He passes and is healed and cannot die'--Gareth was glad. But if their talk were foul,Then would he whistle rapid as any lark,Or carol some old roundelay, and so loudThat first they mocked, but, after, reverenced him.Or Gareth telling some prodigious taleOf knights, who sliced a red life-bubbling wayThrough twenty folds of twisted dragon, heldAll in a gap-mouthed circle his good matesLying or sitting round him, idle hands,Charmed; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, would comeBlustering upon them, like a sudden windAmong dead leaves, and drive them all apart.Or when the thralls had sport among themselves,So there were any trial of mastery,He, by two yards in casting bar or stoneWas counted best; and if there chanced a joust,So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to go,Would hurry thither, and when he saw the knightsClash like the coming and retiring wave,And the spear spring, and good horse reel, the boyWas half beyond himself for ecstasy. So for a month he wrought among the thralls;But in the weeks that followed, the good Queen,Repentant of the word she made him swear,And saddening in her childless castle, sent,Between the in-crescent and de-crescent moon,Arms for her son, and loosed him from his vow. This, Gareth hearing from a squire of LotWith whom he used to play at tourney once,When both were children, and in lonely hauntsWould scratch a ragged oval on the sand,And each at either dash from either end--Shame never made girl redder than Gareth joy.He laughed; he sprang. 'Out of the smoke, at onceI leap from Satan's foot to Peter's knee--These news be mine, none other's--nay, the King's--Descend into the city:' whereon he soughtThe King alone, and found, and told him all. 'I have staggered thy strong Gawain in a tiltFor pastime; yea, he said it: joust can I.Make me thy knight--in secret! let my nameBe hidden, and give me the first quest, I springLike flame from ashes.' Here the King's calm eyeFell on, and checked, and made him flush, and bowLowly, to kiss his hand, who answered him,'Son, the good mother let me know thee here,And sent her wish that I would yield thee thine.Make thee my knight? my knights are sworn to vowsOf utter hardihood, utter gentleness,And, loving, utter faithfulness in love,And uttermost obedience to the King.' Then Gareth, lightly springing from his knees,'My King, for hardihood I can promise thee.For uttermost obedience make demandOf whom ye gave me to, the Seneschal,No mellow master of the meats and drinks!And as for love, God wot, I love not yet,But love I shall, God willing.' And the King'Make thee my knight in secret? yea, but he,Our noblest brother, and our truest man,And one with me in all, he needs must know.' 'Let Lancelot know, my King, let Lancelot know,Thy noblest and thy truest!' And the King--'But wherefore would ye men should wonder at you?Nay, rather for the sake of me, their King,And the deed's sake my knighthood do the deed,Than to be noised of.' Merrily Gareth asked,'Have I not earned my cake in baking of it?Let be my name until I make my name!My deeds will speak: it is but for a day.'So with a kindly hand on Gareth's armSmiled the great King, and half-unwillinglyLoving his lusty youthhood yielded to him.Then, after summoning Lancelot privily,'I have given him the first quest: he is not proven.Look therefore when he calls for this in hall,Thou get to horse and follow him far away.Cover the lions on thy shield, and seeFar as thou mayest, he be nor ta'en nor slain.' Then that same day there past into the hallA damsel of high lineage, and a browMay-blossom, and a cheek of apple-blossom,Hawk-eyes; and lightly was her slender noseTip-tilted like the petal of a flower;She into hall past with her page and cried, 'O King, for thou hast driven the foe without,See to the foe within! bridge, ford, besetBy bandits, everyone that owns a towerThe Lord for half a league. Why sit ye there?Rest would I not, Sir King, an I were king,Till even the lonest hold were all as freeFrom cursd bloodshed, as thine altar-clothFrom that best blood it is a sin to spill.' 'Comfort thyself,' said Arthur. 'I nor mineRest: so my knighthood keep the vows they swore,The wastest moorland of our realm shall beSafe, damsel, as the centre of this hall.What is thy name? thy need?' 'My name?' she said--'Lynette my name; noble; my need, a knightTo combat for my sister, Lyonors,A lady of high lineage, of great lands,And comely, yea, and comelier than myself.She lives in Castle Perilous: a riverRuns in three loops about her living-place;And o'er it are three passings, and three knightsDefend the passings, brethren, and a fourthAnd of that four the mightiest, holds her stayedIn her own castle, and so besieges herTo break her will, and make her wed with him:And but delays his purport till thou sendTo do the battle with him, thy chief manSir Lancelot whom he trusts to overthrow,Then wed, with glory: but she will not wedSave whom she loveth, or a holy life.Now therefore have I come for Lancelot.' Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth asked,'Damsel, ye know this Order lives to crushAll wrongers of the Realm. But say, these four,Who be they? What the fashion of the men?' 'They be of foolish fashion, O Sir King,The fashion of that old knight-errantryWho ride abroad, and do but what they will;Courteous or bestial from the moment, suchAs have nor law nor king; and three of theseProud in their fantasy call themselves the Day,Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and Evening-Star,Being strong fools; and never a whit more wiseThe fourth, who alway rideth armed in black,A huge man-beast of boundless savagery.He names himself the Night and oftener Death,And wears a helmet mounted with a skull,And bears a skeleton figured on his arms,To show that who may slay or scape the three,Slain by himself, shall enter endless night.And all these four be fools, but mighty men,And therefore am I come for Lancelot.' Hereat Sir Gareth called from where he rose,A head with kindling eyes above the throng,'A boon, Sir King--this quest!' then--for he markedKay near him groaning like a wounded bull--'Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen-knave am I,And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I,And I can topple over a hundred such.Thy promise, King,' and Arthur glancing at him,Brought down a momentary brow. 'Rough, sudden,And pardonable, worthy to be knight--Go therefore,' and all hearers were amazed. But on the damsel's forehead shame, pride, wrathSlew the May-white: she lifted either arm,'Fie on thee, King! I asked for thy chief knight,And thou hast given me but a kitchen-knave.'Then ere a man in hall could stay her, turned,Fled down the lane of access to the King,Took horse, descended the slope street, and pastThe weird white gate, and paused without, besideThe field of tourney, murmuring 'kitchen-knave.' Now two great entries opened from the hall,At one end one, that gave upon a rangeOf level pavement where the King would paceAt sunrise, gazing over plain and wood;And down from this a lordly stairway slopedTill lost in blowing trees and tops of towers;And out by this main doorway past the King.But one was counter to the hearth, and roseHigh that the highest-crested helm could rideTherethrough nor graze: and by this entry fledThe damsel in her wrath, and on to thisSir Gareth strode, and saw without the doorKing Arthur's gift, the worth of half a town,A warhorse of the best, and near it stoodThe two that out of north had followed him:This bare a maiden shield, a casque; that heldThe horse, the spear; whereat Sir Gareth loosedA cloak that dropt from collar-bone to heel,A cloth of roughest web, and cast it down,And from it like a fuel-smothered fire,That lookt half-dead, brake bright, and flashed as thoseDull-coated things, that making slide apartTheir dusk wing-cases, all beneath there burnsA jewelled harness, ere they pass and fly.So Gareth ere he parted flashed in arms.Then as he donned the helm, and took the shieldAnd mounted horse and graspt a spear, of grainStorm-strengthened on a windy site, and tiptWith trenchant steel, around him slowly prestThe people, while from out of kitchen cameThe thralls in throng, and seeing who had workedLustier than any, and whom they could but love,Mounted in arms, threw up their caps and cried,'God bless the King, and all his fellowship!'And on through lanes of shouting Gareth rodeDown the slope street, and past without the gate. So Gareth past with joy; but as the curPluckt from the cur he fights with, ere his causeBe cooled by fighting, follows, being named,His owner, but remembers all, and growlsRemembering, so Sir Kay beside the doorMuttered in scorn of Gareth whom he usedTo harry and hustle. 'Bound upon a questWith horse and arms--the King hath past his time--My scullion knave! Thralls to your work again,For an your fire be low ye kindle mine!Will there be dawn in West and eve in East?Begone!--my knave!--belike and like enowSome old head-blow not heeded in his youthSo shook his wits they wander in his prime--Crazed! How the villain lifted up his voice,Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen-knave.Tut: he was tame and meek enow with me,Till peacocked up with Lancelot's noticing.Well--I will after my loud knave, and learnWhether he know me for his master yet.Out of the smoke he came, and so my lanceHold, by God's grace, he shall into the mire--Thence, if the King awaken from his craze,Into the smoke again.' But Lancelot said,'Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against the King,For that did never he whereon ye rail,But ever meekly served the King in thee?Abide: take counsel; for this lad is greatAnd lusty, and knowing both of lance and sword.''Tut, tell not me,' said Kay, 'ye are overfineTo mar stout knaves with foolish courtesies:'Then mounted, on through silent faces rodeDown the slope city, and out beyond the gate. But by the field of tourney lingering yetMuttered the damsel, 'Wherefore did the KingScorn me? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, at leastHe might have yielded to me one of thoseWho tilt for lady's love and glory here,Rather than--O sweet heaven! O fie upon him--His kitchen-knave.' To whom Sir Gareth drew(And there were none but few goodlier than he)Shining in arms, 'Damsel, the quest is mine.Lead, and I follow.' She thereat, as oneThat smells a foul-fleshed agaric in the holt,And deems it carrion of some woodland thing,Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender noseWith petulant thumb and finger, shrilling, 'Hence!Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen-grease.And look who comes behind,' for there was Kay.'Knowest thou not me? thy master? I am Kay.We lack thee by the hearth.' And Gareth to him,'Master no more! too well I know thee, ay--The most ungentle knight in Arthur's hall.''Have at thee then,' said Kay: they shocked, and KayFell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again,'Lead, and I follow,' and fast away she fled. But after sod and shingle ceased to flyBehind her, and the heart of her good horseWas nigh to burst with violence of the beat,Perforce she stayed, and overtaken spoke. 'What doest thou, scullion, in my fellowship?Deem'st thou that I accept thee aught the moreOr love thee better, that by some deviceFull cowardly, or by mere unhappiness,Thou hast overthrown and slain thy master--thou!--Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon!--to meThou smellest all of kitchen as before.' 'Damsel,' Sir Gareth answered gently, 'sayWhate'er ye will, but whatsoe'er ye say,I leave not till I finish this fair quest,Or die therefore.' 'Ay, wilt thou finish it?Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks!The listening rogue hath caught the manner of it.But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, knave,And then by such a one that thou for allThe kitchen brewis that was ever suptShalt not once dare to look him in the face.' 'I shall assay,' said Gareth with a smileThat maddened her, and away she flashed againDown the long avenues of a boundless wood,And Gareth following was again beknaved. 'Sir Kitchen-knave, I have missed the only wayWhere Arthur's men are set along the wood;The wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves:If both be slain, I am rid of thee; but yet,Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine?Fight, an thou canst: I have missed the only way.' So till the dusk that followed evensongRode on the two, reviler and reviled;Then after one long slope was mounted, saw,Bowl-shaped, through tops of many thousand pinesA gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sinkTo westward--in the deeps whereof a mere,Round as the red eye of an Eagle-owl,Under the half-dead sunset glared; and shoutsAscended, and there brake a servingmanFlying from out of the black wood, and crying,'They have bound my lord to cast him in the mere.'Then Gareth, 'Bound am I to right the wronged,But straitlier bound am I to bide with thee.'And when the damsel spake contemptuously,'Lead, and I follow,' Gareth cried again,'Follow, I lead!' so down among the pinesHe plunged; and there, blackshadowed nigh the mere,And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and reed,Saw six tall men haling a seventh along,A stone about his neck to drown him in it.Three with good blows he quieted, but threeFled through the pines; and Gareth loosed the stoneFrom off his neck, then in the mere besideTumbled it; oilily bubbled up the mere.Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on free feetSet him, a stalwart Baron, Arthur's friend. 'Well that ye came, or else these caitiff roguesHad wreaked themselves on me; good cause is theirsTo hate me, for my wont hath ever beenTo catch my thief, and then like vermin hereDrown him, and with a stone about his neck;And under this wan water many of themLie rotting, but at night let go the stone,And rise, and flickering in a grimly lightDance on the mere. Good now, ye have saved a lifeWorth somewhat as the cleanser of this wood.And fain would I reward thee worshipfully.What guerdon will ye?'Gareth sharply spake,'None! for the deed's sake have I done the deed,In uttermost obedience to the King.But wilt thou yield this damsel harbourage?' Whereat the Baron saying, 'I well believeYou be of Arthur's Table,' a light laughBroke from Lynette, 'Ay, truly of a truth,And in a sort, being Arthur's kitchen-knave!--But deem not I accept thee aught the more,Scullion, for running sharply with thy spitDown on a rout of craven foresters.A thresher with his flail had scattered them.Nay--for thou smellest of the kitchen still.But an this lord will yield us harbourage,Well.' So she spake. A league beyond the wood,All in a full-fair manor and a rich,His towers where that day a feast had beenHeld in high hall, and many a viand left,And many a costly cate, received the three.And there they placed a peacock in his prideBefore the damsel, and the Baron setGareth beside her, but at once she rose. 'Meseems, that here is much discourtesy,Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my side.Hear me--this morn I stood in Arthur's hall,And prayed the King would grant me LancelotTo fight the brotherhood of Day and Night--The last a monster unsubduableOf any save of him for whom I called--Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen-knave,"The quest is mine; thy kitchen-knave am I,And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I."Then Arthur all at once gone mad replies,"Go therefore," and so gives the quest to him--Him--here--a villain fitter to stick swineThan ride abroad redressing women's wrong,Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman.' Then half-ashamed and part-amazed, the lordNow looked at one and now at other, leftThe damsel by the peacock in his pride,And, seating Gareth at another board,Sat down beside him, ate and then began. 'Friend, whether thou be kitchen-knave, or not,Or whether it be the maiden's fantasy,And whether she be mad, or else the King,Or both or neither, or thyself be mad,I ask not: but thou strikest a strong stroke,For strong thou art and goodly therewithal,And saver of my life; and therefore now,For here be mighty men to joust with, weighWhether thou wilt not with thy damsel backTo crave again Sir Lancelot of the King.Thy pardon; I but speak for thine avail,The saver of my life.' And Gareth said,'Full pardon, but I follow up the quest,Despite of Day and Night and Death and Hell.' So when, next morn, the lord whose life he savedHad, some brief space, conveyed them on their wayAnd left them with God-speed, Sir Gareth spake,'Lead, and I follow.' Haughtily she replied. 'I fly no more: I allow thee for an hour.Lion and stout have isled together, knave,In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, methinksSome ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt thou, fool?For hard by here is one will overthrowAnd slay thee: then will I to court again,And shame the King for only yielding meMy champion from the ashes of his hearth.' To whom Sir Gareth answered courteously,'Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed.Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt findMy fortunes all as fair as hers who layAmong the ashes and wedded the King's son.' Then to the shore of one of those long loopsWherethrough the serpent river coiled, they came.Rough-thicketed were the banks and steep; the streamFull, narrow; this a bridge of single arcTook at a leap; and on the further sideArose a silk pavilion, gay with goldIn streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily in hue,Save that the dome was purple, and above,Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering.And therebefore the lawless warrior pacedUnarmed, and calling, 'Damsel, is this he,The champion thou hast brought from Arthur's hall?For whom we let thee pass.' 'Nay, nay,' she said,'Sir Morning-Star. The King in utter scornOf thee and thy much folly hath sent thee hereHis kitchen-knave: and look thou to thyself:See that he fall not on thee suddenly,And slay thee unarmed: he is not knight but knave.' Then at his call, 'O daughters of the Dawn,And servants of the Morning-Star, approach,Arm me,' from out the silken curtain-foldsBare-footed and bare-headed three fair girlsIn gilt and rosy raiment came: their feetIn dewy grasses glistened; and the hairAll over glanced with dewdrop or with gemLike sparkles in the stone Avanturine.These armed him in blue arms, and gave a shieldBlue also, and thereon the morning star.And Gareth silent gazed upon the knight,Who stood a moment, ere his horse was brought,Glorying; and in the stream beneath him, shoneImmingled with Heaven's azure waveringly,The gay pavilion and the naked feet,His arms, the rosy raiment, and the star. Then she that watched him, 'Wherefore stare ye so?Thou shakest in thy fear: there yet is time:Flee down the valley before he get to horse.Who will cry shame? Thou art not knight but knave.' Said Gareth, 'Damsel, whether knave or knight,Far liefer had I fight a score of timesThan hear thee so missay me and revile.Fair words were best for him who fights for thee;But truly foul are better, for they sendThat strength of anger through mine arms, I knowThat I shall overthrow him.' And he that boreThe star, when mounted, cried from o'er the bridge,'A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of me!Such fight not I, but answer scorn with scorn.For this were shame to do him further wrongThan set him on his feet, and take his horseAnd arms, and so return him to the King.Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, knave.Avoid: for it beseemeth not a knaveTo ride with such a lady.' 'Dog, thou liest.I spring from loftier lineage than thine own.'He spake; and all at fiery speed the twoShocked on the central bridge, and either spearBent but not brake, and either knight at once,Hurled as a stone from out of a catapultBeyond his horse's crupper and the bridge,Fell, as if dead; but quickly rose and drew,And Gareth lashed so fiercely with his brandHe drave his enemy backward down the bridge,The damsel crying, 'Well-stricken, kitchen-knave!'Till Gareth's shield was cloven; but one strokeLaid him that clove it grovelling on the ground. Then cried the fallen, 'Take not my life: I yield.'And Gareth, 'So this damsel ask it of meGood--I accord it easily as a grace.'She reddening, 'Insolent scullion: I of thee?I bound to thee for any favour asked!''Then he shall die.' And Gareth there unlacedHis helmet as to slay him, but she shrieked,'Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slayOne nobler than thyself.' 'Damsel, thy chargeIs an abounding pleasure to me. Knight,Thy life is thine at her command. AriseAnd quickly pass to Arthur's hall, and sayHis kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See thou craveHis pardon for thy breaking of his laws.Myself, when I return, will plead for thee.Thy shield is mine--farewell; and, damsel, thou,Lead, and I follow.' And fast away she fled.Then when he came upon her, spake, 'Methought,Knave, when I watched thee striking on the bridgeThe savour of thy kitchen came upon meA little faintlier: but the wind hath changed:I scent it twenty-fold.' And then she sang,'"O morning star" (not that tall felon thereWhom thou by sorcery or unhappinessOr some device, hast foully overthrown),"O morning star that smilest in the blue,O star, my morning dream hath proven true,Smile sweetly, thou! my love hath smiled on me." 'But thou begone, take counsel, and away,For hard by here is one that guards a ford--The second brother in their fool's parable--Will pay thee all thy wages, and to boot.Care not for shame: thou art not knight but knave.' To whom Sir Gareth answered, laughingly,'Parables? Hear a parable of the knave.When I was kitchen-knave among the restFierce was the hearth, and one of my co-matesOwned a rough dog, to whom he cast his coat,"Guard it," and there was none to meddle with it.And such a coat art thou, and thee the KingGave me to guard, and such a dog am I,To worry, and not to flee--and--knight or knave--The knave that doth thee service as full knightIs all as good, meseems, as any knightToward thy sister's freeing.' 'Ay, Sir Knave!Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a knight,Being but knave, I hate thee all the more.' 'Fair damsel, you should worship me the more,That, being but knave, I throw thine enemies.' 'Ay, ay,' she said, 'but thou shalt meet thy match.' So when they touched the second river-loop,Huge on a huge red horse, and all in mailBurnished to blinding, shone the Noonday SunBeyond a raging shallow. As if the flower,That blows a globe of after arrowlets,Ten thousand-fold had grown, flashed the fierce shield,All sun; and Gareth's eyes had flying blotsBefore them when he turned from watching him.He from beyond the roaring shallow roared,'What doest thou, brother, in my marches here?'And she athwart the shallow shrilled again,'Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur's hallHath overthrown thy brother, and hath his arms.''Ugh!' cried the Sun, and vizoring up a redAnd cipher face of rounded foolishness,Pushed horse across the foamings of the ford,Whom Gareth met midstream: no room was thereFor lance or tourney-skill: four strokes they struckWith sword, and these were mighty; the new knightHad fear he might be shamed; but as the SunHeaved up a ponderous arm to strike the fifth,The hoof of his horse slipt in the stream, the streamDescended, and the Sun was washed away. Then Gareth laid his lance athwart the ford;So drew him home; but he that fought no more,As being all bone-battered on the rock,Yielded; and Gareth sent him to the King,'Myself when I return will plead for thee.''Lead, and I follow.' Quietly she led.'Hath not the good wind, damsel, changed again?''Nay, not a point: nor art thou victor here.There lies a ridge of slate across the ford;His horse thereon stumbled--ay, for I saw it. '"O Sun" (not this strong fool whom thou, Sir Knave,Hast overthrown through mere unhappiness),"O Sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain,O moon, that layest all to sleep again,Shine sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me." What knowest thou of lovesong or of love?Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly born,Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, perchance,-- '"O dewy flowers that open to the sun,O dewy flowers that close when day is done,Blow sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me." 'What knowest thou of flowers, except, belike,To garnish meats with? hath not our good KingWho lent me thee, the flower of kitchendom,A foolish love for flowers? what stick ye roundThe pasty? wherewithal deck the boar's head?Flowers? nay, the boar hath rosemaries and bay. '"O birds, that warble to the morning sky,O birds that warble as the day goes by,Sing sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me." 'What knowest thou of birds, lark, mavis, merle,Linnet? what dream ye when they utter forthMay-music growing with the growing light,Their sweet sun-worship? these be for the snare(So runs thy fancy) these be for the spit,Larding and basting. See thou have not nowLarded thy last, except thou turn and fly.There stands the third fool of their allegory.' For there beyond a bridge of treble bow,All in a rose-red from the west, and allNaked it seemed, and glowing in the broadDeep-dimpled current underneath, the knight,That named himself the Star of Evening, stood. And Gareth, 'Wherefore waits the madman thereNaked in open dayshine?' 'Nay,' she cried,'Not naked, only wrapt in hardened skinsThat fit him like his own; and so ye cleaveHis armour off him, these will turn the blade.' Then the third brother shouted o'er the bridge,'O brother-star, why shine ye here so low?Thy ward is higher up: but have ye slainThe damsel's champion?' and the damsel cried, 'No star of thine, but shot from Arthur's heavenWith all disaster unto thine and thee!For both thy younger brethren have gone downBefore this youth; and so wilt thou, Sir Star;Art thou not old?''Old, damsel, old and hard,Old, with the might and breath of twenty boys.'Said Gareth, 'Old, and over-bold in brag!But that same strength which threw the Morning StarCan throw the Evening.' Then that other blewA hard and deadly note upon the horn.'Approach and arm me!' With slow steps from outAn old storm-beaten, russet, many-stainedPavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came,And armed him in old arms, and brought a helmWith but a drying evergreen for crest,And gave a shield whereon the Star of EvenHalf-tarnished and half-bright, his emblem, shone.But when it glittered o'er the saddle-bow,They madly hurled together on the bridge;And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, drew,There met him drawn, and overthrew him again,But up like fire he started: and as oftAs Gareth brought him grovelling on his knees,So many a time he vaulted up again;Till Gareth panted hard, and his great heart,Foredooming all his trouble was in vain,Laboured within him, for he seemed as oneThat all in later, sadder age beginsTo war against ill uses of a life,But these from all his life arise, and cry,'Thou hast made us lords, and canst not put us down!'He half despairs; so Gareth seemed to strikeVainly, the damsel clamouring all the while,'Well done, knave-knight, well-stricken, O good knight-knave--O knave, as noble as any of all the knights--Shame me not, shame me not. I have prophesied--Strike, thou art worthy of the Table Round--His arms are old, he trusts the hardened skin--Strike--strike--the wind will never change again.'And Gareth hearing ever stronglier smote,And hewed great pieces of his armour off him,But lashed in vain against the hardened skin,And could not wholly bring him under, moreThan loud Southwesterns, rolling ridge on ridge,The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and springsFor ever; till at length Sir Gareth's brandClashed his, and brake it utterly to the hilt.'I have thee now;' but forth that other sprang,And, all unknightlike, writhed his wiry armsAround him, till he felt, despite his mail,Strangled, but straining even his uttermostCast, and so hurled him headlong o'er the bridgeDown to the river, sink or swim, and cried,'Lead, and I follow.' But the damsel said,'I lead no longer; ride thou at my side;Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen-knaves. '"O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy plain,O rainbow with three colours after rain,Shine sweetly: thrice my love hath smiled on me." 'Sir,--and, good faith, I fain had added--Knight,But that I heard thee call thyself a knave,--Shamed am I that I so rebuked, reviled,Missaid thee; noble I am; and thought the KingScorned me and mine; and now thy pardon, friend,For thou hast ever answered courteously,And wholly bold thou art, and meek withalAs any of Arthur's best, but, being knave,Hast mazed my wit: I marvel what thou art.' 'Damsel,' he said, 'you be not all to blame,Saving that you mistrusted our good KingWould handle scorn, or yield you, asking, oneNot fit to cope your quest. You said your say;Mine answer was my deed. Good sooth! I holdHe scarce is knight, yea but half-man, nor meetTo fight for gentle damsel, he, who letsHis heart be stirred with any foolish heatAt any gentle damsel's waywardness.Shamed? care not! thy foul sayings fought for me:And seeing now thy words are fair, methinksThere rides no knight, not Lancelot, his great self,Hath force to quell me.'Nigh upon that hourWhen the lone hern forgets his melancholy,Lets down his other leg, and stretching, dreamsOf goodly supper in the distant pool,Then turned the noble damsel smiling at him,And told him of a cavern hard at hand,Where bread and baken meats and good red wineOf Southland, which the Lady LyonorsHad sent her coming champion, waited him. Anon they past a narrow comb whereinWhere slabs of rock with figures, knights on horseSculptured, and deckt in slowly-waning hues.'Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once was here,Whose holy hand hath fashioned on the rockThe war of Time against the soul of man.And yon four fools have sucked their allegoryFrom these damp walls, and taken but the form.Know ye not these?' and Gareth lookt and read--In letters like to those the vexillaryHath left crag-carven o'er the streaming Gelt--'PHOSPHORUS,' then 'MERIDIES'--'HESPERUS'--'NOX'--'MORS,' beneath five figures, armd men,Slab after slab, their faces forward all,And running down the Soul, a Shape that fledWith broken wings, torn raiment and loose hair,For help and shelter to the hermit's cave.'Follow the faces, and we find it. Look,Who comes behind?' For one--delayed at firstThrough helping back the dislocated KayTo Camelot, then by what thereafter chanced,The damsel's headlong error through the wood--Sir Lancelot, having swum the river-loops--His blue shield-lions covered--softly drewBehind the twain, and when he saw the starGleam, on Sir Gareth's turning to him, cried,'Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for my friend.'And Gareth crying pricked against the cry;But when they closed--in a moment--at one touchOf that skilled spear, the wonder of the world--Went sliding down so easily, and fell,That when he found the grass within his handsHe laughed; the laughter jarred upon Lynette:Harshly she asked him, 'Shamed and overthrown,And tumbled back into the kitchen-knave,Why laugh ye? that ye blew your boast in vain?''Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the sonOf old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent,And victor of the bridges and the ford,And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by whomI know not, all through mere unhappiness--Device and sorcery and unhappiness--Out, sword; we are thrown!' And Lancelot answered, 'Prince,O Gareth--through the mere unhappinessOf one who came to help thee, not to harm,Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole,As on the day when Arthur knighted him.' Then Gareth, 'Thou--Lancelot!--thine the handThat threw me? An some chance to mar the boastThy brethren of thee make--which could not chance--Had sent thee down before a lesser spear,Shamed had I been, and sad--O Lancelot--thou!' Whereat the maiden, petulant, 'Lancelot,Why came ye not, when called? and wherefore nowCome ye, not called? I gloried in my knave,Who being still rebuked, would answer stillCourteous as any knight--but now, if knight,The marvel dies, and leaves me fooled and tricked,And only wondering wherefore played upon:And doubtful whether I and mine be scorned.Where should be truth if not in Arthur's hall,In Arthur's presence? Knight, knave, prince and fool,I hate thee and for ever.' And Lancelot said,'Blessd be thou, Sir Gareth! knight art thouTo the King's best wish. O damsel, be you wiseTo call him shamed, who is but overthrown?Thrown have I been, nor once, but many a time.Victor from vanquished issues at the last,And overthrower from being overthrown.With sword we have not striven; and thy good horseAnd thou are weary; yet not less I feltThy manhood through that wearied lance of thine.Well hast thou done; for all the stream is freed,And thou hast wreaked his justice on his foes,And when reviled, hast answered graciously,And makest merry when overthrown. Prince, KnightHail, Knight and Prince, and of our Table Round!' And then when turning to Lynette he toldThe tale of Gareth, petulantly she said,'Ay well--ay well--for worse than being fooledOf others, is to fool one's self. A cave,Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and drinksAnd forage for the horse, and flint for fire.But all about it flies a honeysuckle.Seek, till we find.' And when they sought and found,Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his lifePast into sleep; on whom the maiden gazed.'Sound sleep be thine! sound cause to sleep hast thou.Wake lusty! Seem I not as tender to himAs any mother? Ay, but such a oneAs all day long hath rated at her child,And vext his day, but blesses him asleep--Good lord, how sweetly smells the honeysuckleIn the hushed night, as if the world were oneOf utter peace, and love, and gentleness!O Lancelot, Lancelot'--and she clapt her hands--'Full merry am I to find my goodly knaveIs knight and noble. See now, sworn have I,Else yon black felon had not let me pass,To bring thee back to do the battle with him.Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first;Who doubts thee victor? so will my knight-knaveMiss the full flower of this accomplishment.' Said Lancelot, 'Peradventure he, you name,May know my shield. Let Gareth, an he will,Change his for mine, and take my charger, fresh,Not to be spurred, loving the battle as wellAs he that rides him.' 'Lancelot-like,' she said,'Courteous in this, Lord Lancelot, as in all.' And Gareth, wakening, fiercely clutched the shield;'Ramp ye lance-splintering lions, on whom all spearsAre rotten sticks! ye seem agape to roar!Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your lord!--Care not, good beasts, so well I care for you.O noble Lancelot, from my hold on theseStreams virtue--fire--through one that will not shameEven the shadow of Lancelot under shield.Hence: let us go.' Silent the silent fieldThey traversed. Arthur's harp though summer-wan,In counter motion to the clouds, alluredThe glance of Gareth dreaming on his liege.A star shot: 'Lo,' said Gareth, 'the foe falls!'An owl whoopt: 'Hark the victor pealing there!'Suddenly she that rode upon his leftClung to the shield that Lancelot lent him, crying,'Yield, yield him this again: 'tis he must fight:I curse the tongue that all through yesterdayReviled thee, and hath wrought on Lancelot nowTo lend thee horse and shield: wonders ye have done;Miracles ye cannot: here is glory enowIn having flung the three: I see thee maimed,Mangled: I swear thou canst not fling the fourth.' 'And wherefore, damsel? tell me all ye know.You cannot scare me; nor rough face, or voice,Brute bulk of limb, or boundless savageryAppal me from the quest.' 'Nay, Prince,' she cried,'God wot, I never looked upon the face,Seeing he never rides abroad by day;But watched him have I like a phantom passChilling the night: nor have I heard the voice.Always he made his mouthpiece of a pageWho came and went, and still reported himAs closing in himself the strength of ten,And when his anger tare him, massacringMan, woman, lad and girl--yea, the soft babe!Some hold that he hath swallowed infant flesh,Monster! O Prince, I went for Lancelot first,The quest is Lancelot's: give him back the shield.' Said Gareth laughing, 'An he fight for this,Belike he wins it as the better man:Thus--and not else!' But Lancelot on him urgedAll the devisings of their chivalryWhen one might meet a mightier than himself;How best to manage horse, lance, sword and shield,And so fill up the gap where force might failWith skill and fineness. Instant were his words. Then Gareth, 'Here be rules. I know but one--To dash against mine enemy and win.Yet have I seen thee victor in the joust,And seen thy way.' 'Heaven help thee,' sighed Lynette. Then for a space, and under cloud that grewTo thunder-gloom palling all stars, they rodeIn converse till she made her palfrey halt,Lifted an arm, and softly whispered, 'There.'And all the three were silent seeing, pitchedBeside the Castle Perilous on flat field,A huge pavilion like a mountain peakSunder the glooming crimson on the marge,Black, with black banner, and a long black hornBeside it hanging; which Sir Gareth graspt,And so, before the two could hinder him,Sent all his heart and breath through all the horn.Echoed the walls; a light twinkled; anonCame lights and lights, and once again he blew;Whereon were hollow tramplings up and downAnd muffled voices heard, and shadows past;Till high above him, circled with her maids,The Lady Lyonors at a window stood,Beautiful among lights, and waving to himWhite hands, and courtesy; but when the PrinceThree times had blown--after long hush--at last--The huge pavilion slowly yielded up,Through those black foldings, that which housed therein.High on a nightblack horse, in nightblack arms,With white breast-bone, and barren ribs of Death,And crowned with fleshless laughter--some ten steps--In the half-light--through the dim dawn--advancedThe monster, and then paused, and spake no word. But Gareth spake and all indignantly,'Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength of ten,Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God hath given,But must, to make the terror of thee more,Trick thyself out in ghastly imageriesOf that which Life hath done with, and the clod,Less dull than thou, will hide with mantling flowersAs if for pity?' But he spake no word;Which set the horror higher: a maiden swooned;The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands and wept,As doomed to be the bride of Night and Death;Sir Gareth's head prickled beneath his helm;And even Sir Lancelot through his warm blood feltIce strike, and all that marked him were aghast. At once Sir Lancelot's charger fiercely neighed,And Death's dark war-horse bounded forward with him.Then those that did not blink the terror, sawThat Death was cast to ground, and slowly rose.But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the skull.Half fell to right and half to left and lay.Then with a stronger buffet he clove the helmAs throughly as the skull; and out from thisIssued the bright face of a blooming boyFresh as a flower new-born, and crying, 'Knight,Slay me not: my three brethren bad me do it,To make a horror all about the house,And stay the world from Lady Lyonors.They never dreamed the passes would be past.'Answered Sir Gareth graciously to oneNot many a moon his younger, 'My fair child,What madness made thee challenge the chief knightOf Arthur's hall?' 'Fair Sir, they bad me do it.They hate the King, and Lancelot, the King's friend,They hoped to slay him somewhere on the stream,They never dreamed the passes could be past.' Then sprang the happier day from underground;And Lady Lyonors and her house, with danceAnd revel and song, made merry over Death,As being after all their foolish fearsAnd horrors only proven a blooming boy.So large mirth lived and Gareth won the quest. And he that told the tale in older timesSays that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors,But he, that told it later, says Lynette.