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Geraint And Enid

Alfred Lord Tennyson·1809–1891
Lines:970Movement:Victorian
O purblind race of miserable men,How many among us at this very hourDo forge a life-long trouble for ourselves,By taking true for false, or false for true;Here, through the feeble twilight of this worldGroping, how many, until we pass and reachThat other, where we see as we are seen! So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forthThat 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 perforceUpon a head so dear in thunder, said:'Not at my side. I charge thee ride before,Ever a good way on before; and thisI 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 hurled it toward the squire.So the last sight that Enid had of homeWas all the marble threshold flashing, strownWith gold and scattered coinage, and the squireChafing his shoulder: then he cried again,'To the wilds!' and Enid leading down the tracksThrough which he bad her lead him on, they pastThe 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 slackened soon:A stranger meeting them had surely thoughtThey rode so slowly and they looked 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 heartAbruptly, as a man upon his tongueMay break it, when his passion masters him.And she was ever praying the sweet heavensTo save her dear lord whole from any wound.And ever in her mind she cast aboutFor that unnoticed failing in herself,Which made him look so cloudy and so cold;Till the great plover's human whistle amazedHer heart, and glancing round the waste she fearedIn ever 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 knightsOn horseback, wholly armed, behind a rockIn 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 horseAnd armour, and his damsel shall be ours.' Then Enid pondered 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 rockWaiting to fall on you, and heard them boastThat they would slay you, and possess your horseAnd armour, and your damsel should be theirs.' He made a wrathful answer: 'Did I wishYour warning or your silence? one commandI 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 vigour is not lost.' Then Enid waited pale and sorrowful,And down upon him bare the bandit three.And at the midmost charging, Prince GeraintDrave the long spear a cubit through his breastAnd out beyond; and then against his braceOf comrades, each of whom had broken on himA lance that splintered like an icicle,Swung from his brand a windy buffet outOnce, twice, to right, to left, and stunned the twainOr slew them, and dismounting like a manThat skins the wild beast after slaying him,Stript from the three dead wolves of woman bornThe three gay suits of armour which they wore,And let the bodies lie, but bound the suitsOf armour on their horses, each on each,And tied the bridle-reins of all the threeTogether, and said to her, 'Drive them onBefore you;' and she drove them through the waste. He followed nearer; ruth began to workAgainst his anger in him, while he watchedThe being he loved best in all the world,With difficulty in mild obedienceDriving them on: he fain had spoken to her,And loosed in words of sudden fire the wrathAnd smouldered wrong that burnt him all within;But evermore it seemed an easier thingAt once without remorse to strike her dead,Than to cry 'Halt,' and to her own bright faceAccuse her of the least immodesty:And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the moreThat she COULD speak whom his own ear had heardCall herself false: and suffering thus he madeMinutes an age: but in scarce longer timeThan at Caerleon the full-tided Usk,Before he turn to fall seaward again,Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, beholdIn the first shallow shade of a deep wood,Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks,Three other horsemen waiting, wholly armed,Whereof one seemed 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 answered merrily, 'Yea, but one?Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him.' And Enid pondered in her heart and said,'I will abide the coming of my lord,And I will tell him all their villainy.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 though he kill me for it,I save a life dearer to me than mine.' And she abode his coming, and said to himWith 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 armed, and oneIs larger-limbed than you are, and they sayThat 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-limbed than I,And all at once should sally out upon me,I swear it would not ruffle me so muchAs 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 breatheShort fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath.And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him.Aimed at the helm, his lance erred; but Geraint's,A little in the late encounter strained,Struck through the bulky bandit's corselet home,And then brake short, and down his enemy rolled,And there lay still; as he that tells the taleSaw once a great piece of a promontory,That had a sapling growing on it, slideFrom 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 pairOf comrades making slowlier at the Prince,When now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood;On whom the victor, to confound them more,Spurred with his terrible war-cry; for as one,That listens near a torrent mountain-brook,All through the crash of the near cataract hearsThe drumming thunder of the huger fallAt distance, were the soldiers wont to hearHis voice in battle, and be kindled by it,And foemen scared, like that false pair who turnedFlying, but, overtaken, died the deathThemselves had wrought on many an innocent. Thereon Geraint, dismounting, picked the lanceThat pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolvesTheir three gay suits of armour, each from each,And bound them on their horses, each on each,And tied the bridle-reins of all the threeTogether, and said to her, 'Drive them onBefore you,' and she drove them through the wood. He followed nearer still: the pain she hadTo keep them in the wild ways of the wood,Two sets of three laden with jingling arms,Together, served a little to disedgeThe sharpness of that pain about her heart:And they themselves, like creatures gently bornBut into bad hands fallen, and now so longBy bandits groomed, pricked their light ears, and feltHer low firm voice and tender government. So through the green gloom of the wood they past,And issuing under open heavens beheldA little town with towers, upon a rock,And close beneath, a meadow gemlike chasedIn the brown wild, and mowers mowing in it:And down a rocky pathway from the placeThere came a fair-haired youth, that in his handBare victual for the mowers: and GeraintHad ruth again on Enid looking pale:Then, moving downward to the meadow ground,He, when the fair-haired 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, though the fare is coarse,And only meet for mowers;' then set downHis basket, and dismounting on the swardThey let the horses graze, and ate themselves.And Enid took a little delicately,Less having stomach for it than desireTo close with her lord's pleasure; but GeraintAte all the mowers' victual unawares,And when he found all empty, was amazed;And 'Boy,' said he, 'I have eaten all, but takeA 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 fetchFresh 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 himHow great a man thou art: he loves to knowWhen 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 appetiteThan 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 returnWith 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 disappeared,Leading the horse, and they were left alone. But when the Prince had brought his errant eyesHome from the rock, sideways he let them glanceAt Enid, where she droopt: his own false doom,That shadow of mistrust should never crossBetwixt them, came upon him, and he sighed;Then with another humorous ruth remarkedThe lusty mowers labouring dinnerless,And watched the sun blaze on the turning scythe,And after nodded sleepily in the heat.But she, remembering her old ruined hall,And all the windy clamour of the dawsAbout her hollow turret, plucked the grassThere 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 returnedAnd told them of a chamber, and they went;Where, after saying to her, 'If ye will,Call for the woman of the house,' to whichShe answered, 'Thanks, my lord;' the two remainedApart by all the chamber's width, and muteAs two creatures voiceless through the fault of birth,Or two wild men supporters of a shield,Painted, who stare at open space, nor glanceThe one at other, parted by the shield. On a sudden, many a voice along the street,And heel against the pavement echoing, burstTheir drowse; and either started while the door,Pushed 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,Entered, 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 cheerTo feed the sudden guest, and sumptuouslyAccording to his fashion, bad the hostCall in what men soever were his friends,And feast with these in honour of their Earl;'And care not for the cost; the cost is mine.' And wine and food were brought, and Earl LimoursDrank till he jested with all ease, and toldFree tales, and took the word and played upon it,And made it of two colours; for his talk,When wine and free companions kindled him,Was wont to glance and sparkle like a gemOf fifty facets; thus he moved the PrinceTo laughter and his comrades to applause.Then, when the Prince was merry, asked Limours,'Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and speakTo 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,Bowed at her side and uttered whisperingly: 'Enid, the pilot star of my lone life,Enid, my early and my only love,Enid, the loss of whom hath turned 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 civilityHere in the heart of waste and wilderness.I thought, but that your father came between,In former days you saw me favourably.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 knowThough 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 speaksYour story, that this man loves you no more.Your beauty is no beauty to him now:A common chance--right well I know it--palled--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 unarmed; 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 meThe one true lover whom you ever owned,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 voiceAnd sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it,Made his eye moist; but Enid feared 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 chanceThat breaks upon them perilously, and said: 'Earl, if you love me as in former years,And do not practise on me, come with morn,And snatch me from him as by violence;Leave me tonight: I am weary to the death.' Low at leave-taking, with his brandished plumeBrushing his instep, bowed the all-amorous Earl,And the stout Prince bad 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 heldHe fell asleep, and Enid had no heartTo wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly pleasedTo find him yet unwounded after fight,And hear him breathing low and equally.Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heapedThe pieces of his armour in one place,All to be there against a sudden need;Then dozed awhile herself, but overtoiledBy that day's grief and travel, evermoreSeemed catching at a rootless thorn, and thenWent 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 glimmered on his armour in the room.And once again she rose to look at it,But touched it unawares: jangling, the casqueFell, 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 untold the craft herself had used;But ended with apology so sweet,Low-spoken, and of so few words, and seemedSo justified by that necessity,That though he thought 'was it for him she weptIn Devon?' he but gave a wrathful groan,Saying, 'Your sweet faces make good fellows foolsAnd traitors. Call the host and bid him bringCharger and palfrey.' So she glided outAmong the heavy breathings of the house,And like a household Spirit at the wallsBeat, till she woke the sleepers, and returned:Then tending her rough lord, though all unasked,In silence, did him service as a squire;Till issuing armed he found the host and cried,'Thy reckoning, friend?' and ere he learnt it, 'TakeFive horses and their armours;' and the hostSuddenly honest, answered 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 todayI charge you, Enid, more especially,What thing soever ye may hear, or see,Or fancy (though I count it of small useTo charge you) that ye speak not but obey.' And Enid answered, 'Yea, my lord, I knowYour 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 turned and looked as keenly at herAs careful robins eye the delver's toil;And that within her, which a wanton fool,Or hasty judger would have called her guilt,Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall.And Geraint looked and was not satisfied. Then forward by a way which, beaten broad,Led from the territory of false LimoursTo the waste earldom of another earl,Doorm, whom his shaking vassals called the Bull,Went Enid with her sullen follower on.Once she looked back, and when she saw him rideMore near by many a rood than yestermorn,It wellnigh made her cheerful; till GeraintWaving an angry hand as who should say'Ye watch me,' saddened all her heart again.But while the sun yet beat a dewy blade,The sound of many a heavily-galloping hoofSmote on her ear, and turning round she sawDust, and the points of lances bicker in it.Then not to disobey her lord's behest,And yet to give him warning, for he rodeAs if he heard not, moving back she heldHer 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-cloudWhose skirts are loosened by the breaking storm,Half ridden off with by the thing he rode,And all in passion uttering a dry shriek,Dashed down on Geraint, who closed with him, and boreDown by the length of lance and arm beyondThe crupper, and so left him stunned or dead,And overthrew the next that followed him,And blindly rushed on all the rout behind.But at the flash and motion of the manThey vanished panic-stricken, like a shoalOf darting fish, that on a summer mornAdown the crystal dykes at CamelotCome slipping o'er their shadows on the sand,But if a man who stands upon the brinkBut lift a shining hand against the sun,There is not left the twinkle of a finBetwixt 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 fellStart 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 nowWas honest--paid with horses and with arms;I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg:And so what say ye, shall we strip him thereYour lover? has your palfrey heart enoughTo bear his armour? shall we fast, or dine?No?--then do thou, being right honest, prayThat 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 one word, she led the way. But as a man to whom a dreadful lossFalls in a far land and he knows it not,But coming back he learns it, and the lossSo pains him that he sickens nigh to death;So fared it with Geraint, who being prickedIn combat with the follower of Limours,Bled underneath his armour secretly,And so rode on, nor told his gentle wifeWhat ailed him, hardly knowing it himself,Till his eye darkened and his helmet wagged;And at a sudden swerving of the road,Though 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 paleDismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms,Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eyeMoisten, till she had lighted on his wound,And tearing off her veil of faded silkHad bared her forehead to the blistering sun,And swathed the hurt that drained her dear lord's life.Then after all was done that hand could do,She rested, and her desolation cameUpon 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 murdered mateWas 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 DoormBefore an ever-fancied arrow, madeThe long way smoke beneath him in his fear;At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel,And scoured 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 answered in all haste.'Would some of your 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 enoughTo 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 boneSeems to be plucked at by the village boysWho love to vex him eating, and he fearsTo lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it,Gnawing and growling: so the ruffians growled,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 outFor those that might be wounded; laid him on itAll in the hollow of his shield, and tookAnd bore him to the naked hall of Doorm,(His gentle charger following him unled)And cast him and the bier in which he layDown on an oaken settle in the hall,And then departed, hot in haste to joinTheir 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 deafTo 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 wakened 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 feigned 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 returnedThe huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall.His lusty spearmen followed him with noise:Each hurling down a heap of things that rangAgainst his pavement, cast his lance aside,And doffed his helm: and then there fluttered in,Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes,A tribe of women, dressed in many hues,And mingled with the spearmen: and Earl DoormStruck with a knife's haft hard against the board,And called 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 rolled his eyes about the hall, and foundA damsel drooping in a corner of it.Then he remembered 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 breathHave I beheld a lily like yourself.And so there lived some colour in your cheek,There is not one among my gentlewomenWere 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 cheekBulge with the unswallowed piece, and turning stared;While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawnDown, as the worm draws in the withered leafAnd makes it earth, hissed each at other's earWhat 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 helped him to it: and all at onceThey hated her, who took no thought of them,But answered in low voice, her meek head yetDrooping, '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, satisfiedWith what himself had done so graciously,Assumed that she had thanked him, adding, 'Yea,Eat and be glad, for I account you mine.' She answered meekly, 'How should I be gladHenceforth 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 wearinessAnd 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 eatTill yonder man upon the bier arise,And eat with me.' 'Drink, then,' he answered. 'Here!'(And filled a horn with wine and held it to her,)'Lo! I, myself, when flushed 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 thy will.' 'Not so,' she cried, 'by Heaven, I will not drinkTill 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 gnawed 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 scornBy 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 oneWho loves that beauty should go beautifully?Rise therefore; robe yourself in this: obey.' He spoke, and one among his gentlewomenDisplayed a splendid silk of foreign loom,Where like a shoaling sea the lovely bluePlayed into green, and thicker down the frontWith 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 dayStrike where it clung: so thickly shone the gems. But Enid answered, harder to be movedThan 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 arrayed me like the sun:In this poor gown he bad me clothe myself,When now we rode upon this fatal questOf honour, where no honour can be gained:And this poor gown I will not cast asideUntil 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 moodCrying, '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 through 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 itShore through the swarthy neck, and like a ballThe russet-bearded head rolled on the floor.So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead.And all the men and women in the hallRose when they saw the dead man rise, and fledYelling as from a spectre, and the twoWere left alone together, and he said: 'Enid, I have used you worse than that dead man;Done you more wrong: we both have undergoneThat trouble which has left me thrice your own:Henceforward I will rather die than doubt.And here I lay this penance on myself,Not, though 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 prayed him, 'Fly, they will returnAnd slay you; fly, your charger is without,My palfrey lost.' 'Then, Enid, shall you rideBehind 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,Neighed with all gladness as they came, and stoopedWith a low whinny toward the pair: and sheKissed the white star upon his noble front,Glad also; then Geraint upon the horseMounted, and reached a hand, and on his footShe set her own and climbed; he turned his faceAnd kissed her climbing, and she cast her armsAbout him, and at once they rode away. And never yet, since high in ParadiseO'er the four rivers the first roses blew,Came purer pleasure unto mortal kindThan lived through her, who in that perilous hourPut 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 mistLike that which kept the heart of Eden greenBefore the useful trouble of the rain:Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyesAs 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 lanceIn 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,Shrieked 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 shrieked 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 loveWherewith we love the Heaven that chastens us.For once, when I was up so high in prideThat I was halfway 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 myselfWas half a bandit in my lawless hour,I come the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm(The King is close behind me) bidding himDisband himself, and scatter all his powers,Submit, and hear the judgment of the King.' 'He hears the judgment of the King of kings,'Cried the wan Prince; 'and lo, the powers of DoormAre scattered,' and he pointed to the field,Where, huddled here and there on mound and knoll,Were men and women staring and aghast,While some yet fled; and then he plainlier toldHow the huge Earl lay slain within his hall.But when the knight besought him, 'Follow me,Prince, to the camp, and in the King's own earSpeak what has chanced; ye surely have enduredStrange chances here alone;' that other flushed,And hung his head, and halted in reply,Fearing the mild face of the blameless King,And after madness acted question asked:Till Edyrn crying, 'If ye will not goTo Arthur, then will Arthur come to you,''Enough,' he said, 'I follow,' and they went.But Enid in their going had two fears,One from the bandit scattered in the field,And one from Edyrn. Every now and then,When Edyrn reined his charger at her side,She shrank a little. In a hollow land,From which old fires have broken, men may fearFresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said: 'Fair and dear cousin, you that most had causeTo fear me, fear no longer, I am changed.Yourself were first the blameless cause to makeMy nature's prideful sparkle in the bloodBreak into furious flame; being repulsedBy Yniol and yourself, I schemed and wroughtUntil I overturned him; then set up(With one main purpose ever at my heart)My haughty jousts, and took a paramour;Did her mock-honour as the fairest fair,And, toppling over all antagonism,So waxed in pride, that I believed myselfUnconquerable, for I was wellnigh mad:And, but for my main purpose in these jousts,I should have slain your father, seized yourself.I lived in hope that sometime you would comeTo these my lists with him whom best you loved;And there, poor cousin, with your meek blue eyesThe truest eyes that ever answered Heaven,Behold me overturn and trample on him.Then, had you cried, or knelt, or prayed to me,I should not less have killed him. And so you came,--But once you came,--and with your own true eyesBeheld the man you loved (I speak as oneSpeaks of a service done him) overthrowMy proud self, and my purpose three years old,And set his foot upon me, and give me life.There was I broken down; there was I saved:Though thence I rode all-shamed, hating the lifeHe gave me, meaning to be rid of it.And all the penance the Queen laid upon meWas but to rest awhile within her court;Where first as sullen as a beast new-caged,And waiting to be treated like a wolf,Because I knew my deeds were known, I found,Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn,Such fine reserve and noble reticence,Manners so kind, yet stately, such a graceOf tenderest courtesy, that I beganTo glance behind me at my former life,And find that it had been the wolf's indeed:And oft I talked with Dubric, the high saint,Who, with mild heat of holy oratory,Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness,Which, when it weds with manhood, makes a man.And you were often there about the Queen,But saw me not, or marked not if you saw;Nor did I care or dare to speak with you,But kept myself aloof till I was changed;And fear not, cousin; I am changed indeed.' He spoke, and Enid easily believed,Like simple noble natures, credulousOf what they long for, good in friend or foe,There most in those who most have done them ill.And when they reached the camp the King himselfAdvanced to greet them, and beholding herThough pale, yet happy, asked her not a word,But went apart with Edyrn, whom he heldIn converse for a little, and returned,And, gravely smiling, lifted her from horse,And kissed her with all pureness, brother-like,And showed an empty tent allotted her,And glancing for a minute, till he saw herPass into it, turned to the Prince, and said: 'Prince, when of late ye prayed me for my leaveTo move to your own land, and there defendYour marches, I was pricked with some reproof,As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be,By having looked too much through alien eyes,And wrought too long with delegated hands,Not used mine own: but now behold me comeTo cleanse this common sewer of all my realm,With Edyrn and with others: have ye lookedAt Edyrn? have ye seen how nobly changed?This work of his is great and wonderful.His very face with change of heart is changed.The world will not believe a man repents:And this wise world of ours is mainly right.Full seldom doth a man repent, or useBoth grace and will to pick the vicious quitchOf blood and custom wholly out of him,And make all clean, and plant himself afresh.Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heartAs I will weed this land before I go.I, therefore, made him of our Table Round,Not rashly, but have proved him everywayOne of our noblest, our most valorous,Sanest and most obedient: and indeedThis work of Edyrn wrought upon himselfAfter a life of violence, seems to meA thousand-fold more great and wonderfulThan if some knight of mine, risking his life,My subject with my subjects under him,Should make an onslaught single on a realmOf robbers, though he slew them one by one,And were himself nigh wounded to the death.' So spake the King; low bowed the Prince, and feltHis work was neither great nor wonderful,And past to Enid's tent; and thither cameThe King's own leech to look into his hurt;And Enid tended on him there; and thereHer constant motion round him, and the breathOf her sweet tendance hovering over him,Filled all the genial courses of his bloodWith deeper and with ever deeper love,As the south-west that blowing Bala lakeFills all the sacred Dee. So past the days. But while Geraint lay healing of his hurt,The blameless King went forth and cast his eyesOn each of all whom Uther left in chargeLong since, to guard the justice of the King:He looked and found them wanting; and as nowMen weed the white horse on the Berkshire hillsTo keep him bright and clean as heretofore,He rooted out the slothful officerOr guilty, which for bribe had winked at wrong,And in their chairs set up a stronger raceWith hearts and hands, and sent a thousand menTo till the wastes, and moving everywhereCleared the dark places and let in the law,And broke the bandit holds and cleansed the land. Then, when Geraint was whole again, they pastWith Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk.There the great Queen once more embraced her friend,And clothed her in apparel like the day.And though Geraint could never take againThat comfort from their converse which he tookBefore the Queen's fair name was breathed upon,He rested well content that all was well.Thence after tarrying for a space they rode,And fifty knights rode with them to the shoresOf Severn, and they past to their own land.And there he kept the justice of the KingSo vigorously yet mildly, that all heartsApplauded, and the spiteful whisper died:And being ever foremost in the chase,And victor at the tilt and tournament,They called him the great Prince and man of men.But Enid, whom her ladies loved to callEnid the Fair, a grateful people namedEnid the Good; and in their halls aroseThe cry of children, Enids and GeraintsOf times to be; nor did he doubt her more,But rested in her falty, till he crownedA happy life with a fair death, and fellAgainst the heathen of the Northern SeaIn battle, fighting for the blameless King.