While he that watch'd her sadden, was the more

Suspicious that her nature had a taint.

At last it chanced that on a summer

morn

(They sleeping each by either) the new sun Beat thro' the blindless casement of the

room,

And heated the strong warrior in his dreams;

Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside, And bared the knotted column of his

throat,

The massive square of his heroic breast, And arms on which the standing muscle sloped,

As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone, Running too vehemently to break upon it. And Enid woke and sat beside the couch, Admiring him, and thought within herself,

Was ever man so grandly made as he? Then, like a shadow, past the people's talk And accusation of uxoriousness

Across her mind, and bowing over him, Low to her own heart piteously she said:

"O noble breast and all-puissant arms, Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men Reproach you, saying all your force is gone?

I am the cause because I dare not speak And tell him what I think and what they say.

And yet I hate that he should linger here; I cannot love my lord and not his name. Far liever had I gird his harness on him, And ride with him to battle and stand by, And watch his mightful hand striking great blows

At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world. Far better were I laid in the dark earth, Not hearing any more his noble voice, Not to be folded more in these dear arms, And darken'd from the high light in his

Is melted into mere effeminacy?
O me, I fear that I am no true wife."

Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke, And the strong passion in her made her weep

True tears upon his broad and naked breast,

And these awoke him, and by great mischance

He heard but fragments of her later words, And that she fear'd she was not a true wife. And then he thought, "In spite of all my care,

For all my pains, poor man, for all my pains, She is not faithful to me, and I see her Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur's hall."

Then tho' he loved and reverenced her too much

To dream she could be guilty of foul act, Right thro' his manful breast darted the

pang

That makes a a man, in the sweet face of her Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable.

At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out of bed, And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried,

"My charger and her palfrey," then to her, "I will ride forth into the wilderness; For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to win, I have not fall'n so low as some would wish. And you, put on your worst and meanest dress

And ride with me." And Enid ask'd, amazed,

"If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault."
But he, "I charge you, ask not but obey.'
Then she bethought her of a faded silk,
A faded mantle and a faded veil,
And moving toward a cedarn cabinet,
Wherein she kept them folded reverently
With sprigs of summer laid between the
folds,

She took them, and array'd herself therein,
Remembering when first he came on her
Drest in that dress, and how he loved
her in it,

And all her foolish fears about the dress, And all his journey to her, as himself Had told her, and their coming to the court.

For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk. There on a day, he sitting high in hall,

A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraint,

Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand, Came quickly flashing thro' the shallow ford

Behind them, and so gallop'd up the knoll. A purple scarf, at either end whereof There swung an apple of the purest gold, Sway'd round about him, as he gallop'd up To join them, glancing like a dragon-fly In summer suit and silks of holiday. Low bow'd the tributary Prince, and she, Sweetly and statelily, and with all grace Of womanhood and queenhood, answer'd

66

him :

'Late, late, Sir Prince," she said, "later

than we !"

knight

Had visor up, and show'd a youthful face, Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments. And Guinevere, not mindful of his face In the king's hall, desired his name, and

sent

Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf; Who being vicious, old, and irritable, And doubling all his master's vice of pride, Made answer sharply that she should not know.

"Then will I ask it of himself," she said. "Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not," cried the dwarf;

"Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak of him";

And when she put her horse toward the knight,

Struck at her with his whip, and she return'd

Indignant to the Queen; whereat Geraint Exclaiming, “Surely I will learn the name,"

Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask'd it of him,

Who answer'd as before; and when the Prince

Had put his horse in motion toward the knight,

Struck at him with his whip, and cut his

cheek.

The Prince's blood spirted upon the scarf, Dyeingit; and his quick, instinctive hand Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him : But he, from his exceeding manfulness And pure nobility of temperament, Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrain'd

From ev'n a word, and so returning said:

"I will avenge this insult, noble Queen, Done in your maiden's person to yourself: And I will track this vermin to their earths:

For tho' I ride unarm'd, I do not doubt To find, at some place I shall come at, arms On loan, or else for pledge; and, being found,

Then will I fight him, and will break his pride,

And on the third day, will again be here, So that I be not fall'n in fight. Farewell."

"Farewell, fair Prince," answer'd the stately Queen.

"Be prosperous in this journey, as in all;

love,

And Prince Geraint, now thinking that
he heard

The noble hart at bay, now the far horn,
A little vext at losing of the hunt,
A little at the vile occasion, rode,
By ups and downs, thro' many a grassy
glade

And valley, with fixt eye following the three.

Atlast they issued from the world of wood, And climb'd upon a fair and even ridge, And show'd themselves against the sky, and sank.

And thither came Geraint, and underneath

Beheld the long street of a little town In a long valley, on one side whereof, White from the mason's hand, a fortress

rose;

And on one side a castle in decay, Beyond a bridge that spann'd a dry ravine: And out of town and valley came a noise As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed Brawling, or like a clamor of the rooks At distance, ere they settle for the night.

And onward to the fortress rode the three, And enter'd, and were lost behind the walls.

"So," thought Geraint, "I have track'd him to his earth." And down the long street riding wearily, Found every hostel full, and everywhere Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss And bustling whistle of the youth who

scour'd

His master's armor; and of such a one He ask'd, "What means the tumult in the town?"

Who told him, scouring still "The sparrow-hawk!"

Then riding close behind an ancient churl, Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam, Went sweating underneath a sack of corn, Ask'd yet once more what meant the hubbub here?

row-hawk."

Then riding further past an armorer's, Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd above his work,

Sat riveting a helmet on his knee,
He put the self-same query, but the man
Not turning round, nor looking at him,
said:

"Friend, ne that labors for the sparrowhawk

Has little time for idle questioners." Whereat Geraint flash'd into sudden spleen :

"A thousand pips eat up your sparrowhawk!

him dead!

knight;

We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn, And there is scantly time for half the work. Arms? truth! I know not all are wanted here.

Harborage? truth, good truth, I know not, save,

It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the bridge Yonder." He spoke and fell to work again.

Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet,

Across the bridge that spann'd the dry ravine.

There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl, (His dress a suit of fray'd magnificence, Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said: 'Whither, fair son ?" to whom Geraint replied,

66

"O friend, I seek a harborage for the night."

Then Yniol, "Enter therefore and partake The slender entertainment of a house Once rich, now poor, but ever opendoor'd."

"Thanks, venerable friend,” replied Geraint;

"So that ye do not serve me sparrowhawks

For supper, I will enter, I will eat With all the passion of a twelve hours' fast."

Then sigh'd and smiled the hoary-headed Earl,

And answer'd, "Graver cause than yours

is mine

To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrowhawk:

But in, go in; for save yourself desire it,

arms,

And suck'd the joining of the stones, and look'd

A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove.

And while he waited in the castle court, The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang Clear thro' the open casement of the Hall, Singing; and as the sweet voice of a bird,

Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, Moves him to think what kind of bird it is

That sings so delicately clear, and make Conjecture of the plumage and the form; So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint; And made him like a man abroad at morn When first the liquid note beloved of

men

Comes flying over many a windy wave To Britain, and in April suddenly Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with green and red,

And he suspends his converse with a friend, Or it may be the labor of his hands, To think or say, "there is the nightin

gale"; So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said,

"Here, by God's grace, is the one voice for me."

It chanced the song that Enid sang was

one

Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang :

"Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud;

and cloud;