Against my house, and him they caught and maim’d;
But I, my sons, and little daughter fled
From bonds or death, and dwelt among the woods
By the great river in a boatman’s hut.
Dull days were those, till our good Arthur broke
The Pagan yet once more on Badon hill.”
“O, there, great lord, doubtless,” Lavaine said, rapt
By all the sweet and sudden passion of youth
Toward greatness in its elder, “you have fought.
O, tell us—for we live apart—you know
Of Arthur’s glorious wars.” And Lancelot spoke
And answer’d him at full, as having been
With Arthur in the fight which all day long
Rang by the white mouth of the violent Glem;
And in the four loud battles by the shore
Of Duglas; that on Bassa; then the war
That thunder’d in and out the gloomy skirts
Of Celidon the forest; and again
By Castle Gurnion, where the glorious King
Had on his cuirass worn our Lady’s Head,
Carved of one emerald centred in a sun
Of silver rays, that lighten’d as he breathed;
And at Caerleon had he help’d his lord,
When the strong neighings of the wild White Horse
Set every gilded parapet shuddering;
And up in Agned-Cathregonion too,
And down the waste sand-shores of Trath Treroit,
Where many a heathen fell, “and on the mount
Of Badon I myself beheld the King
Charge at the head of all his Table Round,
And all his legions crying Christ and him,
And break them; and I saw him, after, stand
High on a heap of slain, from spur to plume
Red as the rising sun with heathen blood,
And seeing me, with a great voice he cried,
‘They are broken, they are broken!’ for the King,
However mild he seems at home, nor cares
For triumph in our mimic wars, the jousts—
For if his own knight casts him down, he laughs,
Saying his knights are better men than he—
Yet in this heathen war the fire of God
Fills him. I never saw his like; there lives
No greater leader.”
While he utter’d this,
Low to her own heart said the lily maid,
“Save your great self, fair lord;” and when he fell
From talk of war to traits of pleasantry—
Being mirthful he, but in a stately kind—
She still took note that when the living smile
Died from his lips, across him came a cloud
Of melancholy severe, from which again,
Whenever in her hovering to and fro
The lily maid had striven to make him cheer,
There brake a sudden-beaming tenderness
Of manners and of nature; and she thought
That all was nature, all, perchance, for her.
And all night long his face before her lived,
As when a painter, poring on a face,
Divinely thro’ all hindrance finds the man
Behind it, and so paints him that his face,
The shape and color of a mind and life,
Lives for his children, ever at its best
And fullest; so the face before her lived,
Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full
Of noble things, and held her from her sleep,
Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the thought
She needs must bid farewell to sweet Lavaine.
First as in fear, step after step, she stole
Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating.
Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the court,
“This shield, my friend, where is it?” and Lavaine
Past inward, as she came from out the tower.
There to his proud horse Lancelot turn’d, and
smooth’d
The glossy shoulder, humming to himself.
Half-envious of the flattering hand, she drew
Nearer and stood. He look’d, and, more amazed
Than if seven men had set upon him, saw
The maiden standing in the dewy light.
He had not dream’d she was so beautiful.
Then came on him a sort of sacred fear,
For silent, tho’ he greeted her, she stood
Rapt on his face as if it were a god’s.
That he should wear her favor at the tilt.
She braved a riotous heart in asking for it.
“Fair lord, whose name I know not—noble it is,
I well believe, the noblest—will you wear
My favor at this tourney?” “Nay,” said he,
“Fair lady, since I never yet have worn
Favor of any lady in the lists.
Such is my wont, as those who know me know.”
“Yea, so,” she answer’d; “then in wearing mine
Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord,
That those who know should know you.” And he
turn’d
Her counsel up and down within his mind,
And found it true, and answer’d: “True, my child.
Well, I will wear it; fetch it out to me.
What is it?” and she told him, “A red sleeve
Broider’d with pearls,” and brought it. Then he bound
Her token on his helmet, with a smile
Saying, “I never yet have done so much
For any maiden living,” and the blood
Sprang to her face and fill’d her with delight;
But left her all the paler when Lavaine
Returning brought the yet-unblazon’d shield,
His brother’s, which he gave to Lancelot,
Who parted with his own to fair Elaine:
“Do me this grace, my child, to have my shield
In keeping till I come.” “A grace to me,”
She answer’d, “twice to-day. I am your squire!”
Whereat Lavaine said laughing: “Lily maid,
For fear our people call you lily maid
In earnest, let me bring your color back;
Once, twice, and thrice. Now get you hence to bed;”
So kiss’d her, and Sir Lancelot his own hand,
And thus they moved away. She staid a minute,
Then made a sudden step to the gate, and there—
Her bright hair blown about the serious face
Yet rosy-kindled with her brother’s kiss—
Paused by the gateway, standing near the shield
In silence, while she watch’d their arms far-off
Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs.
Then to her tower she climb’d, and took the shield,
There kept it, and so lived in fantasy.
Meanwhile the new companions past away
Far o’er the long backs of the bushless downs,
To where Sir Lancelot knew there lived a knight
Not far from Camelot, now for forty years
A hermit, who had pray’d, labor’d and pray’d,
And ever laboring had scoop’d himself
In the white rock a chapel and a hall
On massive columns, like a shore-cliff cave,
And cells and chambers. All were fair and dry;
The green light from the meadows underneath
Struck up and lived along the milky roofs;
And in the meadows tremulous aspen trees
And poplars made a noise of falling showers.
And thither wending there that night they bode.
But when the next day broke from underground,
And shot red fire and shadows thro’ the cave,
They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode awa
y.
Then Lancelot saying, “Hear, but hold my name
Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the Lake,”
Abash’d Lavaine, whose instant reverence,
Dearer to true young hearts than their own praise,
But left him leave to stammer, “Is it indeed?”
And after muttering, “The great Lancelot,”
At last he got his breath and answer’d: “One,
One have I seen—that other, our liege lord,
The dread Pendragon, Britain’s King of kings,
Of whom the people talk mysteriously,
He will be there—then were I stricken blind
That minute, I might say that I had seen.”
So spake Lavaine, and when they reach’d the lists
By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes
Run thro’ the peopled gallery which half round
Lay like a rainbow fallen upon the grass,
Until they found the clear-faced King, who sat
Robed in red samite, easily to be known,
Since to his crown the golden dragon clung,
And down his robe the dragon writhed in gold,
And from the carven-work behind him crept
Two dragons gilded, sloping down to make
Arms for his chair, while all the rest of them
Thro’ knots and loops and folds innumerable
Fled ever thro’ the woodwork, till they found
The new design wherein they lost themselves,
Yet with all ease, so tender was the work;
And, in the costly canopy o’er him set,
Blazed the last diamond of the nameless king.
Then Lancelot answer’d young Lavaine and said:
“Me you call great; mine is the firmer seat,
The truer lance; but there is many a youth
Now crescent, who will come to all I am
And overcome it; and in me there dwells
No greatness, save it be some far-off touch
Of greatness to know well I am not great.
There is the man.” And Lavaine gaped upon him
As on a thing miraculous, and anon
The trumpets blew; and then did either side,
They that assail’d, and they that held the lists,
Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move,
Meet in the midst, and there so furiously
Shock that a man far-off might well perceive,
If any man that day were left afield,
The hard earth shake, and a low thunder of arms.
And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw
Which were the weaker; then he hurl’d into it
Against the stronger. Little need to speak
Of Lancelot in his glory! King, duke, earl,
Count, baron—whom he smote, he overthrew.
But in the field were Lancelot’s kith and kin,
Ranged with the Table Round that held the lists,
Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger knight
Should do and almost overdo the deeds
Of Lancelot; and one said to the other, “Lo!
What is he? I do not mean the force alone—
The grace and versatility of the man!
Is it not Lancelot?” “When has Lancelot worn
Favor of any lady in the lists?
Not such his wont, as we that know him know.”
“How then? who then?” a fury seized them all,
A fiery family passion for the name
Of Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs.
They couch’d their spears and prick’d their steeds,
and thus,
Their plumes driven backward by the wind they made
In moving, all together down upon him
Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North Sea,
Green-glimmering toward the summit, bears, with
all
Its stormy crests that smoke against the skies.
Down on a bark, and overbears the bark
And him that helms it; so they overbore
Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear
Down-glancing lamed the charger, and a spear
Prick’d sharply his own cuirass, and the head
Pierced thro’ his side, and there snapt and remain’d.
Then Sir Lavaine did well and worshipfully;
He bore a knight of old repute to the earth,
And brought his horse to Lancelot where he lay.
He up the side, sweating with agony, got,
But thought to do while he might yet endure,
And being lustily holpen by the rest,
His party,—tho’ it seem’d half-miracle
To those he fought with,—drave his kith and kin,
And all the Table Round that held the lists,
Back to the barrier; then the trumpets blew
Proclaiming his the prize who wore the sleeve
Of scarlet and the pearls; and all the knights,
His party, cried, “Advance and take thy prize
The diamond;” but he answer’d: “Diamond me
No diamonds! for God’s love, a little air!
Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death!
Hence will I, and I charge you, follow me not.”
He spoke, and vanish’d suddenly from the field
With young Lavaine into the poplar grove.
There from his charger down he slid, and sat,
Gasping to Sir Lavaine, “Draw the lance-head.”
“Ah, my sweet lord Sir Lancelot,” said Lavaine,
“I dread me, if I draw it, you will die.”
But he, “I die already with it: draw—
Draw,”—and Lavaine drew, and Sir Lancelot gave
A marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan,
And half his blood burst forth, and down he sank
For the pure pain, and wholly swoon’d away.
Then came the hermit out and bare him in,
There stanch’d his wound; and there, in daily doubt
Whether to live or die, for many a week
Hid from the wild world’s rumor by the grove
Of poplars with their noise of falling showers,
And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay.
But on that day when Lancelot fled the lists,
His party, knights of utmost North and West,
Lords of waste marshes, kings of desolate isles,
Came round their great Pendragon, saying to him,
“Lo, Sire, our knight, thro’ whom we won the day,
Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his prize
Untaken, crying that his prize is death.”
“Heaven hinder,” said the King, “that such an one,
So great a knight as we have seen today—
He seem’d to me another Lancelot—
Yea, twenty times I thought him Lancelot—
He must not pass uncared for. Wherefore rise,
O Gawain, and ride forth and find the knight
Wounded and wearied, needs must he be near.
I charge you that you get at once to horse.
And, knights and kings, there breathes not one of
you
Will deem this prize of ours is rashly given;
His prowess was too wondrous. We will do him
No customary honor; since the knight
Came not to us, of us to claim the prize,
Ourselves will send it after. Rise and take
This diamond, and deliver it, and return,
And bring us where he is, and how he fares,
And cease not from your quest until ye find.”
So saying, from the carven flower above,
To which it made a restless heart, he took
And gave the diamond. Then from where he sat
At Arthur’s right, with smiling face arose,
With smiling face and frowning heart, a prince
In the mid might and flo
urish of his May,
Gawain, surnamed the Courteous, fair and strong,
And after Lancelot, Tristram, and Geraint,
And Gareth, a good knight, but therewithal
Sir Modred’s brother, and the child of Lot,
Nor often loyal to his word, and now
Wroth that the King’s command to sally forth
In quest of whom he knew not, made him leave
The banquet and concourse of knights and kings.
So all in wrath he got to horse and went;
While Arthur to the banquet, dark in mood,
Past, thinking, “Is it Lancelot who hath come
Despite the wound he spake of, all for gain
Of glory, and hath added wound to wound,
And ridden away to die?” So fear’d the King,
And, after two days’ tarriance there, return’d.
Then when he saw the Queen, embracing ask’d,
“Love, are you yet so sick?” “Nay, lord,” she said.
“And where is Lancelot?” Then the Queen amazed,
“Was he not with you? won he not your prize?”
“Nay, but one like him.” “Why, that like was he.”
And when the King demanded how she knew,
Said: “Lord, no sooner had ye parted from us
Than Lancelot told me of a common talk
That men went down before his spear at a touch,
But knowing he was Lancelot; his great name
Conquer’d; and therefore would he hide his name
From all men, even the King, and to this end
Had made the pretext of a hindering wound,
That he might joust unknown of all, and learn
If his old prowess were in aught decay’d;
And added, ‘Our true Arthur, when he learns,
Will well allow my pretext, as for gain
Of purer glory.’ ”
Then replied the King:
“Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been,
In lieu of idly dallying with the truth,
To have trusted me as he hath trusted thee.
Surely his King and most familiar friend
Might well have kept his secret. True, indeed,
Albeit I know my knights fantastical,
So fine a fear in our large Lancelot
Must needs have moved my laughter; now remains
But little cause for laughter. His own kin—
Ill news, my Queen, for all who love him, this!—
His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him;