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the quest to him —

       Him — here — a villain fitter to stick swine

       Than ride abroad redressing women’s wrong,

       Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman.’

      Then half-ashamed and part-amazed, the lord

       Now looked at one and now at other, left

       The 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, weigh

       Whether thou wilt not with thy damsel back

       To 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 saved

       Had, some brief space, conveyed them on their way

       And 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, methinks

       Some ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt thou, fool?

       For hard by here is one will overthrow

       And slay thee: then will I to court again,

       And shame the King for only yielding me

       My 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 find

       My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay

       Among the ashes and wedded the King’s son.’

      Then to the shore of one of those long loops

       Wherethrough the serpent river coiled, they came.

       Rough-thicketed were the banks and steep; the stream

       Full, narrow; this a bridge of single arc

       Took at a leap; and on the further side

       Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold

       In 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 paced

       Unarmed, 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 scorn

       Of thee and thy much folly hath sent thee here

       His 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-folds

       Bare-footed and bare-headed three fair girls

       In gilt and rosy raiment came: their feet

       In dewy grasses glistened; and the hair

       All over glanced with dewdrop or with gem

       Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine.

       These armed him in blue arms, and gave a shield

       Blue 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, shone

       Immingled 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 times

       Than hear thee so missay me and revile.

       Fair words were best for him who fights for thee;

       But truly foul are better, for they send

       That strength of anger through mine arms, I know

       That I shall overthrow him.’

      And he that bore

       The 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 wrong

       Than set him on his feet, and take his horse

       And arms, and so return him to the King.

       Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, knave.

       Avoid: for it beseemeth not a knave

       To ride with such a lady.’

      ‘Dog, thou liest.

       I spring from loftier lineage than thine own.’

       He spake; and all at fiery speed the two

       Shocked on the central bridge, and either spear

       Bent but not brake, and either knight at once,

       Hurled as a stone from out of a catapult

       Beyond his horse’s crupper and the bridge,

       Fell, as if dead; but quickly rose and drew,

       And Gareth lashed so fiercely with his brand

       He drave his enemy backward down the bridge,

       The damsel crying, ‘Well-stricken, kitchen-knave!’

       Till Gareth’s shield was cloven; but one stroke

       Laid 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 me

       Good — I accord it easily as a grace.’

       She reddening, ‘Insolent scullion: I of thee?

       I bound to thee for any favour asked!’

      

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