LITMIR.BIZ

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Naked in open dayshine?’ ‘Nay,’ she cried,

       ‘Not naked, only wrapt in hardened skins

       That fit him like his own; and so ye cleave

       His 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 slain

       The damsel’s champion?’ and the damsel cried,

      ‘No star of thine, but shot from Arthur’s heaven

       With all disaster unto thine and thee!

       For both thy younger brethren have gone down

       Before 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 Star

       Can throw the Evening.’

      Then that other blew

       A hard and deadly note upon the horn.

       ‘Approach and arm me!’ With slow steps from out

       An old storm-beaten, russet, many-stained

       Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came,

       And armed him in old arms, and brought a helm

       With but a drying evergreen for crest,

       And gave a shield whereon the Star of Even

       Half-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 oft

       As 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 one

       That all in later, sadder age begins

       To 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 strike

       Vainly, 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, more

       Than loud Southwesterns, rolling ridge on ridge,

       The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and springs

       For ever; till at length Sir Gareth’s brand

       Clashed his, and brake it utterly to the hilt.

       ‘I have thee now;’ but forth that other sprang,

       And, all unknightlike, writhed his wiry arms

       Around him, till he felt, despite his mail,

       Strangled, but straining even his uttermost

       Cast, and so hurled him headlong o’er the bridge

       Down 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 King

       Scorned me and mine; and now thy pardon, friend,

       For thou hast ever answered courteously,

       And wholly bold thou art, and meek withal

       As 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 King

       Would handle scorn, or yield you, asking, one

       Not fit to cope your quest. You said your say;

       Mine answer was my deed. Good sooth! I hold

       He scarce is knight, yea but half-man, nor meet

       To fight for gentle damsel, he, who lets

       His heart be stirred with any foolish heat

       At any gentle damsel’s waywardness.

       Shamed? care not! thy foul sayings fought for me:

       And seeing now thy words are fair, methinks

       There rides no knight, not Lancelot, his great self,

       Hath force to quell me.’

       Nigh upon that hour

       When the lone hern forgets his melancholy,

       Lets down his other leg, and stretching, dreams

       Of 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 wine

       Of Southland, which the Lady Lyonors

       Had sent her coming champion, waited him.

      Anon they past a narrow comb wherein

       Where slabs of rock with figures, knights on horse

       Sculptured, and deckt in slowly-waning hues.

       ‘Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once was here,

       Whose holy hand hath fashioned on the rock

       The war of Time against the soul of man.

       And yon four fools have sucked their allegory

       From these damp walls, and taken but the form.

       Know ye not these?’ and Gareth lookt and read —

       In letters like to those the vexillary

       Hath left crag-carven o’er the streaming Gelt —

       ‘PHOSPHORUS,’ then ‘MERIDIES’—‘HESPERUS’—

      

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