And ever in her mind she cast about
For that unnoticed failing in herself,
Which made him look so cloudy and so cold;
Till the great plover’s human whistle amazed
50 Her heart, and glancing round the waste she fear’d
In every 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.’
55 But when the fourth part of the day was gone,
Then Enid was aware of three tall knights
On horseback, wholly arm’d, behind a rock
In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all;
And heard one crying to his fellow, ‘Look,
60 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 horse
And armour, and his damsel shall be ours.’
Then Enid ponder’d in her heart, and said:
65 ‘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.’
70 Then she went back some paces of return,
Met his full frown timidly firm, and said;
‘My lord, I saw three bandits by the rock
Waiting to fall on you, and heard them boast
That they would slay you, and possess your horse
75 And armour, and your damsel should be theirs.’
He made a wrathful answer: ‘Did I wish
Your warning or your silence? one command
I laid upon you, not to speak to me,
And thus ye keep it! Well then, look – for now,
80 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.
85 And at the midmost charging, Prince Geraint
Drave the long spear a cubit thro’ his breast
And out beyond; and then against his brace
Of comrades, each of whom had broken on him
A lance that splinter’d like an icicle,
90 Swung from his brand a windy buffet out
Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunn’d the twain
Or slew them, and dismounting like a man
That skins the wild beast after slaying him,
Stript from the three dead wolves of woman born
95 The three gay suits of armour which they wore,
And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits
Of armour on their horses, each on each,
And tied the bridle-reins of all the three
Together, and said to her, ‘Drive them on
100 Before you;’ and she drove them thro’ the waste.
He follow’d nearer: ruth began to work
Against his anger in him, while he watch’d
The being he loved best in all the world,
With difficulty in mild obedience
105 Driving them on: he fain had spoken to her,
And loosed in words of sudden fire the wrath
And smoulder’d wrong that burnt him all within;
But evermore it seem’d an easier thing
At once without remorse to strike her dead,
110 Than to cry ‘Halt,’ and to her own bright face
Accuse her of the least immodesty:
And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more
That she could speak whom his own ear had heard
Call herself false: and suffering thus he made
115 Minutes an age: but in scarce longer time
Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk,
Before he turn to fall seaward again,
Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold
In the first shallow shade of a deep wood,
120 Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks,
Three other horsemen waiting, wholly arm’d,
Whereof one seem’d far larger than her lord,
And shook her pulses, crying, ‘Look, a prize!
Three horses and three goodly suits of arms,
125 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 answer’d merrily, ‘Yea, but one?
Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him.’
130 And Enid ponder’d 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.
135 I needs must disobey him for his good;
How should I dare obey him to his harm?
Needs must I speak, and tho’ he kill me for it,
I save a life dearer to me than mine.’
And she abode his coming, and said to him
140 With 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 arm’d, and one
Is larger-limb’d than you are, and they say
145 That 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-limb’d than I,
And all at once should sally out upon me,
150 I swear it would not ruffle me so much
As 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 breathe
155 Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath.
And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him.
Aim’d at the helm, his lance err’d; but Geraint’s,
A little in the late encounter strain’d,
Struck thro’ the bulky bandit’s corselet home,
160 And then brake short, and down his enemy roll’d,
And there lay still; as he that tells the tale
Saw once a great piece of a promontory,
That had a sapling growing on it, slide
From the long shore-cliffs windy walls to the beach,
165 And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew:
So lay the man transfixt. His craven pair
Of comrades making slowlier at the Prince,
When now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood;
On whom the victor, to confound them more,
170 Spurr’d with his terrible war-cry; for as one,
That listens near a torrent mountain-brook,
All thro’ the crash of the near cataract hears
The drumming thunder of the huger fall
At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear
175 His voice in battle, and be kindled by it,
And foemen scared, like that false pair who thir’d
Flying, but, overtaken, died the death
Themselves had wrought on many an innocent.
Thereon Geraint, dismounting, pick’d the lance
180 That pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolves
Their 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 three
Together, and said to her, ‘Drive them on
185 Before you,’ and she drove them thro’the wood.
He fo
llow’d nearer still: the pain she had
To keep them in the wild ways of the wood,
Two sets of three laden with jingling arms,
Together, served a little to disedge
190 The sharpness of that pain about her heart:
And they themselves, like creatures gently born
But into bad hands fall’n, and now so long
By bandits groom’d, prick’d their light ears, and felt
Her low firm voice and tender government.
195 So thro’ the green gloom of the wood they past,
And issuing under open heavens beheld
A little town with towers, upon a rock,
And close beneath, a meadow gemlike chased
In the brown wild, and mowers mowing in it:
200 And down a rocky pathway from the place
There came a fair-hair’d youth, that in his hand
Bare victual for the mowers: and Geraint
Had ruth again on Enid looking pale:
Then, moving downward to the meadow ground,
205 He, when the fair-hair’d 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, tho’ the fare is coarse,
And only meet for mowers;’ then set down
210 His basket, and dismounting on the sward
They let the horses graze, and ate themselves.
And Enid took a little delicately,
Less having stomach for it than desire
To close with her lord’s pleasure; but Geraint
215 Ate all the mowers’ victual unawares,
And when he found all empty, was amazed;
And ‘Boy,’ said he, ‘I have eaten all, but take
A horse and arms for guerdon; choose the best.’
He, reddening in extremity of delight,
220 ‘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 fetch
225 Fresh 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 him
How great a man thou art: he loves to know
When men of mark are in his territory:
230 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 appetite
Than when I left your mowers dinnerless.
235 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 return
240 With 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 disappear’d,
Leading the horse, and they were left alone.
245 But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes
Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance
At Enid, where she droopt: his own false doom,
That shadow of mistrust should never cross
Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sigh’d;
250 Then with another humorous ruth remark’d
The lusty mowers labouring dinnerless,
And watch’d the sun blaze on the turning scythe,
And after nodded sleepily in the heat.
But she, remembering her old ruin’d hall,
255 And all the windy clamour of the daws
About her hollow turret, pluck’d the grass
There growing longest by the meadow’s edge,
And into many a listless annulet,
Now over, now beneath her marriage ring,
260 Wove and unwove it, till the boy return’d
And told them of a chamber, and they went;
Where, after saying to her, ‘If ye will,
Call for the woman of the house,’ to which
She answer’d, ‘Thanks, my lord;’ the two remain’d
265 Apart by all the chamber’s width, and mute
As creatures voiceless thro’ the fault of birth,
Or two wild men supporters of a shield,
Painted, who stare at open space, nor glance
The one at other, parted by the shield.
270 On a sudden, many a voice along the street,
And heel against the pavement echoing, burst
Their drowse; and either started while the door,
Push’d from without, drave backward to the wall,
And midmost of a rout of roisterers,
275 Femininely fair and dissolutely pale,
Her suitor in old years before Geraint,
Enter’d, the wild lord of the place, Limours.
He moving’up with pliant courtliness,
Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily,
280 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 cheer
To feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously
285 According to his fashion, bad the host
Call 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 Limours
290 Drank till he jested with all ease, and told
Free tales, and took the word and play’d 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 gem
295 Of fifty facets; thus he moved the Prince
To laughter and his comrades to applause.
Then, when the Prince was merry, ask’d Limours,
‘Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and speak
To your good damsel there who sits apart,
300 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,
305 Bow’d at her side and utter’d whisperingly:
‘Enid, the pilot star of my lone life,
Enid, my early and my only love,
Enid, the loss of whom hath turn’d me wild –
What chance is this? how is it I see you here?
310 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 civility
Here in the heart of waste and wilderness.
I thought, but that your father came between,
315 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.
320 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 know
325 Tho’ men may bicker with the things they love,
They would not make them laughable in all eyes,<
br />
Not while they loved them; and your wretched dress,
A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks
Your story, that this man loves you no more.
330 Your beauty is no beauty to him now:
A common chance – right well I know it – pall’d –
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;
335 With more exceeding passion than of old:
Good, speak the word: my followers ring him round:
He sits unarm’d; I hold a finger up;
They understand: nay; I do not mean blood:
Nor need ye look so scared at what I say:
340 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 me
The one true lover whom you ever own’d,
345 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 voice
And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it,
350 Made his eye moist; but Enid fear’d his eyes,
Moist as they were, wine-heated from the feast
And answer’d with such craft as women use,
Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance
That breaks upon them perilously, and said:
355 ‘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 to-night: I am weary to the death.’
Low at leave-taking, with his brandish’d plume
360 Brushing his instep, bow’d 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.
365 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 held
He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart
370 To wake him, but hung o’er him, wholly pleased
To find him yet unwounded after fight,
And hear him breathing low and equally.
Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heap’d
The pieces of his armour in one place,
375 All to be there against a sudden need;
Then dozed awhile herself, but overtoil’d
Idylls of the King Page 11