All in the hollow of his shield, and took
And bore him to the naked hall of Doorm—
His gentle charger following him unled—
And cast him and the bier in which he lay
Down on an oaken settle in the hall,
And then departed, hot in haste to join
Their luckier mates, but growling as before,
And cursing their lost time, and the dead man,
And their own earl, and their own souls, and her.
They might as well have blest her; she was deaf
To blessing or to cursing save from one.
So for long hours sat Enid by her lord
There in the naked hall, propping his head,
And chafing his pale hands, and calling to him,
Till at the last he waken’d from his swoon,
And found his own dear bride propping his head,
And chafing his faint hands, and calling to him;
And felt the warm tears falling on his face,
And said to his own heart, “She weeps for me;”
And yet lay still, and feign’d himself as dead,
That he might prove her to the uttermost,
And say to his own heart, “She weeps for me.”
But in the falling afternoon return’d
The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall.
His lusty spearmen follow’d him with noise:
Each hurling down a heap of things that rang
Against the pavement, cast his lance aside,
And doff’d his helm; and then there flutter’d in,
Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes,
A tribe of women, dress’d in many hues,
And mingled with the spearmen; and Earl Doorm
Struck with a knife’s haft hard against the board,
And call’d for flesh and wine to feed his spears.
And men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves,
And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh.
And none spake word, but all sat down at once,
And ate with tumult in the naked hall,
Feeding like horses when you hear them feed;
Till Enid shrank far back into herself,
To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe.
But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would,
He roll’d his eyes about the hall, and found
A damsel drooping in a corner of it.
Then he remember’d her and how she wept.
And out of her there came a power upon him;
And rising on the sudden he said: “Eat!
I never yet beheld a thing so pale.
God’s curse, it makes me mad to see you weep.
Eat! Look yourself. Good luck had your good man,
For were I dead who is it would weep for me?
Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath
Have I beheld a lily like yourself.
And so there lived some color in your cheek,
There is not one among my gentlewomen
Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove.
But listen to me, and by me be ruled,
And I will do the thing I have not done,
For ye shall share my earldom with me, girl,
And we will live like two birds in one nest,
And I will fetch you forage from all fields,
For I compel all creatures to my will.”
He spoke; the brawny spearman let his cheek
Bulge with the unswallow’d piece, and turning
stared;
While some, whose souls the old serpent long had
drawn
Down, as the worm draws in the wither’d leaf
And makes it earth, hiss’d each at other’s ear
What shall not be recorded—women they,
Women, or what had been those gracious things,
But now desired the humbling of their best,
Yea, would have help’d him to it; and all at once
They hated her, who took no thought of them,
But answer’d in low voice, her meek head yet
Drooping, “I pray you of your courtesy,
He being as he is, to let me be.”
She spake so low he hardly heard her speak,
But like a mighty patron, satisfied
With what himself had done so graciously,
Assumed that she had thank’d him, adding, “Yea,
Eat and be glad, for I account you mine.”
She answer’d meekly, “How should I be glad
Henceforth in all the world at anything,
Until my lord arise and look upon me?”
Here the huge earl cried out upon her talk,
As all but empty heart and weariness
And sickly nothing; suddenly seized on her,
And bare her by main violence to the board,
And thrust the dish before her, crying, “Eat.”
“No, no,” said Enid, vext, “I will not eat
Till yonder man upon the bier arise,
And eat with me.” “Drink, then,” he answer’d.
“Here!”—
And fill’d a horn with wine and held it to her,—
“Lo! I, myself, when flush’d with fight or hot,
God’s curse, with anger—often I myself,
Before I well have drunken, scarce can eat;
Drink therefore, and the wine will change your will.”
“Not so,” she cried, “by Heaven, I will not drink
Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it,
And drink with me; and if he rise no more,
I will not look at wine until I die.”
At this he turn’d all red and paced his hall,
Now gnaw’d his under, now his upper lip,
And coming up close to her, said at last:
“Girl, for I see ye scorn my courtesies,
Take warning; yonder man is surely dead,
And I compel all creatures to my will.
Not eat nor drink? And wherefore wail for one
Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn
By dressing it in rags? Amazed am I,
Beholding how ye butt against my wish,
That I forbear you thus; cross me no more.
At least put off to please me this poor gown,
This silken rag, this beggar-woman’s weed.
I love that beauty should go beautifully;
For see ye not my gentlewomen here,
How gay, how suited to the house of one
Who loves that beauty should go beautifully?
Rise therefore; robe yourself in this; obey.”
He spoke, and one among his gentlewomen
Display’d a splendid silk of foreign loom,
Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue
Play’d into green, and thicker down the front
With jewels than the sward with drops of dew,
When all night long a cloud clings to the hill,
And with the dawn ascending lets the day
Strike where it clung; so thickly shone the gems.
But Enid answer’d, harder to be moved
Than hardest tyrants in their day of power,
With lifelong injuries burning unavenged,
And now their hour has come; and Enid said:
“In this poor gown my dear lord found me first,
And loved me serving in my father’s hall;
In this poor gown I rode with him to court,
And there the Queen array’d me like the sun;
In this poor gown he bade me clothe myself,
When now we rode upon this fatal quest
Of honor, where no honor can be gain’d;
And this poor gown I will not cast aside
Until himself arise a living man,
And bid me cast it. I have griefs enough;
Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be.
I never loved, can never love
but him.
Yea, God, I pray you of your gentleness,
He being as he is, to let me be.”
Then strode the brute earl up and down his hall,
And took his russet beard between his teeth;
Last, coming up quite close, and in his mood
Crying, “I count it of no more avail,
Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you;
Take my salute,” unknightly with flat hand,
However lightly, smote her on the cheek.
Then Enid, in her utter helplessness,
And since she thought, “He had not dared to do it,
Except he surely knew my lord was dead,”
Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry,
As of a wild thing taken in the trap,
Which sees the trapper coming thro’ the wood.
This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword,—
It lay beside him in the hollow shield,—
Made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it
Shore thro’ the swarthy neck, and like a ball
The russet-bearded head roll’d on the floor.
So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead.
And all the men and women in the hall
Rose when they saw the dead man rise, and fled
Yelling as from a spectre, and the two
Were left alone together, and he said:
“Enid, I have used you worse than that dead man,
Done you more wrong; we both have undergone
That trouble which has left me thrice your own.
Henceforward I will rather die than doubt.
And here I lay this penance on myself,
Not, tho’ mine own ears heard you yestermorn—
You thought me sleeping, but I heard you say,
I heard you say, that you were no true wife,
I swear I will not ask your meaning in it.
I do believe yourself against yourself,
And will henceforward rather die than doubt.”
And Enid could not say one tender word,
She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart.
She only pray’d him, “Fly, they will return
And slay you; fly, your charger is without,
My palfrey lost.” “Then, Enid, shall you ride
Behind me.” “Yea,” said Enid, “let us go.”
And moving out they found the stately horse,
Who now no more a vassal to the thief,
But free to stretch his limbs in lawful fight,
Neigh’d with all gladness as they came, and stoop’d
With a low whinny toward the pair; and she
Kiss’d the white star upon his noble front,
Glad also; then Geraint upon the horse
Mounted, and reach’d a hand, and on his foot
She set her own and climb’d; he turn’d his face
And kiss’d her climbing, and she cast her arms
About him, and at once they rode away.
And never yet, since high in Paradise
O’er the four rivers the first roses blew,
Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind
Than lived thro’ her who in that perilous hour
Put hand to hand beneath her husband’s heart,
And felt him hers again. She did not weep,
But o’er her meek eyes came a happy mist
Like that which kept the heart of Eden green
Before the useful trouble of the rain.
Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes
As not to see before them on the path,
Right in the gateway of the bandit hold,
A knight of Arthur’s court, who laid his lance
In rest and made as if to fall upon him.
Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of blood,
She, with her mind all full of what had chanced,
Shriek’d to the stranger, “Slay not a dead man!”
“The voice of Enid,” said the knight; but she,
Beholding it was Edyrn, son of Nudd,
Was moved so much the more, and shriek’d again,
“O cousin, slay not him who gave you life.”
And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake:
“My lord Geraint, I greet you with all love;
I took you for a bandit knight of Doorm;
And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him,
Who love you, prince, with something of the love
Wherewith we love the Heaven that chastens us.
For once, when I was up so high in pride
That I was halfway down the slope to hell,
By overthrowing me you threw me higher.
Now, made a knight of Arthur’s Table Round,
And since I knew this earl when I myself
Was half a bandit in my lawless hour,
I come the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm—
The King is close behind me—bidding him
Disband himself, and scatter all his powers,
Submit, and hear the judgment of the King.”
“He hears the judgment of the King of kings,”
Cried the wan prince; “and lo, the powers of Doorm
Are scatter’d!” and he pointed to the field,
Where, huddled here and there on mound and knoll,
Were men and women staring and aghast,
While some yet fled; and then he plainlier told
How the huge earl lay slain within his hall.
But when the knight besought him, “Follow me,
Prince, to the camp, and in the King’s own ear
Speak what has chanced; ye surely have endured
Strange chances here alone;” that other flush’d,
And hung his head, and halted in reply,
Fearing the mild face of the blameless King,
And after madness acted question ask’d;
Till Edyrn crying, “If ye will not go
To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you.”
“Enough,” he said, “I follow,” and they went.
But Enid in their going had two fears,
One from the bandit scatter’d in the field,
And one from Edyrn. Every now and then,
When Edyrn rein’d his charger at her side,
She shrank a little. In a hollow land,
From which old fires have broken, men may fear
Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said:
“Fair and dear cousin, you that most had cause
To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed.
Yourself were first the blameless cause to make
My nature’s prideful sparkle in the blood
Break into furious flame; being repulsed
By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and wrought
Until I overturn’d him; then set up—
With one main purpose ever at my heart—
My haughty jousts, and took a paramour;
Did her mock-honor as the fairest fair,
And, toppling over all antagonism,
So wax’d in pride that I believed myself
Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh mad;
And, but for my main purpose in these jousts,
I should have slain your father, seized yourself.
I lived in hope that sometime you would come
To these my lists with him whom best you loved,
And there, poor cousin, with your meek blue eyes,
The truest eyes that ever answer’d heaven,
Behold me overturn and trample on him.
Then, had you cried, or knelt, or pray’d to me,
I should not less have kill’d him. And you came,—
But once you came,—and with your own true eyes
Beheld the man you loved—I speak as one
Speaks of a service done him—overthrow
My proud self, and my purpose three years old,
And set his foot upon me, and give me life.
Th
ere was I broken down, there was I saved;
Tho’ thence I rode all-shamed, hating the life
He gave me, meaning to be rid of it.
And all the penance the Queen laid upon me
Was but to rest awhile within her court;
Where first as sullen as a beast new-caged,
And waiting to be treated like a wolf,
Because I knew my deeds were known, I found,
Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn,
Such fine reserve and noble reticence,
Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace
Of tenderest courtesy, that I began
To glance behind me at my former life,
And find that it had been the wolf’s indeed.
And oft I talk’d with Dubric, the high saint,
Who, with mild heat of holy oratory,
Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness
Which, when it weds with manhood, makes a man.
And you were often there about the Queen,
But saw me not, or mark’d not if you saw;
Nor did I care or dare to speak with you,
But kept myself aloof till I was changed;
And fear not, cousin, I am changed indeed.”
He spoke, and Enid easily believed,
Like simple noble natures, credulous
Of what they long for, good in friend or foe,
There most in those who most have done them ill.
And when they reach’d the camp the King himself
Advanced to greet them, and beholding her
Tho’ pale, yet happy, ask’d her not a word,
But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held
In converse for a little, and return’d,
And, gravely smiling, lifted her from horse,
And kiss’d her with all pureness, brother-like
And show’d an empty tent allotted her,
And glancing for a minute, till he saw her
Pass into it, turn’d to the prince, and said:
“Prince, when of late ye pray’d me for my leave
To move to your own land and there defend
Your marches, I was prick’d with some reproof,
As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be,
By having look’d too much thro’ alien eyes,
And wrought too long with delegated hands,
Idylls of the King and a New Selection of Poems Page 13