A stone is flung into some sleeping tarn,

The circle widens till it lip the marge,

Spread the slow smile thro' all her company.

smiled,

Scorning him; for the lady was Ettarre, And she was a great lady in her land.

Again she said, "O wild and of the woods, Knowest thou not the fashion of our speech? Or have the Heavens but given thee a fair face, Lacking a tongue ?"

"O damsel," answer'd he, "I woke from dreams; and coming out of gloom Was dazzled by the sudden light, and crave Pardon but will ye to Caerleon? I Go likewise: shall I lead you to the King?"

"Lead then," she said; and thro' the woods they went.

And while they rode, the meaning in his eyes,
His tenderness of manner, and chaste awe,
His broken utterances and bashfulness,
Were all a burthen to her, and in her heart
She mutter'd, "I have lighted on a fool,

Raw, yet so stale!" But since her mind was bent
On hearing, after trumpet blown, her name
And title, "Queen of Beauty," in the lists
Cried and beholding him so strong, she thought
That peradventure he will fight for me,
And win the circlet: therefore flatter'd him,
Being so gracious, that he wellnigh deem'd
His wish by hers was echo'd; and her knights
And all her damsels too were gracious to him,
For she was a great lady.

And when they reach'd Caerleon, ere they past to lodging, she, Taking his hand, "O the strong hand," she said, "See! look at mine! but wilt thou tight for me, And win me this fine circlet, Pelleas, That I may love thee?"

Then his helpless heart Leapt, and he cried, "Ay! wilt thou if I win?" "Ay, that will I," she answer'd, and she laugh'd, And straitly nipt the hand, and flung it from her; Then glanced askew at those three knights of hers, Till all her ladies laugh'd along with her.

"O happy world," thought Pelleas, "all, meseems, Are happy; I the happiest of them all." Nor slept that night for pleasure in his blood, And green wood-ways, and eyes among the leaves; Then being on the morrow knighted, sware To love one only. And as he came away, The men who met him rounded on their heels And wonder'd after him, because his face Shone like the countenance of a priest of old Against the flame about a sacrifice

Kindled by fire from heaven: so glad was he.

Then Arthur made vast banquets, and strange knights

From the four winds came in: and each one sat, Tho' served with choice from air, land, stream, and sea,

Oft in mid-banquet measuring with his eyes
His neighbor's make and might: and Pelleas look'd
Noble among the noble, for he dream'd
His lady loved him, and he knew himself
Loved of the King: and him his new-made knight
Worshipt, whose lightest whisper moved him more
Than all the ranged reasons of the world.

Then blush'd and brake the morning of the jousts, And this was call'd "The Tournament of Youth:"

Lord of the tourney. And Arthur had the jousts
Down in the flat field by the shore of Usk
Holden: the gilded parapets were crown'd
With faces, and the great tower fill'd with eyes
Up to the summit, and the trumpets blew.
There all day long Sir Pelleas kept the field
With honor: so by that strong hand of his
The sword and golden circlet were achieved.

Then rang the shout his lady loved: the heat Of pride and glory fired her face her eye Sparkled; she caught the circlet from his lance, And there before the people crown'd herself: So for the last time she was gracious to him.

Then at Caerleon for a space-her look
Bright for all others, cloudier on her knight-
Linger'd Ettarre: and seeing Pelleas droop,
Said Guinevere, "We marvel at thee much,
O damsel, wearing this unsunny face

To him who won thee glory?" And she said,
"Had ye not held your Lancelot in your bower,
My Queen, he had not won." Whereat the Queen,
As one whose foot is bitten by an ant,
Glanced down upon her, turn'd and went her way.

But after, when her damsels and herself,
And those three knights all set their faces home,
Sir Pelleas follow'd. She that saw him cried,
"Damsels-and yet I should be shamed to say it-
I cannot bide Sir Baby. Keep him back
Among yourselves. Would rather that we had
Some rough old knight who knew the worldly way
Albeit grizzlier than a bear, to ride

Aud jest with: take him to you, keep him off,
And pamper him with papmeat, if ye will,
Old milky fables of the wolf and sheep,
Such as the wholesome mothers tell their boys.
Nay, should ye try him with a merry one
To find his mettle, good: and if he fly us,
Small matter! let him." This her damsels heard,
And mindful of her small and cruel hand,
They, closing round him thro' the journey home,
Acted her hest, and always from her side
Restrain'd him with all manner of device,
So that he could not come to speak with her.
And when she gain'd her castle, upsprang the bridge,
Down rang the grate of iron thro' the groove,
And he was left alone in open field.

"These be the ways of ladies," Pelleas thought, "To those who love them, trials of our faith. Yea, let her prove me to the uttermost, For loyal to the uttermost am I."

So made his moan; and, darkness falling, sought
A priory not far off, there lodged, but rose
With morning every day, and, moist or dry,
Full-arm'd upon his charger all day long
Sat by the walls, and no one open'd to him.

And this persistence turn'd her scorn to wrath. Then calling her three kuights, she charged them, "Out!

And drive him from the walls." And out they came,
But Pelleas overthrew them as they dash'd
Against him one by one; and these return'd,
But still he kept his watch beneath the wall.

Thereon her wrath became a hate; and once, A week beyond, while walking on the walls With her three knights, she pointed downward, "Look,

He haunts me-I cannot breathe-besieges me; Down! strike him! put my hate into your strokes,

Up ran a score of damsels to the tower; "Avaunt," they cried, "our lady loves thee not." But Gawain lifting up his vizor said, "Gawain am I, Gawain of Arthur's court, And I have slain this Pelleas whom ye hate: Behold his horse and armor. Opeu gates, And I will make you merry."

And down they ran,

Her damsels. crying to their lady, “Lo!
Pelleas is dead-he told us he that hath
His horse and armor: will ye let him in?
He slew him! Gawain, Gawain of the court,
Sir Gawain-there he waits below the wall,
Blowing his bugle as who should say him nay."

And so, leave given, straight on thro' open door Rode Gawain, whom she greeted courteously. "Dead, is it so?" she ask'd. "Ay, ay," said he, "And oft in dying cried upon your name." 'Pity on him," she answer'd, "a good knight, But never let me bide one hour at peace." "Ay," thought Gawain, "and you be fair enow: But I to your dead man have given my troth, That whom ye loathe, him will I make you love."

So those three days, aimless about the land, Lost in a doubt, Pelleas wandering Waited, until the third night brought a moon With promise of large light on woods and ways.

Hot was the night and silent; but a sound Of Gawain ever coming, and this layWhich Pelleas had heard sung before the Queen, And seen her sadden listening-vext his heart, And marr'd his rest-"A worm within the rose."

"A rose, but one, none other rose had I, A rose, one rose, and this was wondrous fair, One rose, a rose that gladden'd earth and sky, One rose, my rose, that sweeten'd all mine airI cared not for the thorns; the thorns were there.

"One rose, a rose to gather by and by, One rose, one rose, to gather and to wear, No rose but one-what other rose had I? One rose, my rose; a rose that will not dieHe dies who loves it-if the worm be there."

This tender rhyme, and evermore the doubt, "Why lingers Gawain with his golden news?" So shook him that he could not rest, but rode Ere midnight to her walls, and bound his horse Hard by the gates. Wide open were the gates, And no watch kept; and in thro' these he past, And heard but his own steps, and his own heart Beating, for nothing moved but his own self, And his own shadow. Then he crost the court, And spied not any light in hall or bower, But saw the postern portal also wide Yawning; and up a slope of garden, all Of roses white and red, and brambles mixt And overgrowing them, went on, and found, Here too, all hush'd below the mellow moon, Save that one rivulet from a tiny cave Came lightening downward, and so spilt itself Among the roses, and was lost again.

Then was he ware of three pavilions rear'd Above the bushes, gilden-peakt: in one, Red after revel, droned her lurdane knights

To find a nest and feels a snake, he drew:
Back, as a coward slinks from what he fears
To cope with, or a traitor proven, or hound
Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter shame
Creep with his shadow thro' the court again,
Fingering at his sword-handle until he stood
There on the castle-bridge once more, and thought,
"I will go back, and slay them where they lie."

And so went back, and seeing them yet in sleep Said, "Ye, that so dishallow the holy sleep, Your sleep is death," and drew the sword, and thought,

"What! slay a sleeping knight? the King hath

bound

And sworn me to this brotherhood;" again,
"Alas that ever a knight should be so false !"
Then turn'd, and so return'd, and groaning laid
The naked sword athwart their naked throats,
There left it, and them sleeping; and she lay,
The circlet of the tourney round her brows,
And the sword of the tourney across her throat.

And forth he past, and mounting on his horse Stared at her towers that, larger than themselves In their own darkness, throng'd into the moon. Then crush'd the saddle with his thighs, and clench'd His hands, and madden'd with himself and moan'd:

"Would they have risen against me in their blood At the last day? I might have answer'd them Even before high God. O towers so strong, Huge, solid, would that even while I gaze The crack of earthquake shivering to your base Split you, and Hell burst up your harlot roofs Bellowing, and charr'd you thro' and thro' within, Black as the harlot's heart-hollow as a skull ! Let the fierce east scream thro' your eyelet-holes, And whirl the dust of harlots round and round In dung and nettles! hiss, snake-I saw him thereLet the fox bark, let the wolf yell. Who yells Here in the still sweet summer night, but I— I, the poor Pelleas whom she call'd her fool? Fool, beast-he, she, or I? myself most fool; Beast too, as lacking human wit-disgraced, Dishonor'd all for trial of true loveLove?-we be all alike: only the King Hath made us fools and liars. O noble vows! O great and sane and simple race of brutes That own no lust because they have no law! For why should I have loved her to my shame? I loathe her, as I loved her to my shame. I never loved her, I but lusted for herAway-"

He dash'd the rowel into his horse, And bounded forth and vanish'd thro' the night.

Then she, that felt the cold touch on her throat, Awaking knew the sword, and turn'd herself To Gawain: "Liar, for thon hast not slain This Pelleas! here he stood, and might have slain Me and thyself." And he that tells the tale Says that her ever-veering fancy turn'd To Pelleas, as the one true knight on earth, And only lover; and thro' her love her life Wasted and pined, desiring him in vain.

But he by wild and way, for half the night, And over hard and soft, striking the sod From out the soft, the spark from off the hard,

In one, their malice on the placid lip
Froz'n by sweet sleep, four of her damsels lay:
And in the third, the circlet of the jousts
Bound on her brow, were Gawain and Ettarre.

Back, as a hand that pushes thro' the leaf

Beside that tower where Percivale was cowl'd,
Glanced from the rosy forehead of the dawn.
For so the words were flash'd into his heart
He knew not whence or wherefore: "O sweet star,
Pure on the virgin forehead of the dawn!"
And there he would have wept, but felt his eyes

Harder and drier than a fountain bed

In summer: thither came the village girls
And linger'd talking, and they come no more
Till the sweet heavens have fill'd it from the heights
Again with living waters in the change
Of seasons: hard his eyes; harder his heart
Seem'd; but so weary were his limbs, that he,
Gasping, "Of Arthur's hall am I, but here,
Here let me rest and die," cast himself down,
And gulf'd his griefs in inmost sleep; so lay,
Till shaken by a dream, that Gawain fired
The hall of Merlin, and the morning star
Reel'd in the smoke, brake into flame, and fell.

He woke, and being ware of some one nigh, Sent hands upon him, as to tear him, crying, "False! I held thee as pure as Guinevere."

But Percivale stood near him and repfied, "Am I but false as Guinevere is pure? Or art thou mazed with dreams? or being one Of our free-spoken Table hast not heard

She ask'd of Lancelot. "Ay, my Queen," he said.
"And thou hast overthrown him?" "Ay, my Queen."
Then she, turning to Pelleas, "O young knight,
Hath the great heart of knighthood in thee fail'd
So far thou canst not bide, unfrowardly,

A fall from him?" Then, for he answer'd not,

Then fared it with Sir Pelleas as with one Who gets a wound in battle, and the sword That made it plunges thro' the wound again, And pricks it deeper; and he shrank and wail'd, "Is the Queen false?" and Percivale was mute. "Have any of our Round Table held their vows ?" And Percivale made answer not a word. "Is the King true ?" "The King!" said Percivale. "Why then let men couple at once with wolves. What! art thou mad?"

But Pelleas, leaping up, Ran thro' the doors and vaulted on his horse And fled: small pity upon his horse had he, Or on himself, or any, and when he met A cripple, one that held a hand for almsHunch'd as he was, and like an old dwarf-elm That turns its back on the salt blast, the boy Paused not, but overrode him, shouting, "False, And false with Gawain!" and so left him bruised And batter'd, and fled on, and hill and wood Went ever streaming by him till the gloom, That follows on the turning of the world, Darken'd the common path: he twitch'd the reins, And made his beast, that better knew it, swerve Now off it and now on; but when he saw High up in heaven the hall that Merlin built, Blackening against the dead-green stripes of even, "Black nest of rats," he groan'd, "ye build too high."

Not long thereafter from the city gates

Issued Sir Lancelot riding airily,

Warm with a gracious parting from the Queen,

Peace at his heart, and gazing at a star

And marvelling what it was: on whom the boy,

Across the silent seeded meadow-grass

Borne, clash'd: and Lancelot, saying, "What name

hast thou

That ridest here so blindly and so hard ?"

"I have no name," he shouted, "a scourge am I, To lash the treasons of the Table Round."

"Yea, but thy name?" "I have many names," he cried :

"I am wrath and shame and hate and evil fame, And like a poisonous wind I pass to blast

And blaze the crime of Lancelot and the Queen." "First over me," said Lancelot, "shalt thou pass." "Fight therefore," yell'd the other, and either knight Drew back a space, and when they closed, at once The weary steed of Pelleas floundering flung His rider, who call'd out from the dark field, "Thou art false as Hell: slay me: I have no sword." Then Lancelot, "Yea, between thy lips-and sharp; But here will I disedge it by thy death."

May help them, loose thy tongue, and let me know."
But Pelleas lifted up an eye so fierce

She quail'd; and he, hissing, "I have no sword,"
Sprang from the door into the dark. The Queen
Look'd hard upon her lover, he on her;
And each foresaw the dolorous day to be:
And all talk died, as in a grove all song
Beneath the shadow of some bird of prey;
Then a long silence came upon the hall,
And Modred thought, "The time is hard at hand.

'Tell thou the King and all his liars, that I

For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once Far down beneath a winding wall of rock Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half-dead, From roots like some black coil of carven snakes, Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' mid-air Bearing an eagle's nest: and thro' the tree Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' the wind Pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and tree Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest, This ruby necklace thrice around her neck, And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, brought A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying took, Then gave it to his Queen to rear: the Queen But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms Received, and after loved it tenderly, And named it Nestling; so forgot herself A moment, and her cares; till that young life Being smitten in mid-heaven with mortal cold Past from her; and in time the carcanet Vext her with plaintive memories of the child: So she, delivering it to Arthur, said, "Take thou the jewels of this dead innocence, And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney-prize."

To whom the King, "Pence to thine eagle-borne Dead nestling, and this honor after death, Following thy will! but, O my Queen, I muse Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn, And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear."

"Would rather you had let them fall," she cried, "Plunge and be lost-ill-fated as they were, A bitterness to me!-ye look amazed, Not knowing they were lost as soon as givenSlid from my hands, when I was leaning out Above the river-that unhappy child Past in her barge: but rosier luck will go With these rich jewels, seeing that they came Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer, But the sweet body of a maiden babe. Perchance-who knows?-the purest of thy knights May win them for the purest of my maids."

She ended, and the cry of a great joust With trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways From Camelot in among the faded fields

To furthest towers; and everywhere the knights Arm'd for a day of glory before the King.

But on the hither side of that loud morn Into the hall stagger'd, his visage ribb'd From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his nose Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand off, And one with shatter'd fingers dangling lame, A churl, to whom indignantly the King,

"My churl, for whom Christ died, what evil beast Hath drawn his claws athwart thy face? or fiend? Man was it who marr'd heaven's image in thee thus ?"

Then, sputtering thro' the hedge of splinter'd teeth, Yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt stump Pitch-blacken'd sawing the air, said the maim'd churl,

"He took them and he drave them to his towerSome hold he was a table-knight of thineA hundred goodly ones-the Red Knight, heLord, I was tending swine, and the Red Knight Brake in upon me and drave them to his tower; And when I call'd upon thy name as one That doest right by gentle and by churl,

And whatsoever his own knights have sworn

My knights have sworn the counter to it-and say
My tower is full of harlots, like his court,
But mine are worthier, seeing they profess
To be none other than themselves-and say
My knights are all adulterers like his own,
But mine are truer, seeing they profess
To be none other; and say his hour is come,
The heathen are upon him, his long lance
Broken, and his Excalibur a straw.""

Then Arthur turn'd to Kay, the seneschal, "Take thou my churl, and tend him curiously Like a king's heir, till all his hurts be whole. The heathen-but that ever-climbing wave, Hurl'd back again so often in empty foam, Hath lain for years at rest-and renegades, Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, whom The wholesome realm is purged of otherwhere, Friends, thro' your manhood and your fealty-now Make their last head like Satan in the North. My younger knights, new-made, in whom your flower Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds, Move with me toward their quelling, which achieved, The loneliest ways are safe from shore to shore. But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my place Enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate the field; For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle with it. Only to yield my Queen her own again? Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent: is it well?"

Thereto Sir Lancelot answer'd, "It is well: Yet better if the King abide, and leave The leading of his younger knights to me. Else, for the King has will'd it, it is well."

Then Arthur rose and Lancelot follow'd him, And while they stood without the doors, the King Turn'd to him saying, "Is it then so well? Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he Of whom was written, 'A sound is in his ears?' The foot that loiters, bidden go-the glance That only seems half-loyal to commandA manner somewhat fall'n from reverenceOr have I dream'd the bearing of our kuights Tells of a manhood ever less and lower? Or whence the fear lest this my realm, uprear'd, By noble deeds at one with noble vows, From flat confusion and brute violences, Reel back into the beast, and be no more ?"

He spoke, and taking all his younger knights, Down the slope city rode, and sharply turn'd North by the gate. In her high bower the Queen, Working a tapestry, lifted up her head, Watch'd her lord pass, and knew not that she sigh'd. Then ran across her memory the strange rhyme Of bygone Merlin, "Where is he who knows? From the great deep to the great deep he goes."

But when the morning of a tournament, By these in earnest those in mockery call'd The Tournament of the Dead Innocence, Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot, Round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey, The words of Arthur flying shriek'd, arose, And down a streetway hung with folds of pure White samite, and by fountains running wine, Where children sat in white with cups of gold, Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad steps Ascending, fill'd his double-dragon'd chair.

He glanced and saw the stately galleries,

Save that he sware me to a message, saying,

White-robed in honor of the stainless child, And some with scatter'd jewels, like a bank