Forever: at the last I reach'd a door,
A light was in the crannies, and I heard
"Glory and joy and honor to our Lord
And to the Holy Vessel of the Grail."
Then in my madness I essay'd the door
It gave, and thro' a stormy glare, a heat
As from a seven-times-heated furnace, I,
Blasted and burnt, and blinded as I was,
With such a fierceness that I swoon'd away.
O, yet methought I saw the Holy Grail,
All pall'd in crimson samite, and around
Great angels, awful shapes, and wings and eyes.
And but for all my madness and my sin,
And then my swooning, I had sworn I saw
That which I saw; but what I saw was veil'd
And cover'd; and this quest was not for me.'

"So speaking, and here ceasing, Lancelot left The hall long silent, till Sir Gawain-nay, Brother, I need not tell thee foolish words,A reckless and irreverent knight was he, Now bolden'd by the silence of his king,Well, I will tell thee: 'O king, my liege,' he said, 'Hath Gawain fail'd in any quest of thine? When have I stinted stroke in foughten field? But as for thine, my good friend, Percivale, Thy holy nun and thou have driven men mad, Yea, made our mightiest madder than our least. But by mine eyes and by mine ears I swear, will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat, And thrice as blind as any noonday owl, To holy virgins in their ecstasies, Henceforward.'

666 'Deafer,' said the blameless King, 'Gawain, and blinder unto holy things Hope not to make thyself by idle vows, Being too blind to have desire to see. But if indeed there came a sign from heaven, Blessed are Bors, Lancelot, and Percivale, For these have seen according to their sight. For every fiery prophet in old times, And all the sacred madness of the bard, When God made music thro' them, could but speak His music by the framework and the chord, And as ye saw it ye have spoken truth.

"Nay-but thou errest, Lancelot: never yet Could all of true and noble in knight and man Twine round one sin, whatever it might be, With such a closeness, but apart there grew, Save that he were the swine thou spakest of, Some root of knighthood and pure nobleness; Whereto see thou, that it may bear its flower.

"And spake I not too truly, O my knights?
Was I too dark a prophet when I said
To those who went upon the Holy Quest
That most of them would follow wandering fires,
Lost in the quagmire,-lost to me and gone,
And left me gazing at a barren board,
And a lean order-scarce return'd a tithe-
And out of those to whom the vision came
My greatest hardly will believe he saw;
Another hath beheld it afar off,

And leaving human wrongs to right themselves,
Cares but to pass into the silent life.
And one hath had the vision face to face,
And now his chair desires him here in vain,
However they may crown him otherwhere.

"And some among you held that if the king Had seen the sight he would have sworn the vow: Not easily, seeing that the king must guard That which he rules, and is but as the hind To whom a space of land is given to plough, Who may not wander from the allotted field Before his work be done; but, being done,

Let visions of the night or of the day
Come, as they will; and many a time they come,
Until this earth he walks on seems not earth,
This light that strikes his eyeball is not light,
This air that smites his forehead is not air
But vision-yea, his very hand and foot-
In moments when he feels he cannot die,
And knows himself no vision to himself,
Nor the high God a vision, nor that One
Who rose again: ye have seen what ye have seen.'
"So spake the king: I knew not all he meant."

PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. KING ARTHUR made new knights to fill the gap Left by the Holy Quest; and as he sat In hall at old Caerleon, the high doors Were softly sunder'd, and thro' these a youth, Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields Past, and the sunshine came along with him.

"Make me thy knight, because I know, Sir King, All that belongs to knighthood, and I love," Such was his cry; for having heard the king Had let proclaim a tournament-the prize A golden circlet and a knightly sword, Full fain had Pelleas for his lady won The golden circlet, for himself the sword:

And there were those who knew him near the king And promised for him: and Arthur made him knight.

And this new knight, Sir Pelleas of the islesBut lately come to his inheritance, And lord of many a barren isle was heRiding at noon, a day or twain before, Across the forest call'd of Dean, to find Caerleon and the king, had felt the sun Beat like a strong knight on his helm, and reel'd Almost to falling from his horse; but saw Near him a mound of even-sloping side, Whereon a hundred stately beeches grew, And here and there great hollies under them. But for a mile all round was open space, And fern and heath: and slowly Pelleas drew To that dim day, then binding his good horse To a tree, cast himself down; and as he lay At random looking over the brown earth Thro' that green-glooming twilight of the grove, It seem'd to Pelleas that the fern without Burnt as a living fire of emeralds, So that his eyes were dazzled looking at it. Then o'er it crost the dimness of a cloud Floating, and once the shadow of a bird Flying, and then a fawn; and his eyes closed. And since he loved all maidens, but no maid In special, half awake he whisper'd, "Where? O where? I love thee, tho' I know thee not. For fair thou art and pure as Guinevere, And I will make thee with my spear and sword As famous-O my queen, my Guinevere, For I will be thine Arthur when we meet."

Suddenly waken'd with a sound of talk

And laughter at the limit of the wood,
And glancing through the hoary boles, he saw,
Strange as to some old prophet might have seem'd
A vision hovering on a sea of fire,
Damsels in divers colors like the cloud
Of sunset and sunrise, and all of them
On horses, and the horses richly trapt
Breast-high in that bright line of bracken stood:
And all the damsels talk'd confusedly,
And one was pointing this way; and one that,
Because the way was lost.

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 speech 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 knights, she charged them, "Out!

And if ye slay him I reck not: if ye fail, Give ye the slave mine order to be bound, Bind him as heretofore, and bring him in: It may be ye shall slay him in his bonds."

She spake; and at her will they couch'd their spears,
Three against one: and Gawain passing by,
Bound upon solitary adventure, saw

Low down beneath the shadow of those towers
A villany, three to one: and thro' his heart
The fire of honor and all noble deeds
Flash'd, and he call'd, "I strike upon thy side-
The caitiffs!" "Nay," said Pelleas, "but forbear;
He needs no aid who doth his lady's will."

So Gawain, looking at the villany done, Forbore, but in his heat and eagerness Trembled and quiver'd, as the dog, withheld A moment from the vermin that he sees Before him, shivers, ere he springs and kills.

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,
And drive him from my walls." And down they went,
And Pelleas overthrew them one by one;
And from the tower above him cried Ettarre,
66 'Bind him, and bring him in."

He heard her voice; Then let the strong hand, which had overthrown Her minion-knights, by those he overthrew Be bounden straight, and so they brought him in.

Then when he came before Ettarre, the sight
Of her rich beauty made him at one glance
More bondsman in his heart than in his bonds.
Yet with good cheer he spake, "Behold me, Lady,
A prisoner, and the vassal of thy will;
And if thou keep me in thy donjon here,
Content am I so that I see thy face

But once a day: for I have sworn my vows,
And thou hast given thy promise, and I know
That all these pains are trials of my faith,
And that thyself, when thou hast seen me strain'd
And sifted to the utmost, wilt at length
Yieid me thy love and know me for thy knight."

Then she began to rail so bitterly, With all her damsels, he was stricken mute; But when she mock'd his vows and the great King, Lighted on words: "For pity of thine own self, Peace, Lady, peace: is he not thine and mine?" "Thou fool," she said, "I never heard his voice But long'd to break away. Unbind him now, And thrust him out of doors; for save he be Fool to the midmost marrow of his bones, He will return no more." And those, her three, Laugh'd, and unbound, and thrust him from the gate.

And after this, a week beyond, again She call'd them, saying, "There he watches yet, There like a dog before his master's door! Kick'd, he returns: do ye not hate him, ye? Ye know yourselves: how can ye bide at peace, Affronted with his fulsome innocence? Are ye but creatures of the board and bed, No men to strike? Fall on him all at once,

Full on her knights in many an evil name
Of craven, weakling, and thrice-beaten hound:
"Yet; take him, ye that scarce are fit to touch,
Far less to bind, your victor, and thrust him out,
And let who will release him from his bonds.
And if he comes again "-there she brake short;
And Pelleas answer'd, "Lady, for indeed
I loved you and I deem'd you beautiful,
I cannot brook to see your beauty marr'd
Thro' evil spite: and if ye love me not,
I cannot bear to dream you so forsworn:
I had liefer ye were worthy of my love,
Than to be loved again of you-farewell;
And tho' ye kill my hope, not yet my love,
Vex not yourself: ye will not see me more."

While thus he spake, she gazed upon the man Of princely bearing, tho' in bonds, and thought, "Why have I push'd him from me? this man loves, If love there be: yet him I loved not. Why? I deem'd him fool? yea, so? or that in him A something-was it nobler than myself?Seem'd my reproach? He is not of my kind. He could not love me, did he know me well. Nay, let him go-and quickly." And her knights Laugh'd not, but thrust him bounden out of door.

Forth sprang Gawain, and loosed him from his bonds,

And flung them o'er the walls; and afterward,
Shaking his hands, as from a lazar's rag,
"Faith of my body," he said, "and art thou not-
Yea thou art he, whom late our Arthur made
Knight of his table; yea and he that won
The circlet? wherefore hast thou so defamed
Thy brotherhood in me and all the rest,
As let these caitiffs on thee work their will ?"

And Pelleas answer'd, "O, their wills are hers For whom I won the circlet; and mine, hers, Thus to be bounden, so to see her face, Marr'd tho' it be with spite and mockery now, Other than when I found her in the woods; And tho' she hath me bounden but in spite, And all to flout me, when they bring me in, Let me bounden, I shall see her face; Else must I die thro' mine unhappiness."

And Gawain answer'd kindly tho' in scorn, "Why, let my lady bind me if she will, And let my lady beat me if she will: But an she send her delegate to thrall These fighting hands of mine-Christ kill me then But I will slice him handless by the wrist,

And let my lady sear the stump for him,
Howl as he may. But hold me for your friend:
Come, ye know nothing: here I pledge my troth,
Yea, by the honor of the Table Round,
I will be leal to thee and work thy work,
And tame thy jailing princess to thine hand.
Lend me thine horse and arms, and I will say
That I have slain thee. She will let me in
To hear the manner of thy fight and fall;
Then, when I come within her counsels, then
From prime to vespers will I chant thy praise
As prowest knight and truest lover, more
Than any have sung thee living, till she long
To have thee back in lusty life again,

Not to be bound, save by white bonds and warm,
Dearer than freedom. Wherefore now thy horse
And armor: let me go: be comforted:

Give me three days to melt her fancy, and hope The third night hence will bring thee news of gold."

Then Pelleas lent his horse and all his arms, Saving the goodly sword, his prize, and took Gawain's, and said, "Betray me not, but helpArt thou not he whom men call light-of-love?"

"Ay," said Gawain, "for women be so light."
Then bounded forward to the castle walls,
And raised a bugle hanging from his neck,
And winded it, and that so musically

That all the old echoes hidden in the wall
Rang out like hollow woods at huntingtide.

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

The night was hot: 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 saw the postern portal also wide Yawning; and up a slope of garden, all Of roses white and red, and wild ones 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 that white pavilions rose,
Three from the bushes, gilden-peakt; in one,
Red after revel, droned her lurdan knights
Slumbering, and their three squires across their feet:
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 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, So 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 II, 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 thou 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.