Lion and stoat have isled together, knave,
In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, methinks
Some ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt thou, fool?
For hard by here is one will overthrow
And slay thee; then will I to court again,
And shame the King for only yielding me
My champion from the ashes of his hearth.”
To whom Sir Gareth answer’d courteously:
“Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed.
Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt find
My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay
Among the ashes and wedded the King’s son.”
Then to the shore of one of those long loops
Wherethro’ the serpent river coil’d, they came.
Rough-thicketed were the banks and steep; the
stream
Full, narrow; this a bridge of single arc
Took at a leap; and on the further side
Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold
In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily in hue,
Save that the dome was purple, and above,
Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering.
And therebefore the lawless warrior paced
Unarm’d, and calling, “Damsel, is this he,
The champion thou hast brought from Arthur’s hall,
For whom we let thee pass?” “Nay, nay,” she said,
“Sir Morning-Star. The King in utter scorn
Of thee and thy much folly hath sent thee here
His kitchen-knave; and look thou to thyself.
See that he fall not on thee suddenly,
And slay thee unarm’d; he is not knight but knave.”
Then at his call, “O daughters of the Dawn,
And servants of the Morning-Star, approach,
Arm me,” from out the silken curtain-folds
Bare-footed and bare-headed three fair girls
In gilt and rosy raiment came. Their feet
In dewy grasses glisten’d; and the hair
All over glanced with dewdrop or with gem
Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine,
These arm’d him in blue arms, and gave a shield
Blue also, and thereon the morning star.
And Gareth silent gazed upon the knight,
Who stood a moment, ere his horse was brought,
Glorying; and in the stream beneath him shone,
Immingled with heaven’s azure waveringly,
The gay pavilion and the naked feet,
His arms, the rosy raiment, and the star.
Then she that watch’d him: “Wherefore stare ye
so?
Thou shakest in thy fear. There yet is time;
Flee down the valley before he get to horse.
Who will cry shame? Thou art not knight but
knave.”
Said Gareth: “Damsel, whether knave or knight,
Far liefer had I fight a score of times
Than hear thee so missay me and revile.
Fair words were best for him who fights for thee;
But truly foul are better, for they send
That strength of anger thro’ mine arms, I know
That I shall overthrow him.”
And he that bore
The star, when mounted, cried from o’er the bridge:
“A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of me!
Such fight not I, but answer scorn with scorn.
For this were shame to do him further wrong
Than set him on his feet, and take his horse
And arms, and so return him to the King.
Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, knave.
Avoid; for it beseemeth not a knave
To ride with such a lady.”
“Dog, thou liest!
I spring from loftier lineage than thine own.”
He spake; and all at fiery speed the two
Shock’d on the central bridge, and either spear
Bent but not brake, and either knight at once,
Hurl’d as a stone from out of a catapult
Beyond his horse’s crupper and the bridge,
Fell, as if dead; but quickly rose and drew,
And Gareth lash’d so fiercely with his brand
He drave his enemy backward down the bridge,
The damsel crying, “Well-stricken, kitchen-knave!”
Till Gareth’s shield was cloven; but one stroke
Laid him that clove it grovelling on the ground.
Then cried the fallen, “Take not my life; I yield.”
And Gareth, “So this damsel ask it of me
Good—I accord it easily as a grace.”
She reddening, “Insolent scullion! I of thee?
I bound to thee for any favor ask’d!”
“Then shall he die.” And Gareth there unlaced
His helmet as to slay him, but she shriek’d,
“Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay
One nobler than thyself.” “Damsel, thy charge
Is an abounding pleasure to me. Knight,
Thy life is thine at her command. Arise
And quickly pass to Arthur’s hall, and say
His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See thou crave
His pardon for thy breaking of his laws.
Myself when I return will plead for thee.
Thy shield is mine—farewell; and damsel, thou,
Lead, and I follow.”
And fast away she fled;
Then when he came upon her, spake: “Methought,
Knave, when I watch’d thee striking on the bridge,
The savor of thy kitchen came upon me
A little faintlier; but the wind hath changed,
I scent it twenty-fold.” And then she sang,
“ ‘O morning star’—not that tall felon there
Whom thou, by sorcery or unhappiness
Or some device, hast foully overthrown,—
“ ‘O morning star that smilest in the blue,
O star, my morning dream hath proven true,
Smile sweetly, thou! my love hath smiled on me.’
“But thou begone, take counsel, and away,
For hard by here is one that guards a ford—
The second brother in their fool’s parable—
Will pay thee all thy wages, and to boot.
Care not for shame; thou art not knight but knave.”
To whom Sir Gareth answer’d, laughingly:
“Parables? Hear a parable of the knave.
When I was kitchen-knave among the rest,
Fierce was the hearth, and one of my co-mates
Own’d a rough dog, to whom he cast his coat,
‘Guard it,’ and there was none to meddle with it.
And such a coat art thou, and thee the King
Gave me to guard, and such a dog am I,
To worry, and not to flee—and—knight or knave—
The knave that doth thee service as full knight
Is all as good, meseems, as any knight
Toward thy sister’s freeing.”
“Ay, Sir Knave!
Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a knight,
Being but knave, I hate thee all the more.”
“Fair damsel, you should worship me the more, That, being but knave, I throw thine enemies.”
“Ay, ay,” she said, “but thou shalt meet thy
match.”
So when they touch’d the second river-loop,
Huge on a huge red horse, and all in mail
Burnish’d to blinding, shone the Noon-day Sun
Beyond a raging shallow. As if the flower
That blows a globe of after arrowlets
Ten-thousand-fold had grown, flash’d the fierce
shield,
All sun; and Gareth’s eyes had flying blots
Before them when he turn’d from watching him.
He from beyond the roaring sh
allow roar’d,
“What doest thou, brother, in my marches here?”
And she athwart the shallow shrill’d again,
“Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur’s hall
Hath overthrown thy brother, and hath his arms.”
“Ugh!” cried the Sun, and, vizoring up a red
And cipher face of rounded foolishness,
Push’d horse across the foamings of the ford,
Whom Gareth met mid-stream; no room was there
For lance or tourney-skill. Four strokes they struck
With sword, and these were mighty; the new knight
Had fear he might be shamed; but as the Sun
Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike the fifth,
The hoof of his horse slipt in the stream, the stream
Descended, and the Sun was wash’d away.
Then Gareth laid his lance athwart the ford;
So drew him home; but he that fought no more,
As being all bone-batter’d on the rock,
Yielded, and Gareth sent him to the King.
“Myself when I return will plead for thee.
Lead, and I follow.” Quietly she led.
“Hath not the good wind, damsel, changed again?”
“Nay, not a point; nor art thou victor here.
There lies a ridge of slate across the ford;
His horse thereon stumbled—ay, for I saw it.
“ ‘O sun’—not this strong fool whom thou, Sir
Knave,
Hast overthrown thro’ mere unhappiness—
“ ‘O sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain,
O moon, that layest all to sleep again,
Shine sweetly; twice my love hath smiled on me.’
“What knowest thou of love-song or of love?
Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly born,
Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, perchance,—
“ ‘O dewy flowers that open to the sun,
O dewy flowers that close when day is done,
Blow sweetly; twice my love hath smiled on me.’
“What knowest thou of flowers, except, belike,
To garnish meats with? hath not our good King
Who lent me thee, the flower of kitchendom,
A foolish love for flowers? what stick ye round
The pasty? wherewithal deck the boar’s head?
Flowers? nay, the boar hath rosemaries and bay.
“ ‘O birds that warble to the morning sky,
O birds that warble as the day goes by,
Sing sweetly; twice my love hath smiled on me.’
“What knowest thou of birds, lark, mavis, merle,
Linnet? what dream ye when they utter forth
May-music growing with the growing light,
Their sweet sun-worship? these be for the snare—
So runs thy fancy—these be for the spit,
Larding and basting. See thou have not now
Larded thy last, except thou turn and fly.
There stands the third fool of their allegory.”
For there beyond a bridge of treble bow,
All in a rose-red from the west, and all
Naked it seem’d, and glowing in the broad
Deep-dimpled current underneath, the knight
That named himself the Star of Evening stood.
And Gareth, “Wherefore waits the madman there
Naked in open dayshine?” “Nay,” she cried,
“Not naked, only wrapt in harden’d skins
That fit him like his own; and so ye cleave
His armor 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-stain’d
Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came,
And arm’d 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-tarnish’d and half-bright, his emblem, shone.
But when it glitter’d o’er the saddle-bow,
They madly hurl’d 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,
Labor’d within him, for he seem’d as one
That all in later, sadder age begins
To war against ill uses of a life,
“Thou hast made us lords, and canst not put us
down!”
He half despairs; so Gareth seem’d to strike
Vainly, the damsel clamoring 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 harden’d skin—
Strike—strike—the wind will never change again.”
And Gareth hearing ever stronglier smote,
And hew’d great pieces of his armor off him,
But lash’d in vain against the harden’d 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
Clash’d 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 hurl’d 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 colors 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
Scorn’d me and mine; and now thy pardon, friend,
For thou hast ever answer’d courteously,
And wholly bold thou art, and meek withal
As any of Arthur’s best, but, being knave,
Hast maz’d my wit. I marvel what thou art.”
“Damsel,” he said, “you be not all to blame,
S
aving 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 stirr’d 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 turn’d 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
Were 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 fashion’d on the rock
The war of Time against the soul of man.
And yon four fools have suck’d 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”—
“NOX”—“MORS,” beneath five figures, armed men,
Slab after slab, their faces forward all,
And running down the Soul, a shape that fled