Journeys Through Bookland Volume V Part 13

And this forgetfulness was hateful to her.

And by and by the people, when they met In twos and threes, or fuller companies, Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him As of a prince whose manhood was all gone, And molten down in mere uxoriousness.

And this she gather'd from the people's eyes: This too the women who attired her head, To please her, dwelling on his boundless love, Told Enid, and they sadden'd her the more: And day by day she thought to tell Geraint, But could not out of bashful delicacy; While he that watch'd her sadden, was the more Suspicious that her nature had a taint.

At last, it chanced that on a summer morn (They sleeping each by either) the new sun Beat thro the blindless cas.e.m.e.nt of the room, And heated the strong warrior in his dreams; Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside, And bared the knotted column of his throat, The ma.s.sive square of his heroic breast, And arms on which the standing muscle sloped, As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone, Running too vehemently to break upon it.

And Enid woke and sat beside the couch, Admiring him, and thought within herself, Was ever man so grandly made as he?

Then, like a shadow, past the people's talk And accusation of uxoriousness Across her mind, and bowing over him, Low to her own heart piteously she said:

"O n.o.ble breast and all-puissant arms, Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men Reproach you, saying all your force is gone?

I _am_ the cause, because I dare not speak And tell him what I think and what they say.

And yet I hate that he should linger here; I cannot love my lord and not his name.

Far liefer had I gird his harness on him, And ride with him to battle and stand by, And watch his mightful hand striking great blows At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world.

Far better were I laid in the dark earth, Not hearing any more his n.o.ble voice, Not to be folded more in these dear arms, And darken'd from the high light in his eyes, Than that my lord thro' me should suffer shame.

Am I so bold, and could I so stand by, And see my dear lord wounded in the strife, Or maybe pierced to death before mine eyes, And yet not dare to tell him what I think, And how men slur him, saying all his force Is melted into mere effeminacy?

O me, I fear that I am no true wife."

Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke, And the strong pa.s.sion in her made her weep True tears upon his broad and naked breast, And these awoke him, and by great mischance He heard but fragments of her later words, And that she fear'd she was not a true wife.

And then he thought, "In spite of all my care, For all my pains, poor man, for all my pains, She is not faithful to me, and I see her Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur's hall."

Right thro' his manful breast darted the pang That makes a man, in the sweet face of her Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable.

At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out of bed, And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried, "My charger and her palfrey;" then to her "I will ride forth into the wilderness, For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to win, I have not fall'n so low as some would wish.

And thou, put on thy worst and meanest dress And ride with me." And Enid ask'd, amazed, "If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault."

But he, "I charge thee, ask not, but obey."

Then she bethought her of a faded silk, A faded mantle and a faded veil, And moving toward a cedarn cabinet, Wherein she kept them folded reverently With sprigs of summer laid between the folds, She took them, and array'd herself therein, Remembering when first he came on her Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, And all her foolish fears about the dress, And all his journey to her, as himself Had told her, and their coming to the court.

For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk.

There on a day, he sitting high in hall, Before him came a forester of Dean, Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart Taller than all his fellows, milky-white, First seen that day: these things he told the King.

Then the good King gave order to let blow His horns for hunting on the morrow morn.

And when the Queen pet.i.tion'd for his leave To see the hunt, allow'd it easily.

So with the morning all the court were gone.

But Guinevere lay late into the morn, But rose at last, a single maiden with her, Took horse, and forded Usk, and gain'd the wood; There, on a little knoll beside it, stay'd Waiting to hear the hounds; but heard instead A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraint, Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand, Came quickly flashing thro' the shallow ford Behind them, and so gallop'd up the knoll.

A purple scarf, at either end whereof There swung an apple of the purest gold, Sway'd round about him, as he gallop'd up To join them, glancing like a dragon-fly In summer suit and silks of holiday.

Low bow'd the tributary Prince, and she, Sweetly and statelily, and with all grace Of womanhood and queenhood, answer'd him: "Late, late, Sir Prince," she said, "later than we!"

"Yea, n.o.ble Queen," he answer'd, "and so late That I but come like you to see the hunt, Not join it." "Therefore wait with me," she said; "For on this little knoll, if anywhere, There is good chance that we shall hear the hounds: Here often they break covert at our feet."

And while they listen'd for the distant hunt, And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, King Arthur's hound of deepest mouth, there rode Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf; Whereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and the knight Had vizor up, and show'd a youthful face, Imperious and of haughtiest lineaments.

And Guinevere, not mindful of his face In the King's hall, desired his name, and sent Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf; Who being vicious, old and irritable, And doubling all his master's vice of pride, Made answer sharply that she should not know.

"Then will I ask it of himself," she said.

"Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not," cried the dwarf; "Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak of him;"

And when she put her horse toward the knight, Struck at her with his whip, and she return'd Indignant to the Queen; whereat Geraint Exclaiming, "Surely I will learn the name,"

Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask'd it of him, Who answer'd as before; and when the Prince Had put his horse in motion toward the knight, Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek.

The Prince's blood spurted upon the scarf, Dyeing it; and his quick, instinctive hand Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him: But he, from his exceeding manfulness And pure n.o.bility of temperament, Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrain'd From ev'n a word, and so returning said:

"I will avenge this insult, n.o.ble Queen, Done in your maiden's person to yourself: And I will track this vermin to their earths; For tho' I ride unarm'd, I do not doubt To find, at some place I shall come at, arms On loan, or else for pledge; and, being found, Then will I fight him, and will break his pride, And on the third day will again be here, So that I be not fall'n in fight. Farewell."

"Farewell, fair Prince," answer'd the stately Queen.

"Be prosperous in this journey, as in all; And may you light on all things that you love, And live to wed with her whom first you love: But ere you wed with any, bring your bride, And I, were she the daughter of a king, Yea, tho' she were a beggar from the hedge, Will clothe her for her bridals like the sun."

Geraint, now thinking that he heard [Transcriber's note: Illegible]t at bay, now the far horn, A little vext at losing of the hunt, A little at the vile occasion, rode, By ups and downs, thro' many a gra.s.sy glade And valley, with fixt eye following the three.

At last they issued from the world of wood, And climb'd upon a fair and even ridge, And show'd themselves against the sky, and sank.

And thither came Geraint, and underneath Beheld the long street of a little town In a long valley, on one side whereof, White from the mason's hand, a fortress rose; And on one side a castle in decay, Beyond a bridge that spann'd a dry ravine: And out of town and valley came a noise As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed Brawling, or like a clamor of the rooks At distance, ere they settle for the night.

And onward to the fortress rode the three, And enter'd, and were lost behind the walls.

"So," thought Geraint, "I have track'd him to his earth."

And down the long street riding wearily, Found every hostel full, and everywhere Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss And bustling whistle of the youth who scour'd His master's armor; and of such a one He ask'd, "What means the tumult in the town?"

Who told him, scouring still, "The sparrow-hawk!"

Then riding close behind an ancient churl, Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam, Went sweating underneath a sack of corn, Ask'd yet once more what meant the hubbub here?

Who answer'd gruffly, "Ugh! the sparrow-hawk."

Then riding further past an armorer's, Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd above his work, Sat riveting a helmet on his knee, He put the self-same query, but the man Not turning round, nor looking at him, said: "Friend, he that labors for the sparrow-hawk Has little time for idle questioners."

Whereat Geraint flash'd into sudden spleen: "A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk!

t.i.ts, wrens, and all wing'd nothings peck him dead!

Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg The murmur of the world! What is it to me?

O wretched set of sparrows, one and all, Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks!

Speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk-mad, Where can I get me harborage for the night?

And arms, arms, arms to fight the enemy? Speak!"

Whereat the armorer turning all amazed And seeing one so gay in purple silks, Came forward with the helmet yet in hand And answer'd, "Pardon me, O stranger knight; We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn, And there is scantly time for half the work.

Arms? truth! I know not: all are wanted here.

Harborage? truth, good truth, I know not, save, It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the bridge Yonder." He spoke and fell to work again.

Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet, Across the bridge that spann'd the dry ravine.

There musing sat the h.o.a.ry-headed Earl, (His dress a suit of fray'd magnificence, Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said: "Whither, fair son?" to whom Geraint replied, "O friend, I seek a harborage for the night."

Then Yniol, "Enter therefore and partake The slender entertainment of a house Once rich, now poor, but ever open-door'd."

"Thanks, venerable friend," replied Geraint; "So that you do not serve me sparrow-hawks For supper, I will enter, I will eat With all the pa.s.sion of a twelve hours' fast."

Then sigh'd and smiled the h.o.a.ry-headed Earl, And answer'd, "Graver cause than yours is mine To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk: But in, go in; for save yourself desire it, We will not touch upon him ev'n in jest."

Then rode Geraint into the castle court, His charger trampling many a p.r.i.c.kly star Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones.

He look'd and saw that all was ruinous.

Here stood a shatter'd archway plumed with fern; And here had fall'n a great part of a tower, Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff, And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers: And high above a piece of turret stair, Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms, And suck'd the joining of the stones, and look'd A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove.

And while he waited in the castle court, The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang Clear thro' the open cas.e.m.e.nt of the hall, Singing; and as the sweet voice of a bird, Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, Moves him to think what kind of bird it is That sings so delicately clear, and make Conjecture of the plumage and the form; So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint; And made him like a man abroad at morn When first the liquid note beloved of men Comes flying over many a windy wave To Britain, and in April suddenly Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with green and red, And he suspends his converse with a friend, Or it may be the labor of his hands, To think or say, "There is the nightingale;"

So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said, "Here, by G.o.d's grace, is the one voice for me."

It chanced the song that Enid sang was one Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang:

"Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud; Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

"Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; With that wild wheel we go not up or down; Our h.o.a.rd is little, but our hearts are great.

"Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; For man is man and master of his fate.

"Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd; Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate."

[Ill.u.s.tration: GERAINT HEARS ENID SINGING]

"Hark, by the bird's song ye may learn the nest,"

Said Yniol; "enter quickly." Entering then, Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones, The dusky-rafter'd many-cobweb'd hall, He found an ancient dame in dim brocade; And near her, like a blossom vermeil-white,[2]

That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath, Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk, Her daughter. In a moment thought Geraint, "Here by G.o.d's rood is the one maid for me."

But none spake word except the h.o.a.ry Earl: "Enid, the good knight's horse stands in the court; Take him to stall, and give him corn, and then Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine; And we will make us merry as we may.

Our h.o.a.rd is little, but our hearts are great."