Idylls of the King

“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 hardened skin— Strike—strike—the wind will never change again.” And Gareth hearing ever stronglier smote, And hewed great pieces of his armour off him, But lashed in vain against the hardened 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 Clashed 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 hurled 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 colours 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 Scorned me and mine; and now thy pardon, friend, For thou hast ever answered courteously, And wholly bold thou art, and meek withal As any of Arthur’s best, but, being knave, Hast mazed my wit: I marvel what thou art.” “Damsel,” he said, “you be not all to blame, Saving 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 stirred 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,