And toward his host he turned and spake;"Now for your son's long-suffering sake Blood ye may fetch enough, and take Wherewith to heal his hurt, and make Death warm as life." Then rose a cry Loud as the wind's when stormy spring Makes all the woodland rage and ring:
"Thou hast slain my brother," said the king, "And here with him shalt die."
"Ay?" Balen laughed him answer. "Well, Do it then thyself." And the answer fell Fierce as a blast of hate from hell, "No man of mine that with me dwell Shall strike at thee but I their lord For love of this my brother slain."
And Pellam caught and grasped amain A grim great weapon, fierce and fain To feed his hungering sword.
And eagerly he smote, and sped Not well: for Balen's blade, yet red With lifeblood of the murderous dead, Between the swordstroke and his head Shone, and the strength of the eager stroke Shore it in sunder: then the knight, Naked and weaponless for fight, Ran seeking him a sword to smite As hope within him woke.
And so their flight for deathward fast From chamber forth to chamber passed Where lay no weapon, till the last Whose doors made way for Balen cast Upon him as a sudden spell Wonder that even as lightning leapt Across his heart and eyes, and swept As storm across his soul that kept Wild watch, and watched not well.
For there the deed he did, being near Death's danger, breathless as the deer Driven hard to bay, but void of fear, Brought sorrow down for many a year On many a man in many a land.
All glorious shone that chamber, bright As burns at sunrise heaven's own height:
With cloth of gold the bed was dight, That flamed on either hand.
And one he saw within it lie:
A table of all clear gold thereby Stood stately, fair as morning's eye, With four strong silver pillars, high And firm as faith and hope may be:
And on it shone the gift he sought, A spear most marvellously wrought, That when his eye and handgrip caught Small fear at heart had he.
Right on King Pellam then, as fire Turns when the thwarting winds wax higher, He turned, and smote him down. So dire The stroke was, when his heart's desire Struck, and had all its fill of hate, That as the king fell swooning down Fell the walls, rent from base to crown, Prone as prone seas that break and drown Ships fraught with doom for freight.
And there for three days' silent space Balen and Pellam face to face Lay dead or deathlike, and the place Was death's blind kingdom, till the grace That God had given the sacred seer For counsel or for comfort led His Merlin thither, and he said, Standing between the quick and dead, "Rise up, and rest not here."
And Balen rose and set his eyes Against the seer's as one that tries His heart against the sea's and sky's And fears not if he lives or dies, Saying, "I would have my damosel, Ere I fare forth, to fare with me."
And sadly Merlin answered, "See Where now she lies; death knows if she Shall now fare ill or well.
"And in this world we meet no more, Balen." And Balen, sorrowing sore, Though fearless yet the heart he bore Beat toward the life that lay before, Rode forth through many a wild waste land Where men cried out against him, mad With grievous faith in fear that bade Their wrath make moan for doubt they had Lest hell had armed his hand.
For in that chamber's wondrous shrine Was part of Christ's own blood, the wine Shed of the true triumphal vine Whose growth bids earth's deep darkness shine As heaven's deep light through the air and sea;That mystery toward our northern shore Arimathean Joseph bore For healing of our sins of yore, That grace even there might be.
And with that spear there shrined apart Was Christ's side smitten to the heart.
And fiercer than the lightning's dart The stroke was, and the deathlike smart Wherewith, nigh drained of blood and breath, The king lay stricken as one long dead:
And Joseph's was the blood there shed, For near akin was he that bled, Near even as life to death.
And therefore fell on all that land Sorrow: for still on either hand, As Balen rode alone and scanned Bright fields and cities built to stand Till time should break them, dead men lay;And loud and long from all their folk Living, one cry that cursed him broke;Three countries had his dolorous stroke Slain, or should surely slay.
