He half despairs;so Gareth seemed to strike Vainly,the damsel clamouring 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 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,Lets down his other leg,and stretching,dreams Of goodly supper in the distant pool,Then turned 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 Where 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 fashioned on the rock The war of Time against the soul of man.
And yon four fools have sucked 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 With broken wings,torn raiment and loose hair,For help and shelter to the hermit's cave.
'Follow the faces,and we find it.Look,Who comes behind?'
For one--delayed at first Through helping back the dislocated Kay To Camelot,then by what thereafter chanced,The damsel's headlong error through the wood--Sir Lancelot,having swum the river-loops--
His blue shield-lions covered--softly drew Behind the twain,and when he saw the star Gleam,on Sir Gareth's turning to him,cried,'Stay,felon knight,I avenge me for my friend.'
And Gareth crying pricked against the cry;
But when they closed--in a moment--at one touch Of that skilled spear,the wonder of the world--Went sliding down so easily,and fell,That when he found the grass within his hands He laughed;the laughter jarred upon Lynette:
Harshly she asked him,'Shamed and overthrown,And tumbled back into the kitchen-knave,Why laugh ye?that ye blew your boast in vain?'
'Nay,noble damsel,but that I,the son Of old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent,And victor of the bridges and the ford,And knight of Arthur,here lie thrown by whom I know not,all through mere unhappiness--Device and sorcery and unhappiness--
Out,sword;we are thrown!'And Lancelot answered,'Prince,O Gareth--through the mere unhappiness Of one who came to help thee,not to harm,Lancelot,and all as glad to find thee whole,As on the day when Arthur knighted him.'
Then Gareth,'Thou--Lancelot!--thine the hand That threw me?An some chance to mar the boast Thy brethren of thee make--which could not chance--Had sent thee down before a lesser spear,Shamed had I been,and sad--O Lancelot--thou!'
Whereat the maiden,petulant,'Lancelot,Why came ye not,when called?and wherefore now Come ye,not called?I gloried in my knave,Who being still rebuked,would answer still Courteous as any knight--but now,if knight,The marvel dies,and leaves me fooled and tricked,And only wondering wherefore played upon:
And doubtful whether I and mine be scorned.
Where should be truth if not in Arthur's hall,In Arthur's presence?Knight,knave,prince and fool,I hate thee and for ever.'
And Lancelot said,'Blessed be thou,Sir Gareth!knight art thou To the King's best wish.O damsel,be you wise To call him shamed,who is but overthrown?
Thrown have I been,nor once,but many a time.
Victor from vanquished issues at the last,And overthrower from being overthrown.
With sword we have not striven;and thy good horse And thou are weary;yet not less I felt Thy manhood through that wearied lance of thine.
