And when the maid had told him all the tale Of King and Prince,the diamond sent,the quest Assigned to her not worthy of it,she knelt Full lowly by the corners of his bed,And laid the diamond in his open hand.
Her face was near,and as we kiss the child That does the task assigned,he kissed her face.
At once she slipt like water to the floor.
'Alas,'he said,'your ride hath wearied you.
Rest must you have.''No rest for me,'she said;'Nay,for near you,fair lord,I am at rest.'
What might she mean by that?his large black eyes,Yet larger through his leanness,dwelt upon her,Till all her heart's sad secret blazed itself In the heart's colours on her simple face;And Lancelot looked and was perplext in mind,And being weak in body said no more;But did not love the colour;woman's love,Save one,he not regarded,and so turned Sighing,and feigned a sleep until he slept.
Then rose Elaine and glided through the fields,And past beneath the weirdly-sculptured gates Far up the dim rich city to her kin;There bode the night:but woke with dawn,and past Down through the dim rich city to the fields,Thence to the cave:so day by day she past In either twilight ghost-like to and fro Gliding,and every day she tended him,And likewise many a night:and Lancelot Would,though he called his wound a little hurt Whereof he should be quickly whole,at times Brain-feverous in his heat and agony,seem Uncourteous,even he:but the meek maid Sweetly forbore him ever,being to him Meeker than any child to a rough nurse,Milder than any mother to a sick child,And never woman yet,since man's first fall,Did kindlier unto man,but her deep love Upbore her;till the hermit,skilled in all The simples and the science of that time,Told him that her fine care had saved his life.
And the sick man forgot her simple blush,Would call her friend and sister,sweet Elaine,Would listen for her coming and regret Her parting step,and held her tenderly,And loved her with all love except the love Of man and woman when they love their best,Closest and sweetest,and had died the death In any knightly fashion for her sake.
And peradventure had he seen her first She might have made this and that other world Another world for the sick man;but now The shackles of an old love straitened him,His honour rooted in dishonour stood,And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.
Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness made Full many a holy vow and pure resolve.
These,as but born of sickness,could not live:
For when the blood ran lustier in him again,Full often the bright image of one face,Making a treacherous quiet in his heart,Dispersed his resolution like a cloud.
Then if the maiden,while that ghostly grace Beamed on his fancy,spoke,he answered not,Or short and coldly,and she knew right well What the rough sickness meant,but what this meant She knew not,and the sorrow dimmed her sight,And drave her ere her time across the fields Far into the rich city,where alone She murmured,'Vain,in vain:it cannot be.
He will not love me:how then?must I die?'
Then as a little helpless innocent bird,That has but one plain passage of few notes,Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er For all an April morning,till the ear Wearies to hear it,so the simple maid Went half the night repeating,'Must I die?'
And now to right she turned,and now to left,And found no ease in turning or in rest;And 'Him or death,'she muttered,'death or him,'
Again and like a burthen,'Him or death.'
But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was whole,To Astolat returning rode the three.
There morn by morn,arraying her sweet self In that wherein she deemed she looked her best,She came before Sir Lancelot,for she thought 'If I be loved,these are my festal robes,If not,the victim's flowers before he fall.'
And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid That she should ask some goodly gift of him For her own self or hers;'and do not shun To speak the wish most near to your true heart;Such service have ye done me,that I make My will of yours,and Prince and Lord am IIn mine own land,and what I will I can.'
Then like a ghost she lifted up her face,But like a ghost without the power to speak.
And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish,And bode among them yet a little space Till he should learn it;and one morn it chanced He found her in among the garden yews,And said,'Delay no longer,speak your wish,Seeing I go today:'then out she brake:
'Going?and we shall never see you more.
And I must die for want of one bold word.'
'Speak:that I live to hear,'he said,'is yours.'
Then suddenly and passionately she spoke:
'I have gone mad.I love you:let me die.'
'Ah,sister,'answered Lancelot,'what is this?'
And innocently extending her white arms,'Your love,'she said,'your love--to be your wife.'
And Lancelot answered,'Had I chosen to wed,I had been wedded earlier,sweet Elaine:
But now there never will be wife of mine.'
'No,no,'she cried,'I care not to be wife,But to be with you still,to see your face,To serve you,and to follow you through the world.'
And Lancelot answered,'Nay,the world,the world,All ear and eye,with such a stupid heart To interpret ear and eye,and such a tongue To blare its own interpretation--nay,Full ill then should I quit your brother's love,And your good father's kindness.'And she said,'Not to be with you,not to see your face--Alas for me then,my good days are done.'
'Nay,noble maid,'he answered,'ten times nay!
This is not love:but love's first flash in youth,Most common:yea,I know it of mine own self:
And you yourself will smile at your own self Hereafter,when you yield your flower of life To one more fitly yours,not thrice your age:
And then will I,for true you are and sweet Beyond mine old belief in womanhood,More specially should your good knight be poor,Endow you with broad land and territory Even to the half my realm beyond the seas,So that would make you happy:furthermore,Even to the death,as though ye were my blood,In all your quarrels will I be your knight.
This I will do,dear damsel,for your sake,And more than this I cannot.'
