Or you？ or I？ for since you think me touched In honour--what， I would not aught of false--Is not our case pure？ and whereas I know Your prowess， Arac， and what mother's blood You draw from， fight； you failing， I abide What end soever： fail you will not. Still Take not his life： he risked it for my own；His mother lives： yet whatsoe'er you do， Fight and fight well； strike and strike him. O dear Brothers， the woman's Angel guards you， you The sole men to be mingled with our cause， The sole men we shall prize in the after-time， Your very armour hallowed， and your statues Reared， sung to， when， this gad-fly brushed aside， We plant a solid foot into the Time， And mould a generation strong to move With claim on claim from right to right， till she Whose name is yoked with children's， know herself；And Knowledge in our own land make her free， And， ever following those two crown鑔 twins， Commerce and conquest， shower the fiery grain Of freedom broadcast over all the orbs Between the Northern and the Southern morn.'
Then came a postscript dashed across the rest.
See that there be no traitors in your camp：
We seem a nest of traitors--none to trust Since our arms failed--this Egypt-plague of men！
Almost our maids were better at their homes， Than thus man-girdled here： indeed I think Our chiefest comfort is the little child Of one unworthy mother； which she left：
She shall not have it back： the child shall grow To prize the authentic mother of her mind.
I took it for an hour in mine own bed This morning： there the tender orphan hands Felt at my heart， and seemed to charm from thence The wrath I nursed against the world： farewell.'
I ceased； he said， 'Stubborn， but she may sit Upon a king's right hand in thunder-storms， And breed up warriors！ See now， though yourself Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to sloughs That swallow common sense， the spindling king， This Gama swamped in lazy tolerance.
When the man wants weight， the woman takes it up， And topples down the scales； but this is fixt As are the roots of earth and base of all；Man for the field and woman for the hearth：
Man for the sword and for the needle she：
Man with the head and woman with the heart：
Man to command and woman to obey；
All else confusion. Look you！ the gray mare Is ill to live with， when her whinny shrills From tile to scullery， and her small goodman Shrinks in his arm-chair while the fires of Hell Mix with his hearth： but you--she's yet a colt--Take， break her： strongly groomed and straitly curbed She might not rank with those detestable That let the bantling scald at home， and brawl Their rights and wrongs like potherbs in the street.
They say she's comely； there's the fairer chance：
~I~ like her none the less for rating at her！
Besides， the woman wed is not as we， But suffers change of frame. A lusty brace Of twins may weed her of her folly. Boy， The bearing and the training of a child Is woman's wisdom.'
Thus the hard old king：
I took my leave， for it was nearly noon：
I pored upon her letter which I held， And on the little clause 'take not his life：'
I mused on that wild morning in the woods， And on the 'Follow， follow， thou shalt win：'
I thought on all the wrathful king had said， And how the strange betrothment was to end：
Then I remembered that burnt sorcerer's curse That one should fight with shadows and should fall；And like a flash the weird affection came：
King， camp and college turned to hollow shows；I seemed to move in old memorial tilts， And doing battle with forgotten ghosts， To dream myself the shadow of a dream：
And ere I woke it was the point of noon， The lists were ready. Empanoplied and plumed We entered in， and waited， fifty there Opposed to fifty， till the trumpet blared At the barrier like a wild horn in a land Of echoes， and a moment， and once more The trumpet， and again： at which the storm Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of spears And riders front to front， until they closed In conflict with the crash of shivering points， And thunder. Yet it seemed a dream， I dreamed Of fighting. On his haunches rose the steed， And into fiery splinters leapt the lance， And out of stricken helmets sprang the fire.
Part sat like rocks： part reeled but kept their seats：
Part rolled on the earth and rose again and drew：
Part stumbled mixt with floundering horses. Down From those two bulks at Arac's side， and down From Arac's arm， as from a giant's flail， The large blows rained， as here and everywhere He rode the mellay， lord of the ringing lists， And all the plain，--brand， mace， and shaft， and shield--Shocked， like an iron-clanging anvil banged With hammers； till I thought， can this be he From Gama's dwarfish loins？ if this be so， The mother makes us most--and in my dream I glanced aside， and saw the palace-front Alive with fluttering scarfs and ladies' eyes， And highest， among the statues， statuelike， Between a cymballed Miriam and a Jael， With Psyche's babe， was Ida watching us， A single band of gold about her hair， Like a Saint's glory up in heaven： but she No saint--inexorable--no tenderness--Too hard， too cruel： yet she sees me fight， Yea， let her see me fall！ and with that I drave Among the thickest and bore down a Prince， And Cyril， one. Yea， let me make my dream All that I would. But that large-moulded man， His visage all agrin as at a wake， Made at me through the press， and， staggering back With stroke on stroke the horse and horseman， came As comes a pillar of electric cloud， Flaying the roofs and sucking up the drains， And shadowing down the champaign till it strikes On a wood， and takes， and breaks， and cracks， and splits， And twists the grain with such a roar that Earth Reels， and the herdsmen cry； for everything Game way before him： only Florian， he That loved me closer than his own right eye， Thrust in between； but Arac rode him down：
And Cyril seeing it， pushed against the Prince， With Psyche's colour round his helmet， tough， Strong， supple， sinew-corded， apt at arms；But tougher， heavier， stronger， he that smote And threw him： last I spurred； I felt my veins Stretch with fierce heat； a moment hand to hand， And sword to sword， and horse to horse we hung， Till I struck out and shouted； the blade glanced， I did but shear a feather， and dream and truth Flowed from me； darkness closed me； and I fell.
Home they brought her warrior dead：
She nor swooned， nor uttered cry：
All her maidens， watching， said， 'She must weep or she will die.'
Then they praised him， soft and low， Called him worthy to be loved， Truest friend and noblest foe；Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Stole a maiden from her place， Lightly to the warrior stept， Took the face-cloth from the face；Yet she neither moved nor wept.
Rose a nurse of ninety years， Set his child upon her knee--Like summer tempest came her tears--
'Sweet my child， I live for thee.'
