And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits
Of armor on their horses, each on each,
And tied the bridle-reins of all the three
Together, and said to her, "Drive them on
Before you;" and she drove them thro' the waste.

He follow'd nearer: ruth began to work Against his anger in him, while he watch'd The being he loved best in all the world, With difficulty in mild obedience

Driving them on: he fain had spoken to her,
And loosed in words of sudden fire the wrath
And smoulder'd wrong that burnt him all within;
But evermore it seem'd an easier thing

At once without remorse to strike her dead,
Than to cry "Halt," and to her own bright face
Accuse her of the least immodesty:

And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more
That she could speak whom his own ear had heard
Call herself false: and suffering thus he made
Minutes an age: but in scarce longer time
Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk,
Before he turn to fall seaward again,
Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold
In the first shallow shade of a deep wood,
Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks,
Three other horsemen waiting, wholly arm'd,
Whereof one seem'd far larger than her lord,
And shook her pulses, crying, "Look, a prize!
Three horses and three goodly suits of arms,
And all in charge of whom? a girl: set on."
"Nay," said the second, "yonder comes a knight."
The third, "A craven; how he hangs his head."
The giant answer'd merrily, "Yea, but one?
Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him."

And Enid ponder'd in her heart, and said, "I will abide the coming of my lord, And I will tell him all their villainy. My lord is weary with the fight before, And they will fall upon him unawares. I needs must disobey him for his good; How should I dare obey him to his harm? Needs must I speak, and tho' he kill me for it, I save a life dearer to me than mine."

And she abode his coming, and said to him, With timid firmness, "Have I leave to speak?" He said, "Ye take it, speaking," and she spoke.

"There lurk three villains yonder in the wood, And each of them is wholly arm'd, and one Is larger-limb'd than you are, and they say That they will fall upon you while ye pass."

To which he flung a wrathful answer back: "And if there were an hundred in the wood, And every man were larger-limb'd than I, And all at once should sally out upon me, I swear it would not ruffle me so much As you that not obey me. Stand aside, And if I fall, cleave to the better man."

And Enid stood aside to wait the event, Not dare to watch the combat, only breathe Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath. And he she dreaded most, bare down upon him. Aim'd at the helm, his lance err'd; but Geraint's, A little in the late encounter strain'd, Struck thro' the bulky bandit's corselet home, And then brake short, and down his enemy roll'd, And there lay still; as he that tells the tale Saw once a great piece of a promontory, That had a sapling growing on it, slide From the long shore-cliff's windy walls to the beach, And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew: So lay the man transfixt. His craven pair Of comrades, making slowlier at the Prince,

When now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood;
On whom the victor, to confound them more,
Spurr'd with his terrible war-cry; for as one,
That listeus near a torrent mountain-brook,
All thro' the crash of the near cataract hears
The drumming thunder of the huger fall
At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear
His voice in battle, and be kindled by it,
And foemen scared, like that false pair who turn'd
Flying, but, overtaken, died the death
Themselves had wrought on many an innocent.

Thereon Geraint, dismounting, pick'd the lance That pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolves

Their three gay suits of armor, each from each, And bound them on their horses, each on each, And tied the bridle-reins of all the three Together, and said to her, "Drive them on Before you," and she drove them thro' the wood.

He follow'd nearer still; the pain she had
To keep them in the wild ways of the wood,
Two sets of three laden with jingling arms,
Together, served a little to disedge

The sharpness of that pain about her heart:
And they themselves, like creatures gently born,
But into bad hands fall'n, and now so long
By bandits groom'd, prick'd their light ears, and felt
Her low firm voice and tender government.

So thro' the green gloom of the wood they past,
And issuing under open heavens, beheld
A little town with towers, upon a rock,
And close beneath, a meadow, gemlike, chased
In the browu wild, and mowers mowing in it:
And down a rocky pathway from the place
There came a fair-hair'd youth, that in his hand
Bare victual for the mowers: and Geraint
Had ruth again on Enid looking pale:
Then, moving downward to the meadow ground,
He, when the fair-hair'd youth came by him, sald,
"Friend, let her eat; the damsel is so faint."
"Yea, willingly," replied the youth; "and thou,
My lord, eat also, tho' the fare is coarse,
And only meet for mowers;" then set down
His basket, and dismounting on the sward,
They let the horses graze, and ate themselves.
And Enid took a little delicately,

Less having stomach for it than desire
To close with her lord's pleasure; but Geraint
Ate all the mowers' victual unawares,

66

And when he found all empty, was amazed;
And, Boy," said he, "I have eaten all, but take
A horse and arms for guerdon: choose the best."
He, reddening in extremity of delight,
"My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold."

"Ye will be all the wealthier," cried the Prince.
"I take it as free gift, then," said the boy,
"Not guerdon; for myself can easily,
While your good damsel rests, return, and fetch
Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl:
For these are his, and all the field is his,

And I myself am his; and I will tell him
How great a man thou art; he loves to know
When men of mark are in his territory;
And he will have thee to his palace here,
And serve thee costlier than with mowers' fare."

But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes
Home from the rock, sideways he let them glauce
At Enid, where she droopt: his own false doom,
That shadow of mistrust should never cross
Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sigh'd;
Then with another humorous ruth remark'd
The lusty mowers laboring dinnerless,

And watch'd the sun blaze on the turning scythe,
And after nodded sleepily in the heat.
But she, remembering her old ruin'd hall,
And all the windy clamor of the daws
Above her hollow turret, pluck'd the grass,
There growing longest by the meadow's edge,
And into many a listless annulet,
Now over, now beneath her marriage ring,
Wove and unwove it, till the boy return'd,
And told them of a chamber, and they went;
Where, after saying to her, "If ye will,
Call for the woman of the house," to which
She answer'd, "Thanks, my lord;" the two remain'd
Apart by all the chamber's width, and mute
As creatures voiceless thro' the fault of birth,
Or two wild men, supporters of a shield,
Painted, who stare at open space, nor glance
The one at other, parted by the shield.

On a sudden, many a voice along the street,
And heel against the pavement echoing, burst
Their drowse; and either started while the door,
Push'd from without, drave backward to the wall,
And midmost of a rout of roisterers,
Femininely fair and dissolutely pale,
Her suitor in old years before Geraint,
Enter'd, the wild lord of the place, Limours.
He, moving up with pliant courtliness,
Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily,

In the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt hand,
Found Enid with the corner of his eye,
And knew her sitting sad and solitary.
Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly cheer
To feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously,
According to his fashion, bade the host
Call in what men soever were his friends,
And feast with these in honor of their Earl;
"And care not for the cost; the cost is mine."

I thought, but that your father came between,
In former days you saw me favorably.
And if it were so, do not keep it back:
Make me a little happier: let me know it:
Owe you me nothing for a life half-lost?
Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you are.
And, Enid, you and he, I see with joy,
Ye sit apart, you do not speak to him,
You come with no attendance, page or maid,
To serve you-doth he love you as of old?
For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know
Tho' men may bicker with the things they love,
They would not make them laughable in all eyes,
Not while they loved them; and your wretched
dress,

A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks
Your story, that this man loves you no more.
Your beauty is no beauty to him now:

A common chance-right well I know it-pall'd-
For I know men: nor will ye win him back,
For the man's love once gone never returns.
But here is one who loves you as of old;
With more exceeding passion than of old:
Good, speak the word: my followers ring him round
He sits unarm'd; I hold a finger up;
They understand: nay; I do not mean blood:
Nor need ye look so scared at what I say:
My malice is no deeper than a moat,

No stronger than a wall: there is the keep:
He shall not cross us more; speak but the word:
Or speak it not; but then, by Him that made me,
The one true lover whom you ever own'd,

I will make use of all the power I have.
Oh, pardon me! the madness of that hour,
When first I parted from thee, moves me yet.”

At this the tender sound of his own voice And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it, Made his eye moist; but Enid fear'd his eyes, Moist as they were, wine-heated from the feast; And answer'd with such craft as women use, Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance That breaks upon them perilously, and said.

"Earl, if you love me as in former years, And do not practise on me, come with morn, And snatch me from him as by violence: Leave me to-night: I am weary to the death."

Low at leave-taking, with his brandish'd plume Brushing his instep, bow'd the all-amorous Earl,

mours

Drank till he jested with all ease, and told

Free tales, and took the word and play'd upon it,
And made it of two colors; for his talk,
When wine and free companions kindled him,
Was wout to glance and sparkle like a gem
Of fifty facets; thus he moved the Prince
To laughter and his comrades to applause.
Then, when the Prince was merry, ask'd Limours,
"Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and speak
To your good damsel there who sits apart,
And seems so lonely?" "My free leave," he said;
"Get her to speak: she doth not speak to me."
Then rose Limours, and looking at his feet,
Like him who tries the bridge he fears may fail,
Crost and came near, lifted adoring eyes,
Bow'd at her side and utter'd whisperingly:

"Enid, the pilot star of my lone life; Enid, my early and my only love; Enid, the loss of whom hath turn'd me wildWhat chance is this? how is it I see you here? Ye are in my power at last, are in my power. Yet fear me not: I call mine own self wild, But keep a touch of sweet civility

He, moving homeward, babbled to his men,
How Enid never loved a man but him,
Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her lord.

But Enid, left alone with Prince Geraint, Debating his command of silence given, And that she now perforce must violate it, Held commune with herself, and while she held He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart To wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly pleased To find him yet unwounded after fight, And hear him breathing low and equally. Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heap'd The pieces of his armor in one place, All to be there against a sudden need: Then dozed awhile herself, but overtoil'd By that day's grief and travel, evermore Seem'd catching at a rootless thorn, and then Went slipping down horrible precipices, And strongly striking out her limbs, awoke : Then thought she heard the wild Earl at the door, With all his rout of random followers, Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summoning her; Which was the red cock shouting to the light, As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy world,

And glimmer'd on his armor in the room.
And once again she rose to look at it,
But touch'd it unawares: jangling, the casque
Fell, and he started up and stared at her.
Then breaking his command of silence given,
She told him all that Earl Limours had said,
Except the passage that he loved her not;
Nor left untold the craft herself had used;
But ended with apology so sweet,
Low-spoken, and of so few words, and seem'd
So justified by that necessity,

That tho' he thought "was it for him she wept
In Devon?" he but gave a wrathful groan,
Saying, "Your sweet faces make good fellows fools
And traitors. Call the host and bid him bring
Charger and palfrey." So she glided out
Among the heavy breathings of the house,
And like a household Spirit at the walls
Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and return'd:
Then tending her rough lord, tho' all unask'd,
In silence, did him service as a squire;'

Till issuing arm'd, he found the host and cried,
"Thy reckoning, friend?" and ere he learnt it, "Take
Five horses and their armors;" and the host,
Suddenly honest, answer'd in amaze,

"My lord, I scarce have spent the worth of one!" "Ye will be all the wealthier," said the Prince, And then to Enid, "Forward! and to-day

I charge you, Enid, more especially,
What thing soever ye may hear, or see,
Or fancy (tho' I count it of small use

To charge you) that ye speak not, but obey."

And Enid answer'd, "Yea, my lord, I know Your wish, and would obey; but riding first, I hear the violent threats you do not hear, I see the danger which you cannot see: Then not to give you warning, that seems hard; Almost beyond me; yet I would obey."

"Yea so," said he, "do it: be not too wise; Seeing that ye are wedded to a man, Not all mismated with a yawning clown, But one with arms to guard his head and yours, With eyes to find you out, however far, And ears to hear you, even in his dreams."

With that he turn'd and look'd as keenly at her As careful robins eye the delver's toil; And that within her, which a wanton fool Or hasty judger would have call'd her guilt, Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall. And Geraint look'd and was not satisfied.

Then forward by a way which, beaten broad,
Led from the territory of false Limours
To the waste earldom of another earl,
Doorm, whom his shaking vassals call'd the Bull,
Went Enid with her sullen follower on.

Once she look'd back, and when she saw him ride
More near by many a rood than yester-morn,
It wellnigh made her cheerful; till Geraint
Waving an angry hand, as who should say,
"Ye watch me," sadden'd all her heart again.
But while the sun yet beat a dewy blade,
The sound of many a heavily-galloping hoof
Smote on her ear, and turning round, she saw
Dust, and the points of lances bicker in it.
Then, not to disobey her lord's behest,
And yet to give him warning, for he rode
As if he heard not, moving back, she held
Her finger up, and pointed to the dust.
At which the warrior in his obstinacy,
Because she kept the letter of his word,
Was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood.
And in a moment after, wild Limours,
Borne on a black horse, like a thunder-cloud
Whose skirts are loosen'd by the breaking storm,

Half ridden off with by the thing he rode,
And all in passion uttering a dry shriek,
Dash'd on Geraint, who closed with him, and bore
Down by the length of lance and arm beyond
The crupper, and so left him stunn'd or dead,
And overthrew the next that follow'd him,
And blindly rush'd on all the rout behind.
But at the flash and motion of the man
They vanish'd, panic-stricken, like a shoal
Of darting fish, that on a summer morn
Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot
Come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand,
But if a man who stands upon the brink
But lift a shining hand against the sun,
There is not left the twinkle of a fin
Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower;
So, scared but at the motion of the man,
Fled all the boon companions of the Earl,
And left him lying in the public way:
So vanish friendships only made in wine.

Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint, Who saw the chargers of the two that fell Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly, Mixt with the flyers. "Horse and man," he said, "All of one mind and all right honest friends! Not a hoof left: and I, methinks, till now Was honest-paid with horses and with arms; I cannot steal or plunder, no, nor beg: And so what say ye, shall we strip him there, Your lover? has your palfrey heart enough To bear his armor? shall we fast, or dine? No-then do thou, being right honest, pray That we may meet the horsemen of Earl Doorm. I too would still be honest." Thus he said: And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins, And answering not one word, she led the way.

But as a man to whom a dreadful loss Falls in a far land, and he knows it not, But coming back, he learns it, and the loss So pains him that he sickens nigh to death So fared it with Geraint, who being prick'd In combat with the follower of Limours, Bled underneath his armor secretly, And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife, What ail'd him, hardly knowing it himself, Till his eye darken'd and his helmet wagg'd; And at a sudden swerving of the road, Tho' happily down on a bank of grass, The Prince, without a word, from his horse fell.

And Enid heard the clashing of his fall,
Suddenly came, and at his side all pale
Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms.
Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye
Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound,
And tearing off her veil of faded silk,
Had bared her forehead to the blistering sun,
And swath'd the hurt that drain'd her dear lord's
life.

Then after all was done that hand could do,
She rested, and her desolation came
Upon her, and she wept beside the way.

And many past, but none regarded her, For in that realm of lawless turbulence, A woman weeping for her murder'd mate Was cared as much for as a summer shower: One took him for a victim of Earl Doorm, Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him: Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms, Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl; Half whistling and half singing a coarse song, He drove the dust against her veilless eyes: Another, flying from the wrath of Doorm, Before an ever-fancied arrow, made The long way smoke beneath him in his fear;