Journeys Through Bookland Volume V Part 16

But here is one who loves you as of old; With more exceeding pa.s.sion 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.

O 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 answered 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 practice on me, come with morn, And s.n.a.t.c.h 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 Brus.h.i.+ng his instep, bow'd the all-amorous Earl.

And the stout Prince bade him a loud good-night.

He moving homeward babbled to his men, How Enid never loved a man but him, Nor cared a broken egg-sh.e.l.l 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 over-toil'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 c.o.c.k 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 pa.s.sage that he loved her not; Nor left unto 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 va.s.sals 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 yestermorn, 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 the 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 pa.s.sion 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 d.y.k.es at Camelot Come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand, But if a man who stands upon the brink But lift a s.h.i.+ning 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 friends.h.i.+ps 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 hors.e.m.e.n of Earl Doorm.

I too would still be honest." Thus he said: And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins, And answering not a 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 p.r.i.c.k'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 gra.s.s, The Prince, without a word, from his horse fell.

And Enid heard the clas.h.i.+ng 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 swathed 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 coa.r.s.e 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; At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel And scour'd into the coppices and was lost, While the great charger stood, grieved like a man.

But at the point of noon the huge Earl Doorm, Broad-faced with under-fringe of russet beard, Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey, Came riding with a hundred lances up; But ere he came, like one that hails a s.h.i.+p, Cried out with a big voice, "What, is he dead?"

"No, no, not dead!" she answer'd in all haste.

"Would some of your kind people take him up, And bear him hence out of this cruel sun?

Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead."

Then said Earl Doorm: "Well, if he be not dead, Why wail ye for him thus? ye seem a child.

And be he dead, I count you for a fool; Your wailing will not quicken him: dead or not, Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears.

Yet, since the face is comely--some of you, Here, take him up, and bear him to our hall: An if he live, we will have him of our band; And if he die, why earth has earth enough To hide him. See ye take the charger too, A n.o.ble one."

He spake, and past away, But left two brawny spearmen, who advanced, Each growling like a dog, when his good bone Seems to be pluck'd at by the village boys Who love to vex him eating, and he fears To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it, Gnawing and growling: so the ruffians growl'd, Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man, Their chance of booty from the morning's raid, Yet raised and laid him on a litter-bier, Such as they brought upon their forays out For those that might be wounded; laid him on it All in the hollow of his s.h.i.+eld, and took And bore him to the naked hall of Doorm, (His gentle charger following him unled) And cast him and the bier in which he lay Down on an oaken settle in the hall, And then departed, hot in haste to join Their luckier mates, but growling as before, And cursing their lost time, and the dead man, And their own Earl, and their own souls, and her.

They might as well have blest her: she was deaf To blessing or to cursing save from one.

So for long hours sat Enid by her lord, There in the naked hall, propping his head, And chafing his pale hands, and calling to him.

Till at the last he waken'd from his swoon, And found his own dear bride propping his head, And chafing his faint hands, and calling to him; And felt the warm tears falling on his face; And said to his own heart, "She weeps for me:"

And yet lay still, and feign'd himself as dead, That he might prove her to the uttermost, And say to his own heart, "She weeps for me."

But in the falling afternoon return'd The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall.

His l.u.s.ty spearmen follow'd him with noise: Each hurling down a heap of things that rang Against the pavement, cast his lance aside, And doff'd his helm: and then there flutter'd in, Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes, A tribe of women, dress'd in many hues, And mingled with the spearmen: and Earl Doorm Struck with a knife's haft hard against the board, And call'd for flesh and wine to feed his spears.

And men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves.

And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh:

[Ill.u.s.tration: ENID WATCHING BY GERAINT]

And none spake word, but all sat down at once, And ate with tumult in the naked hall, Feeding like horses when you hear them feed; Till Enid shrank far back into herself, To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe.

But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would, He roll'd his eyes about the hall, and found A damsel drooping in a corner of it.

Then he remember'd her, and how she wept; And out of her there came a power upon him; And rising on the sudden he said, "Eat!

I never yet beheld a thing so pale.

G.o.d's curse, it makes me mad to see you weep.

Eat! Look yourself. Good luck had your good man, For were I dead who is it would weep for me?

Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath Have I beheld a lily like yourself.

And so there lived some color in your cheek, There is not one among my gentlewomen Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove.

But listen to me, and by me be ruled, And I will do the thing I have not done, For ye shall share my earldom with me, girl, And we will live like two birds in one nest, And I will fetch you forage from all fields, For I compel all creatures to my will."

He spoke: the brawny spearman let his cheek Bulge with the unswallowed piece, and turning stared; While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawn Down, as the worm draws in the wither'd leaf And makes it earth, hiss'd each at other's ear What shall not be recorded--women they, Women, or what had been those gracious things, But now desired the humbling of their best, Yea, would have help'd him to it: and all at once They hated her, who took no thought of them, But answer'd in low voice, her meek head yet Drooping, "I pray you of your courtesy, He being as he is, to let me be."

She spake so low he hardly heard her speak, But like a mighty patron, satisfied With what himself had done so graciously, a.s.sumed that she had thank'd him, adding, "Yea, Eat and be glad, for I account you mine."

She answer'd meekly, "How should I be glad Henceforth in all the world at anything, Until my lord arise and look upon me?"

Here the huge Earl cried out upon her talk, As all but empty heart and weariness And sickly nothing; suddenly seized on her, And bare her by main violence to the board, And thrust the dish before her, crying, "Eat."

"No, no," said Enid, vext, "I will not eat Till yonder man upon the bier arise, And eat with me." "Drink, then," he answer'd. "Here!"

(And fill'd a horn with wine and held it to her.) "Lo! I, myself, when flush'd with fight, or hot, G.o.d's curse, with anger--often I myself, Before I well have drunken, scarce can eat: Drink therefore and the wine will change your will."

"Not so," she cried, "By Heaven, I will not drink Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it, And drink with me; and if he rise no more, I will not look at wine until I die."

At this he turned all red and paced his hall, Now gnaw'd his under, now his upper lip, And coming up close to her, said at last: "Girl, for I see ye scorn my courtesies, Take warning: yonder man is surely dead; And I compel all creatures to my will.

Not eat nor drink? And wherefore wail for one, Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn By dressing it in rags? Amazed am I, Beholding how ye b.u.t.t against my wish, That I forbear you thus: cross me no more.

At least put off to please me this poor gown, This silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed: I love that beauty should go beautifully: For see ye not my gentlewomen here, How gay, how suited to the house of one Who loves that beauty should go beautifully?

Rise therefore; robe yourself in this: obey."

He spoke, and one among his gentlewomen Display'd a splendid silk of foreign loom, Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue Play'd into green, and thicker down the front With jewels than the sward with drops of dew, When all night long a cloud clings to the hill, And with the dawn ascending lets the day Strike where it clung: so thickly shone the gems.

But Enid answer'd, harder to be moved Than hardest tyrants in their day of power, With life-long injuries burning unavenged, And now their hour has come: and Enid said:

"In this poor gown my dear lord found me first, And loved me serving in my father's hall: In this poor gown I rode with him to court, And there the Queen array'd me like the sun: In this poor gown he bade me clothe myself, When now we rode upon this fatal quest Of honor, where no honor can be gain'd: And this poor gown I will not cast aside Until himself arise a living man, And bid me cast it. I have griefs enough: Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be: I never loved, can never love but him: Yea, G.o.d, I pray you of your gentleness, He being as he is, to let me be."