Idylls of the King - Alfred Lord Tennyson (e reader for manga .TXT) 📗

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 though 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 armed, and one

Is larger-limbed 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-limbed 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.

Aimed at the helm, his lance erred; but Geraint’s,

A little in the late encounter strained,

Struck through the bulky bandit’s corselet home,

And then brake short, and down his enemy rolled,

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 shorecliff’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,

Spurred with his terrible war-cry; for as one,

That listens near a torrent mountain-brook,

All through 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 turned

Flying, but, overtaken, died the death

Themselves had wrought on many an innocent.

 

Thereon Geraint, dismounting, picked the lance

That pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolves

Their three gay suits of armour, 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 through the wood.

 

He followed 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 fallen, and now so long

By bandits groomed, pricked their light ears, and felt

Her low firm voice and tender government.

 

So through 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 brown wild, and mowers mowing in it:

And down a rocky pathway from the place

There came a fair-haired 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-haired youth came by him, said,

‘Friend, let her eat; the damsel is so faint.’

‘Yea, willingly,’ replied the youth; ‘and thou,

My lord, eat also, though 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,

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.’

 

Then said Geraint, ‘I wish no better fare:

I never ate with angrier appetite

Than when I left your mowers dinnerless.

And into no Earl’s palace will I go.

I know, God knows, too much of palaces!

And if he want me, let him come to me.

But hire us some fair chamber for the night,

And stalling for the horses, and return

With victual for these men, and let us know.’

 

‘Yea, my kind lord,’ said the glad youth, and went,

Held his head high, and thought himself a knight,

And up the rocky pathway disappeared,

Leading the horse, and they were left alone.

 

But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes

Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance

At Enid, where she droopt: his own false doom,

That shadow of mistrust should never cross

Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sighed;

Then with another humorous ruth remarked

The lusty mowers labouring dinnerless,

And watched the sun blaze on the turning scythe,

And after nodded sleepily in the heat.

But she, remembering her old ruined hall,

And all the windy clamour of the daws

About her hollow turret, plucked 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 returned

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 answered, ‘Thanks, my lord;’ the two remained

Apart by all the chamber’s width, and mute

As two creatures voiceless through 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,

Pushed 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,

Entered, 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, bad the host

Call in what men soever were his friends,

And feast with these in honour of their Earl;

‘And care not for the cost; the cost is mine.’

 

And wine and food were brought, and Earl Limours

Drank till he jested with all ease, and told

Free tales, and took the word and played upon it,

And made it of two colours; for his talk,

When wine and free companions kindled him,

Was wont 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, asked 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,

Bowed at her side and uttered whisperingly:

 

‘Enid, the pilot star of my lone life,

Enid, my early and my only love,

Enid, the loss of whom hath turned me wild—

What 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

Here in the heart of waste and wilderness.

I thought, but that your father came between,

In former days you saw me favourably.

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

Though 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—palled—

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 unarmed; 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 owned,

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 feared his eyes,

Moist as they were, wineheated 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 practise on me, come with morn,

And snatch me from him as by violence;

Leave me tonight: I am weary to the death.’

 

Low at leave-taking, with his brandished plume

Brushing his instep, bowed the all-amorous Earl,

And the stout Prince bad 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-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, heaped

The pieces of his armour in one place,

All to be there against