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

say;

Mine answer was my deed. Good sooth! I hold

He scarce is knight, yea but half-man, nor meet

To fight for gentle damsel, he, who lets

His heart be stirred with any foolish heat

At any gentle damsel’s waywardness.

Shamed? care not! thy foul sayings fought for me:

And seeing now thy words are fair, methinks

There rides no knight, not Lancelot, his great self,

Hath force to quell me.’

Nigh upon that hour

When the lone hern forgets his melancholy,

Lets down his other leg, and stretching, dreams

Of goodly supper in the distant pool,

Then turned the noble damsel smiling at him,

And told him of a cavern hard at hand,

Where bread and baken meats and good red wine

Of Southland, which the Lady Lyonors

Had sent her coming champion, waited him.

 

Anon they past a narrow comb wherein

Where slabs of rock with figures, knights on horse

Sculptured, and deckt in slowly-waning hues.

‘Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once was here,

Whose holy hand hath fashioned on the rock

The war of Time against the soul of man.

And yon four fools have sucked their allegory

From these damp walls, and taken but the form.

Know ye not these?’ and Gareth lookt and read—

In letters like to those the vexillary

Hath left crag-carven o’er the streaming Gelt—

‘PHOSPHORUS,’ then ‘MERIDIES’—‘HESPERUS’—

‘NOX’—‘MORS,’ beneath five figures, armed men,

Slab after slab, their faces forward all,

And running down the Soul, a Shape that fled

With broken wings, torn raiment and loose hair,

For help and shelter to the hermit’s cave.

‘Follow the faces, and we find it. Look,

Who comes behind?’

 

For one—delayed at first

Through helping back the dislocated Kay

To Camelot, then by what thereafter chanced,

The damsel’s headlong error through the wood—

Sir Lancelot, having swum the river-loops—

His blue shield-lions covered—softly drew

Behind the twain, and when he saw the star

Gleam, on Sir Gareth’s turning to him, cried,

‘Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for my friend.’

And Gareth crying pricked against the cry;

But when they closed—in a moment—at one touch

Of that skilled spear, the wonder of the world—

Went sliding down so easily, and fell,

That when he found the grass within his hands

He laughed; the laughter jarred upon Lynette:

Harshly she asked him, ‘Shamed and overthrown,

And tumbled back into the kitchen-knave,

Why laugh ye? that ye blew your boast in vain?’

‘Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the son

Of old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent,

And victor of the bridges and the ford,

And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by whom

I know not, all through mere unhappiness—

Device and sorcery and unhappiness—

Out, sword; we are thrown!’ And Lancelot answered, ‘Prince,

O Gareth—through the mere unhappiness

Of one who came to help thee, not to harm,

Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole,

As on the day when Arthur knighted him.’

 

Then Gareth, ‘Thou—Lancelot!—thine the hand

That threw me? An some chance to mar the boast

Thy brethren of thee make—which could not chance—

Had sent thee down before a lesser spear,

Shamed had I been, and sad—O Lancelot—thou!’

 

Whereat the maiden, petulant, ‘Lancelot,

Why came ye not, when called? and wherefore now

Come ye, not called? I gloried in my knave,

Who being still rebuked, would answer still

Courteous as any knight—but now, if knight,

The marvel dies, and leaves me fooled and tricked,

And only wondering wherefore played upon:

And doubtful whether I and mine be scorned.

Where should be truth if not in Arthur’s hall,

In Arthur’s presence? Knight, knave, prince and fool,

I hate thee and for ever.’

 

And Lancelot said,

‘Blessed be thou, Sir Gareth! knight art thou

To the King’s best wish. O damsel, be you wise

To call him shamed, who is but overthrown?

Thrown have I been, nor once, but many a time.

Victor from vanquished issues at the last,

And overthrower from being overthrown.

With sword we have not striven; and thy good horse

And thou are weary; yet not less I felt

Thy manhood through that wearied lance of thine.

Well hast thou done; for all the stream is freed,

And thou hast wreaked his justice on his foes,

And when reviled, hast answered graciously,

And makest merry when overthrown. Prince, Knight

Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our Table Round!’

 

And then when turning to Lynette he told

The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said,

‘Ay well—ay well—for worse than being fooled

Of others, is to fool one’s self. A cave,

Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and drinks

And forage for the horse, and flint for fire.

But all about it flies a honeysuckle.

Seek, till we find.’ And when they sought and found,

Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his life

Past into sleep; on whom the maiden gazed.

‘Sound sleep be thine! sound cause to sleep hast thou.

Wake lusty! Seem I not as tender to him

As any mother? Ay, but such a one

As all day long hath rated at her child,

And vext his day, but blesses him asleep—

Good lord, how sweetly smells the honeysuckle

In the hushed night, as if the world were one

Of utter peace, and love, and gentleness!

O Lancelot, Lancelot’—and she clapt her hands—

‘Full merry am I to find my goodly knave

Is knight and noble. See now, sworn have I,

Else yon black felon had not let me pass,

To bring thee back to do the battle with him.

Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first;

Who doubts thee victor? so will my knight-knave

Miss the full flower of this accomplishment.’

 

Said Lancelot, ‘Peradventure he, you name,

May know my shield. Let Gareth, an he will,

Change his for mine, and take my charger, fresh,

Not to be spurred, loving the battle as well

As he that rides him.’ ‘Lancelot-like,’ she said,

‘Courteous in this, Lord Lancelot, as in all.’

 

And Gareth, wakening, fiercely clutched the shield;

‘Ramp ye lance-splintering lions, on whom all spears

Are rotten sticks! ye seem agape to roar!

Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your lord!—

Care not, good beasts, so well I care for you.

O noble Lancelot, from my hold on these

Streams virtue—fire—through one that will not shame

Even the shadow of Lancelot under shield.

Hence: let us go.’

 

Silent the silent field

They traversed. Arthur’s harp though summer-wan,

In counter motion to the clouds, allured

The glance of Gareth dreaming on his liege.

A star shot: ‘Lo,’ said Gareth, ‘the foe falls!’

An owl whoopt: ‘Hark the victor pealing there!’

Suddenly she that rode upon his left

Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent him, crying,

‘Yield, yield him this again: ‘tis he must fight:

I curse the tongue that all through yesterday

Reviled thee, and hath wrought on Lancelot now

To lend thee horse and shield: wonders ye have done;

Miracles ye cannot: here is glory enow

In having flung the three: I see thee maimed,

Mangled: I swear thou canst not fling the fourth.’

 

‘And wherefore, damsel? tell me all ye know.

You cannot scare me; nor rough face, or voice,

Brute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery

Appal me from the quest.’

 

‘Nay, Prince,’ she cried,

‘God wot, I never looked upon the face,

Seeing he never rides abroad by day;

But watched him have I like a phantom pass

Chilling the night: nor have I heard the voice.

Always he made his mouthpiece of a page

Who came and went, and still reported him

As closing in himself the strength of ten,

And when his anger tare him, massacring

Man, woman, lad and girl—yea, the soft babe!

Some hold that he hath swallowed infant flesh,

Monster! O Prince, I went for Lancelot first,

The quest is Lancelot’s: give him back the shield.’

 

Said Gareth laughing, ‘An he fight for this,

Belike he wins it as the better man:

Thus—and not else!’

 

But Lancelot on him urged

All the devisings of their chivalry

When one might meet a mightier than himself;

How best to manage horse, lance, sword and shield,

And so fill up the gap where force might fail

With skill and fineness. Instant were his words.

 

Then Gareth, ‘Here be rules. I know but one—

To dash against mine enemy and win.

Yet have I seen thee victor in the joust,

And seen thy way.’ ‘Heaven help thee,’ sighed Lynette.

 

Then for a space, and under cloud that grew

To thunder-gloom palling all stars, they rode

In converse till she made her palfrey halt,

Lifted an arm, and softly whispered, ‘There.’

And all the three were silent seeing, pitched

Beside the Castle Perilous on flat field,

A huge pavilion like a mountain peak

Sunder the glooming crimson on the marge,

Black, with black banner, and a long black horn

Beside it hanging; which Sir Gareth graspt,

And so, before the two could hinder him,

Sent all his heart and breath through all the horn.

Echoed the walls; a light twinkled; anon

Came lights and lights, and once again he blew;

Whereon were hollow tramplings up and down

And muffled voices heard, and shadows past;

Till high above him, circled with her maids,

The Lady Lyonors at a window stood,

Beautiful among lights, and waving to him

White hands, and courtesy; but when the Prince

Three times had blown—after long hush—at last—

The huge pavilion slowly yielded up,

Through those black foldings, that which housed therein.

High on a nightblack horse, in nightblack arms,

With white breast-bone, and barren ribs of Death,

And crowned with fleshless laughter—some ten steps—

In the half-light—through the dim dawn—advanced

The monster, and then paused, and spake no word.

 

But Gareth spake and all indignantly,

‘Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength of ten,

Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God hath given,

But must, to make the terror of thee more,

Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries

Of that which Life hath done with, and the clod,

Less dull than thou, will hide with mantling flowers

As if for pity?’ But he spake no word;

Which set the horror higher: a maiden swooned;

The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands and wept,

As doomed to be the bride of Night and Death;

Sir Gareth’s head prickled beneath his helm;

And even Sir Lancelot through his warm blood felt

Ice strike, and all that marked him were aghast.

 

At once Sir Lancelot’s charger fiercely neighed,

And Death’s dark warhorse bounded forward with him.

Then those that did not blink the terror, saw

That Death was cast to ground, and slowly rose.

But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the skull.

Half fell to right and half to left and lay.

Then with a stronger buffet he clove the helm

As throughly as the skull; and out from this

Issued the bright face of a blooming boy

Fresh as a flower new-born, and crying, ‘Knight,

Slay me not: my three brethren bad me do it,

To make a horror all about the house,

And stay the world from Lady Lyonors.

They never dreamed the passes would be past.’

Answered Sir Gareth graciously to one

Not many a moon his younger, ‘My fair child,

What madness made thee challenge the chief knight

Of Arthur’s hall?’ ‘Fair Sir, they bad me do it.

They hate the King, and Lancelot, the King’s friend,

They hoped to slay him somewhere on the stream,

They never dreamed the passes could be past.’

 

Then sprang the happier day from underground;

And Lady Lyonors and her house, with dance

And revel and song, made merry over Death,

As being after all their foolish fears

And horrors only proven a blooming boy.

So large mirth lived and Gareth won the quest.

 

And he that told the tale in older