Idylls of the King, Alfred, Lord Tennyson [best historical biographies .TXT] 📗

So Gareth past with joy; but as the cur
Pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere his cause
Be cooled by fighting, follows, being named,
His owner, but remembers all, and growls
Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the door
Muttered in scorn of Gareth whom he used
To harry and hustle.

“Bound upon a quest
With horse and arms⁠—the King hath past his time⁠—
My scullion knave! Thralls to your work again,
For an your fire be low ye kindle mine!
Will there be dawn in West and eve in East?
Begone!⁠—my knave!⁠—belike and like enow
Some old head-blow not heeded in his youth
So shook his wits they wander in his prime⁠—
Crazed! How the villain lifted up his voice,
Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen-knave.
Tut: he was tame and meek enow with me,
Till peacocked up with Lancelot’s noticing.
Well⁠—I will after my loud knave, and learn
Whether he know me for his master yet.
Out of the smoke he came, and so my lance
Hold, by God’s grace, he shall into the mire⁠—
Thence, if the King awaken from his craze,
Into the smoke again.”

But Lancelot said,
“Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against the King,
For that did never he whereon ye rail,
But ever meekly served the King in thee?
Abide: take counsel; for this lad is great
And lusty, and knowing both of lance and sword.”
“Tut, tell not me,” said Kay, “ye are overfine
To mar stout knaves with foolish courtesies:”
Then mounted, on through silent faces rode
Down the slope city, and out beyond the gate.

But by the field of tourney lingering yet
Muttered the damsel, “Wherefore did the King
Scorn me? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, at least
He might have yielded to me one of those
Who tilt for lady’s love and glory here,
Rather than⁠—O sweet heaven! O fie upon him⁠—
His kitchen-knave.”

To whom Sir Gareth drew
(And there were none but few goodlier than he)
Shining in arms, “Damsel, the quest is mine.
Lead, and I follow.” She thereat, as one
That smells a foul-fleshed agaric in the holt,
And deems it carrion of some woodland thing,
Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender nose
With petulant thumb and finger, shrilling, “Hence!
Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen-grease.
And look who comes behind,” for there was Kay.
“Knowest thou not me? thy master? I am Kay.
We lack thee by the hearth.”

And Gareth to him,
“Master no more! too well I know thee, ay⁠—
The most ungentle knight in Arthur’s hall.”
“Have at thee then,” said Kay: they shocked, and Kay
Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again,
“Lead, and I follow,” and fast away she fled.

But after sod and shingle ceased to fly
Behind her, and the heart of her good horse
Was nigh to burst with violence of the beat,
Perforce she stayed, and overtaken spoke.

“What doest thou, scullion, in my fellowship?
Deem’st thou that I accept thee aught the more
Or love thee better, that by some device
Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness,
Thou hast overthrown and slain thy master⁠—thou!⁠—
Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon!⁠—to me
Thou smellest all of kitchen as before.”

“Damsel,” Sir Gareth answered gently, “say
Whate’er ye will, but whatsoe’er ye say,
I leave not till I finish this fair quest,
Or die therefore.”

“Ay, wilt thou finish it?
Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks!
The listening rogue hath caught the manner of it.
But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, knave,
And then by such a one that thou for all
The kitchen brewis that was ever supt
Shalt not once dare to look him in the face.”

“I shall assay,” said Gareth with a smile
That maddened her, and away she flashed again
Down the long avenues of a boundless wood,
And Gareth following was again beknaved.

“Sir Kitchen-knave, I have missed the only way
Where Arthur’s men are set along the wood;
The wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves:
If both be slain, I am rid of thee; but yet,
Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine?
Fight, an thou canst: I have missed the only way.”

So till the dusk that followed evensong
Rode on the two, reviler and reviled;
Then after one long slope was mounted, saw,
Bowl-shaped, through tops of many thousand pines
A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink
To westward⁠—in the deeps whereof a mere,
Round as the red eye of an Eagle-owl,
Under the half-dead sunset glared; and shouts
Ascended, and there brake a servingman
Flying from out of the black wood, and crying,
“They have bound my lord to cast him in the mere.”
Then Gareth, “Bound am I to right the wronged,
But straitlier bound am I to bide with thee.”
And when the damsel spake contemptuously,
“Lead, and I follow,” Gareth cried again,
“Follow, I lead!” so down among the pines
He plunged; and there, blackshadowed nigh the mere,
And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and reed,
Saw six tall men haling a seventh along,
A stone about his neck to drown him in it.
Three with good blows he quieted, but three
Fled through the pines; and Gareth loosed the stone
From off his neck, then in the mere beside
Tumbled it; oilily bubbled