Chapter: Lancelot and Elaine

  Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable,
  Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,
  High in her chamber up a tower to the east
  Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot;
  Which first she placed where the morning's earliest ray
  Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam;
  Then fearing rust or soilure fashioned for it
  A case of silk, and braided thereupon
  All the devices blazoned on the shield
  In their own tinct, and added, of her wit,
  A border fantasy of branch and flower,
  And yellow-throated nestling in the nest.
  Nor rested thus content, but day by day,
  Leaving her household and good father, climbed
  That eastern tower, and entering barred her door,
  Stript off the case, and read the naked shield,
  Now guessed a hidden meaning in his arms,
  Now made a pretty history to herself
  Of every dint a sword had beaten in it,
  And every scratch a lance had made upon it,
  Conjecturing when and where:  this cut is fresh;
  That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle;
  That at Caerleon; this at Camelot:
  And ah God's mercy, what a stroke was there!
  And here a thrust that might have killed, but God
  Broke the strong lance, and rolled his enemy down,
  And saved him:  so she lived in fantasy.

     How came the lily maid by that good shield
  Of Lancelot, she that knew not even his name?
  He left it with her, when he rode to tilt
  For the great diamond in the diamond jousts,
  Which Arthur had ordained, and by that name
  Had named them, since a diamond was the prize.

     For Arthur, long before they crowned him King,
  Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse,
  Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn.
  A horror lived about the tarn, and clave
  Like its own mists to all the mountain side:
  For here two brothers, one a king, had met
  And fought together; but their names were lost;
  And each had slain his brother at a blow;
  And down they fell and made the glen abhorred:
  And there they lay till all their bones were bleached,
  And lichened into colour with the crags:
  And he, that once was king, had on a crown
  Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside.
  And Arthur came, and labouring up the pass,
  All in a misty moonshine, unawares
  Had trodden that crowned skeleton, and the skull
  Brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown
  Rolled into light, and turning on its rims
  Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn:
  And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and caught,
  And set it on his head, and in his heart
  Heard murmurs, 'Lo, thou likewise shalt be King.'

     Thereafter, when a King, he had the gems
  Plucked from the crown, and showed them to his knights,
  Saying, 'These jewels, whereupon I chanced
  Divinely, are the kingdom's, not the King's--
  For public use:  henceforward let there be,
  Once every year, a joust for one of these:
  For so by nine years' proof we needs must learn
  Which is our mightiest, and ourselves shall grow
  In use of arms and manhood, till we drive
  The heathen, who, some say, shall rule the land
  Hereafter, which God hinder.'  Thus he spoke:
  And eight years past, eight jousts had been, and still
  Had Lancelot won the diamond of the year,
  With purpose to present them to the Queen,
  When all were won; but meaning all at once
  To snare her royal fancy with a boon
  Worth half her realm, had never spoken word.

     Now for the central diamond and the last
  And largest, Arthur, holding then his court
  Hard on the river nigh the place which now
  Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust
  At Camelot, and when the time drew nigh
  Spake (for she had been sick) to Guinevere,
  'Are you so sick, my Queen, you cannot move
  To these fair jousts?'  'Yea, lord,' she said, 'ye know it.'
  'Then will ye miss,' he answered, 'the great deeds
  Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists,
  A sight ye love to look on.'  And the Queen
  Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidly
  On Lancelot, where he stood beside the King.
  He thinking that he read her meaning there,
  'Stay with me, I am sick; my love is more
  Than many diamonds,' yielded; and a heart
  Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen
  (However much he yearned to make complete
  The tale of diamonds for his destined boon)
  Urged him to speak against the truth, and say,
  'Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly whole,
  And lets me from the saddle;' and the King
  Glanced first at him, then her, and went his way.
  No sooner gone than suddenly she began:

     'To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, much to blame!
  Why go ye not to these fair jousts? the knights
  Are half of them our enemies, and the crowd
  Will murmur, "Lo the shameless ones, who take
  Their pastime now the trustful King is gone!"'
  Then Lancelot vext at having lied in vain:
  'Are ye so wise? ye were not once so wise,
  My Queen, that summer, when ye loved me first.
  Then of the crowd ye took no more account
  Than of the myriad cricket of the mead,
  When its own voice clings to each blade of grass,
  And every voice is nothing.  As to knights,
  Them surely can I silence with all ease.
  But now my loyal worship is allowed
  Of all men:  many a bard, without offence,
  Has linked our names together in his lay,
  Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guinevere,
  The pearl of beauty:  and our knights at feast
  Have pledged us in this union, while the King
  Would listen smiling.  How then? is there more?
  Has Arthur spoken aught? or would yourself,
  Now weary of my service and devoir,
  Henceforth be truer to your faultless lord?'

     She broke into a little scornful laugh:
  'Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless King,
  That passionate perfection, my good lord--
  But who can gaze upon the Sun in heaven?
  He never spake word of reproach to me,
  He never had a glimpse of mine untruth,
  He cares not for me:  only here today
  There gleamed a vague suspicion in his eyes:
  Some meddling rogue has tampered with him--else
  Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round,
  And swearing men to vows impossible,
  To make them like himself:  but, friend, to me
  He is all fault who hath no fault at all:
  For who loves me must have a touch of earth;
  The low sun makes the colour:  I am yours,
  Not Arthur's, as ye know, save by the bond.
  And therefore hear my words:  go to the jousts:
  The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our dream
  When sweetest; and the vermin voices here
  May buzz so loud--we scorn them, but they sting.'

     Then answered Lancelot, the chief of knights:
  'And with what face, after my pretext made,
  Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I
  Before a King who honours his own word,
  As if it were his God's?'

                           'Yea,' said the Queen,
  'A moral child without the craft to rule,
  Else had he not lost me:  but listen to me,
  If I must find you wit:  we hear it said
  That men go down before your spear at a touch,
  But knowing you are Lancelot; your great name,
  This conquers:  hide it therefore; go unknown:
  Win! by this kiss you will:  and our true King
  Will then allow your pretext, O my knight,
  As all for glory; for to speak him true,
  Ye know right well, how meek soe'er he seem,
  No keener hunter after glory breathes.
  He loves it in his knights more than himself:
  They prove to him his work:  win and return.'

     Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse,
  Wroth at himself.  Not willing to be known,
  He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare,
  Chose the green path that showed the rarer foot,
  And there among the solitary downs,
  Full often lost in fancy, lost his way;
  Till as he traced a faintly-shadowed track,
  That all in loops and links among the dales
  Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw
  Fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers.
  Thither he made, and blew the gateway horn.
  Then came an old, dumb, myriad-wrinkled man,
  Who let him into lodging and disarmed.
  And Lancelot marvelled at the wordless man;
  And issuing found the Lord of Astolat
  With two strong sons, Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine,
  Moving to meet him in the castle court;
  And close behind them stept the lily maid
  Elaine, his daughter:  mother of the house
  There was not:  some light jest among them rose
  With laughter dying down as the great knight
  Approached them:  then the Lord of Astolat:
  'Whence comes thou, my guest, and by what name
  Livest thou between the lips? for by thy state
  And presence I might guess thee chief of those,
  After the King, who eat in Arthur's halls.
  Him have I seen:  the rest, his Table Round,
  Known as they are, to me they are unknown.'

     Then answered Sir Lancelot, the chief of knights:
  'Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, and known,
  What I by mere mischance have brought, my shield.
  But since I go to joust as one unknown
  At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not,
  Hereafter ye shall know me--and the shield--
  I pray you lend me one, if such you have,
  Blank, or at least with some device not mine.'

     Then said the Lord of Astolat, 'Here is Torre's:
  Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir Torre.
  And so, God wot, his shield is blank enough.
  His ye can have.'  Then added plain Sir Torre,
  'Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may have it.'
  Here laughed the father saying, 'Fie, Sir Churl,
  Is that answer for a noble knight?
  Allow him! but Lavaine, my younger here,
  He is so full of lustihood, he will ride,
  Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an hour,
  And set it in this damsel's golden hair,
  To make her thrice as wilful as before.'

     'Nay, father, nay good father, shame me not
  Before this noble knight,' said young Lavaine,
  'For nothing.  Surely I but played on Torre:
  He seemed so sullen, vext he could not go:
  A jest, no more! for, knight, the maiden dreamt
  That some one put this diamond in her hand,
  And that it was too slippery to be held,
  And slipt and fell into some pool or stream,
  The castle-well, belike; and then I said
  That if I went and if I fought and won it
  (But all was jest and joke among ourselves)
  Then must she keep it safelier.  All was jest.
  But, father, give me leave, an if he will,
  To ride to Camelot with this noble knight:
  Win shall I not, but do my best to win:
  Young as I am, yet would I do my best.'

     'So will ye grace me,' answered Lancelot,
  Smiling a moment, 'with your fellowship
  O'er these waste downs whereon I lost myself,
  Then were I glad of you as guide and friend:
  And you shall win this diamond,--as I hear
  It is a fair large diamond,--if ye may,
  And yield it to this maiden, if ye will.'
  'A fair large diamond,' added plain Sir Torre,
  'Such be for queens, and not for simple maids.'
  Then she, who held her eyes upon the ground,
  Elaine, and heard her name so tost about,
  Flushed slightly at the slight disparagement
  Before the stranger knight, who, looking at her,
  Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus returned:
  'If what is fair be but for what is fair,
  And only queens are to be counted so,
  Rash were my judgment then, who deem this maid
  Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth,
  Not violating the bond of like to like.'

     He spoke and ceased:  the lily maid Elaine,
  Won by the mellow voice before she looked,
  Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments.
  The great and guilty love he bare the Queen,
  In battle with the love he bare his lord,
  Had marred his face, and marked it ere his time.
  Another sinning on such heights with one,
  The flower of all the west and all the world,
  Had been the sleeker for it:  but in him
  His mood was often like a fiend, and rose
  And drove him into wastes and solitudes
  For agony, who was yet a living soul.
  Marred as he was, he seemed the goodliest man
  That ever among ladies ate in hall,
  And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes.
  However marred, of more than twice her years,
  Seamed with an ancient swordcut on the cheek,
  And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes
  And loved him, with that love which was her doom.

     Then the great knight, the darling of the court,
  Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall
  Stept with all grace, and not with half disdain
  Hid under grace, as in a smaller time,
  But kindly man moving among his kind:
  Whom they with meats and vintage of their best
  And talk and minstrel melody entertained.
  And much they asked of court and Table Round,
  And ever well and readily answered he:
  But Lancelot, when they glanced at Guinevere,
  Suddenly speaking of the wordless man,
  Heard from the Baron that, ten years before,
  The heathen caught and reft him of his tongue.
  'He learnt and warned me of their fierce design
  Against my house, and him they caught and maimed;
  But I, my sons, and little daughter fled
  From bonds or death, and dwelt among the woods
  By the great river in a boatman's hut.
  Dull days were those, till our good Arthur broke
  The Pagan yet once more on Badon hill.'

     'O there, great lord, doubtless,' Lavaine said, rapt
  By all the sweet and sudden passion of youth
  Toward greatness in its elder, 'you have fought.
  O tell us--for we live apart--you know
  Of Arthur's glorious wars.'  And Lancelot spoke
  And answered him at full, as having been
  With Arthur in the fight which all day long
  Rang by the white mouth of the violent Glem;
  And in the four loud battles by the shore
  Of Duglas; that on Bassa; then the war
  That thundered in and out the gloomy skirts
  Of Celidon the forest; and again
  By castle Gurnion, where the glorious King
  Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's Head,
  Carved of one emerald centered in a sun
  Of silver rays, that lightened as he breathed;
  And at Caerleon had he helped his lord,
  When the strong neighings of the wild white Horse
  Set every gilded parapet shuddering;
  And up in Agned-Cathregonion too,
  And down the waste sand-shores of Trath Treroit,
  Where many a heathen fell; 'and on the mount
  Of Badon I myself beheld the King
  Charge at the head of all his Table Round,
  And all his legions crying Christ and him,
  And break them; and I saw him, after, stand
  High on a heap of slain, from spur to plume
  Red as the rising sun with heathen blood,
  And seeing me, with a great voice he cried,
  "They are broken, they are broken!" for the King,
  However mild he seems at home, nor cares
  For triumph in our mimic wars, the jousts--
  For if his own knight cast him down, he laughs
  Saying, his knights are better men than he--
  Yet in this heathen war the fire of God
  Fills him:  I never saw his like:  there lives
  No greater leader.'

                     While he uttered this,
  Low to her own heart said the lily maid,
  'Save your own great self, fair lord;' and when he fell
  From talk of war to traits of pleasantry--
  Being mirthful he, but in a stately kind--
  She still took note that when the living smile
  Died from his lips, across him came a cloud
  Of melancholy severe, from which again,
  Whenever in her hovering to and fro
  The lily maid had striven to make him cheer,
  There brake a sudden-beaming tenderness
  Of manners and of nature:  and she thought
  That all was nature, all, perchance, for her.
  And all night long his face before her lived,
  As when a painter, poring on a face,
  Divinely through all hindrance finds the man
  Behind it, and so paints him that his face,
  The shape and colour of a mind and life,
  Lives for his children, ever at its best
  And fullest; so the face before her lived,
  Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full
  Of noble things, and held her from her sleep.
  Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the thought
  She needs must bid farewell to sweet Lavaine.
  First in fear, step after step, she stole
  Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating:
  Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the court,
  'This shield, my friend, where is it?' and Lavaine
  Past inward, as she came from out the tower.
  There to his proud horse Lancelot turned, and smoothed
  The glossy shoulder, humming to himself.
  Half-envious of the flattering hand, she drew
  Nearer and stood.  He looked, and more amazed
  Than if seven men had set upon him, saw
  The maiden standing in the dewy light.
  He had not dreamed she was so beautiful.
  Then came on him a sort of sacred fear,
  For silent, though he greeted her, she stood
  Rapt on his face as if it were a God's.
  Suddenly flashed on her a wild desire,
  That he should wear her favour at the tilt.
  She braved a riotous heart in asking for it.
  'Fair lord, whose name I know not--noble it is,
  I well believe, the noblest--will you wear
  My favour at this tourney?'  'Nay,' said he,
  'Fair lady, since I never yet have worn
  Favour of any lady in the lists.
  Such is my wont, as those, who know me, know.'
  'Yea, so,' she answered; 'then in wearing mine
  Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord,
  That those who know should know you.'  And he turned
  Her counsel up and down within his mind,
  And found it true, and answered, 'True, my child.
  Well, I will wear it:  fetch it out to me:
  What is it?' and she told him 'A red sleeve
  Broidered with pearls,' and brought it:  then he bound
  Her token on his helmet, with a smile
  Saying, 'I never yet have done so much
  For any maiden living,' and the blood
  Sprang to her face and filled her with delight;
  But left her all the paler, when Lavaine
  Returning brought the yet-unblazoned shield,
  His brother's; which he gave to Lancelot,
  Who parted with his own to fair Elaine:
  'Do me this grace, my child, to have my shield
  In keeping till I come.'  'A grace to me,'
  She answered, 'twice today.  I am your squire!'
  Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, 'Lily maid,
  For fear our people call you lily maid
  In earnest, let me bring your colour back;
  Once, twice, and thrice:  now get you hence to bed:'
  So kissed her, and Sir Lancelot his own hand,
  And thus they moved away:  she stayed a minute,
  Then made a sudden step to the gate, and there--
  Her bright hair blown about the serious face
  Yet rosy-kindled with her brother's kiss--
  Paused by the gateway, standing near the shield
  In silence, while she watched their arms far-off
  Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs.
  Then to her tower she climbed, and took the shield,
  There kept it, and so lived in fantasy.

     Meanwhile the new companions past away
  Far o'er the long backs of the bushless downs,
  To where Sir Lancelot knew there lived a knight
  Not far from Camelot, now for forty years
  A hermit, who had prayed, laboured and prayed,
  And ever labouring had scooped himself
  In the white rock a chapel and a hall
  On massive columns, like a shorecliff cave,
  And cells and chambers:  all were fair and dry;
  The green light from the meadows underneath
  Struck up and lived along the milky roofs;
  And in the meadows tremulous aspen-trees
  And poplars made a noise of falling showers.
  And thither wending there that night they bode.

     But when the next day broke from underground,
  And shot red fire and shadows through the cave,
  They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode away:
  Then Lancelot saying, 'Hear, but hold my name
  Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the Lake,'
  Abashed young Lavaine, whose instant reverence,
  Dearer to true young hearts than their own praise,
  But left him leave to stammer, 'Is it indeed?'
  And after muttering 'The great Lancelot,
  At last he got his breath and answered, 'One,
  One have I seen--that other, our liege lord,
  The dread Pendragon, Britain's King of kings,
  Of whom the people talk mysteriously,
  He will be there--then were I stricken blind
  That minute, I might say that I had seen.'

     So spake Lavaine, and when they reached the lists
  By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes
  Run through the peopled gallery which half round
  Lay like a rainbow fallen upon the grass,
  Until they found the clear-faced King, who sat
  Robed in red samite, easily to be known,
  Since to his crown the golden dragon clung,
  And down his robe the dragon writhed in gold,
  And from the carven-work behind him crept
  Two dragons gilded, sloping down to make
  Arms for his chair, while all the rest of them
  Through knots and loops and folds innumerable
  Fled ever through the woodwork, till they found
  The new design wherein they lost themselves,
  Yet with all ease, so tender was the work:
  And, in the costly canopy o'er him set,
  Blazed the last diamond of the nameless king.

     Then Lancelot answered young Lavaine and said,
  'Me you call great:  mine is the firmer seat,
  The truer lance:  but there is many a youth
  Now crescent, who will come to all I am
  And overcome it; and in me there dwells
  No greatness, save it be some far-off touch
  Of greatness to know well I am not great:
  There is the man.'  And Lavaine gaped upon him
  As on a thing miraculous, and anon
  The trumpets blew; and then did either side,
  They that assailed, and they that held the lists,
  Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move,
  Meet in the midst, and there so furiously
  Shock, that a man far-off might well perceive,
  If any man that day were left afield,
  The hard earth shake, and a low thunder of arms.
  And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw
  Which were the weaker; then he hurled into it
  Against the stronger:  little need to speak
  Of Lancelot in his glory!  King, duke, earl,
  Count, baron--whom he smote, he overthrew.

     But in the field were Lancelot's kith and kin,
  Ranged with the Table Round that held the lists,
  Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger knight
  Should do and almost overdo the deeds
  Of Lancelot; and one said to the other, 'Lo!
  What is he?  I do not mean the force alone--
  The grace and versatility of the man!
  Is it not Lancelot?'  'When has Lancelot worn
  Favour of any lady in the lists?
  Not such his wont, as we, that know him, know.'
  'How then? who then?' a fury seized them all,
  A fiery family passion for the name
  Of Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs.
  They couched their spears and pricked their steeds, and thus,
  Their plumes driven backward by the wind they made
  In moving, all together down upon him
  Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North-sea,
  Green-glimmering toward the summit, bears, with all
  Its stormy crests that smoke against the skies,
  Down on a bark, and overbears the bark,
  And him that helms it, so they overbore
  Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear
  Down-glancing lamed the charger, and a spear
  Pricked sharply his own cuirass, and the head
  Pierced through his side, and there snapt, and remained.

     Then Sir Lavaine did well and worshipfully;
  He bore a knight of old repute to the earth,
  And brought his horse to Lancelot where he lay.
  He up the side, sweating with agony, got,
  But thought to do while he might yet endure,
  And being lustily holpen by the rest,
  His party,--though it seemed half-miracle
  To those he fought with,--drave his kith and kin,
  And all the Table Round that held the lists,
  Back to the barrier; then the trumpets blew
  Proclaiming his the prize, who wore the sleeve
  Of scarlet, and the pearls; and all the knights,
  His party, cried 'Advance and take thy prize
  The diamond;' but he answered, 'Diamond me
  No diamonds! for God's love, a little air!
  Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death!
  Hence will I, and I charge you, follow me not.'

     He spoke, and vanished suddenly from the field
  With young Lavaine into the poplar grove.
  There from his charger down he slid, and sat,
  Gasping to Sir Lavaine, 'Draw the lance-head:'
  'Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot,' said Lavaine,
  'I dread me, if I draw it, you will die.'
  But he, 'I die already with it:  draw--
  Draw,'--and Lavaine drew, and Sir Lancelot gave
  A marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan,
  And half his blood burst forth, and down he sank
  For the pure pain, and wholly swooned away.
  Then came the hermit out and bare him in,
  There stanched his wound; and there, in daily doubt
  Whether to live or die, for many a week
  Hid from the wide world's rumour by the grove
  Of poplars with their noise of falling showers,
  And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay.

     But on that day when Lancelot fled the lists,
  His party, knights of utmost North and West,
  Lords of waste marches, kings of desolate isles,
  Came round their great Pendragon, saying to him,
  'Lo, Sire, our knight, through whom we won the day,
  Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his prize
  Untaken, crying that his prize is death.'
  'Heaven hinder,' said the King, 'that such an one,
  So great a knight as we have seen today--
  He seemed to me another Lancelot--
  Yea, twenty times I thought him Lancelot--
  He must not pass uncared for.  Wherefore, rise,
  O Gawain, and ride forth and find the knight.
  Wounded and wearied needs must he be near.
  I charge you that you get at once to horse.
  And, knights and kings, there breathes not one of you
  Will deem this prize of ours is rashly given:
  His prowess was too wondrous.  We will do him
  No customary honour:  since the knight
  Came not to us, of us to claim the prize,
  Ourselves will send it after.  Rise and take
  This diamond, and deliver it, and return,
  And bring us where he is, and how he fares,
  And cease not from your quest until ye find.'

     So saying, from the carven flower above,
  To which it made a restless heart, he took,
  And gave, the diamond:  then from where he sat
  At Arthur's right, with smiling face arose,
  With smiling face and frowning heart, a Prince
  In the mid might and flourish of his May,
  Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair and strong,
  And after Lancelot, Tristram, and Geraint
  And Gareth, a good knight, but therewithal
  Sir Modred's brother, and the child of Lot,
  Nor often loyal to his word, and now
  Wroth that the King's command to sally forth
  In quest of whom he knew not, made him leave
  The banquet, and concourse of knights and kings.

     So all in wrath he got to horse and went;
  While Arthur to the banquet, dark in mood,
  Past, thinking 'Is it Lancelot who hath come
  Despite the wound he spake of, all for gain
  Of glory, and hath added wound to wound,
  And ridden away to die?'  So feared the King,
  And, after two days' tarriance there, returned.
  Then when he saw the Queen, embracing asked,
  'Love, are you yet so sick?'  'Nay, lord,' she said.
  'And where is Lancelot?'  Then the Queen amazed,
  'Was he not with you? won he not your prize?'
  'Nay, but one like him.'  'Why that like was he.'
  And when the King demanded how she knew,
  Said, 'Lord, no sooner had ye parted from us,
  Than Lancelot told me of a common talk
  That men went down before his spear at a touch,
  But knowing he was Lancelot; his great name
  Conquered; and therefore would he hide his name
  From all men, even the King, and to this end
  Had made a pretext of a hindering wound,
  That he might joust unknown of all, and learn
  If his old prowess were in aught decayed;
  And added, "Our true Arthur, when he learns,
  Will well allow me pretext, as for gain
  Of purer glory."'

                   Then replied the King:
  'Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been,
  In lieu of idly dallying with the truth,
  To have trusted me as he hath trusted thee.
  Surely his King and most familiar friend
  Might well have kept his secret.  True, indeed,
  Albeit I know my knights fantastical,
  So fine a fear in our large Lancelot
  Must needs have moved my laughter:  now remains
  But little cause for laughter:  his own kin--
  Ill news, my Queen, for all who love him, this!--
  His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him;
  So that he went sore wounded from the field:
  Yet good news too:  for goodly hopes are mine
  That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart.
  He wore, against his wont, upon his helm
  A sleeve of scarlet, broidered with great pearls,
  Some gentle maiden's gift.'

                             'Yea, lord,' she said,
  'Thy hopes are mine,' and saying that, she choked,
  And sharply turned about to hide her face,
  Past to her chamber, and there flung herself
  Down on the great King's couch, and writhed upon it,
  And clenched her fingers till they bit the palm,
  And shrieked out 'Traitor' to the unhearing wall,
  Then flashed into wild tears, and rose again,
  And moved about her palace, proud and pale.

     Gawain the while through all the region round
  Rode with his diamond, wearied of the quest,
  Touched at all points, except the poplar grove,
  And came at last, though late, to Astolat:
  Whom glittering in enamelled arms the maid
  Glanced at, and cried, 'What news from Camelot, lord?
  What of the knight with the red sleeve?'  'He won.'
  'I knew it,' she said.  'But parted from the jousts
  Hurt in the side,' whereat she caught her breath;
  Through her own side she felt the sharp lance go;
  Thereon she smote her hand:  wellnigh she swooned:
  And, while he gazed wonderingly at her, came
  The Lord of Astolat out, to whom the Prince
  Reported who he was, and on what quest
  Sent, that he bore the prize and could not find
  The victor, but had ridden a random round
  To seek him, and had wearied of the search.
  To whom the Lord of Astolat, 'Bide with us,
  And ride no more at random, noble Prince!
  Here was the knight, and here he left a shield;
  This will he send or come for:  furthermore
  Our son is with him; we shall hear anon,
  Needs must hear.'  To this the courteous Prince
  Accorded with his wonted courtesy,
  Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it,
  And stayed; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine:
  Where could be found face daintier? then her shape
  From forehead down to foot, perfect--again
  From foot to forehead exquisitely turned:
  'Well--if I bide, lo! this wild flower for me!'
  And oft they met among the garden yews,
  And there he set himself to play upon her
  With sallying wit, free flashes from a height
  Above her, graces of the court, and songs,
  Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden eloquence
  And amorous adulation, till the maid
  Rebelled against it, saying to him, 'Prince,
  O loyal nephew of our noble King,
  Why ask you not to see the shield he left,
  Whence you might learn his name?  Why slight your King,
  And lose the quest he sent you on, and prove
  No surer than our falcon yesterday,
  Who lost the hern we slipt her at, and went
  To all the winds?'  'Nay, by mine head,' said he,
  'I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven,
  O damsel, in the light of your blue eyes;
  But an ye will it let me see the shield.'
  And when the shield was brought, and Gawain saw
  Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crowned with gold,
  Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, and mocked:
  'Right was the King! our Lancelot! that true man!'
  'And right was I,' she answered merrily, 'I,
  Who dreamed my knight the greatest knight of all.'
  'And if I dreamed,' said Gawain, 'that you love
  This greatest knight, your pardon! lo, ye know it!
  Speak therefore:  shall I waste myself in vain?'
  Full simple was her answer, 'What know I?
  My brethren have been all my fellowship;
  And I, when often they have talked of love,
  Wished it had been my mother, for they talked,
  Meseemed, of what they knew not; so myself--
  I know not if I know what true love is,
  But if I know, then, if I love not him,
  I know there is none other I can love.'
  'Yea, by God's death,' said he, 'ye love him well,
  But would not, knew ye what all others know,
  And whom he loves.'  'So be it,' cried Elaine,
  And lifted her fair face and moved away:
  But he pursued her, calling, 'Stay a little!
  One golden minute's grace! he wore your sleeve:
  Would he break faith with one I may not name?
  Must our true man change like a leaf at last?
  Nay--like enow:  why then, far be it from me
  To cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves!
  And, damsel, for I deem you know full well
  Where your great knight is hidden, let me leave
  My quest with you; the diamond also:  here!
  For if you love, it will be sweet to give it;
  And if he love, it will be sweet to have it
  From your own hand; and whether he love or not,
  A diamond is a diamond.  Fare you well
  A thousand times!--a thousand times farewell!
  Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we two
  May meet at court hereafter:  there, I think,
  So ye will learn the courtesies of the court,
  We two shall know each other.'

                                Then he gave,
  And slightly kissed the hand to which he gave,
  The diamond, and all wearied of the quest
  Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he went
  A true-love ballad, lightly rode away.

     Thence to the court he past; there told the King
  What the King knew, 'Sir Lancelot is the knight.'
  And added, 'Sire, my liege, so much I learnt;
  But failed to find him, though I rode all round
  The region:  but I lighted on the maid
  Whose sleeve he wore; she loves him; and to her,
  Deeming our courtesy is the truest law,
  I gave the diamond:  she will render it;
  For by mine head she knows his hiding-place.'

     The seldom-frowning King frowned, and replied,
  'Too courteous truly! ye shall go no more
  On quest of mine, seeing that ye forget
  Obedience is the courtesy due to kings.'

     He spake and parted.  Wroth, but all in awe,
  For twenty strokes of the blood, without a word,
  Lingered that other, staring after him;
  Then shook his hair, strode off, and buzzed abroad
  About the maid of Astolat, and her love.
  All ears were pricked at once, all tongues were loosed:
  'The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lancelot,
  Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Astolat.'
  Some read the King's face, some the Queen's, and all
  Had marvel what the maid might be, but most
  Predoomed her as unworthy.  One old dame
  Came suddenly on the Queen with the sharp news.
  She, that had heard the noise of it before,
  But sorrowing Lancelot should have stooped so low,
  Marred her friend's aim with pale tranquillity.
  So ran the tale like fire about the court,
  Fire in dry stubble a nine-days' wonder flared:
  Till even the knights at banquet twice or thrice
  Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen,
  And pledging Lancelot and the lily maid
  Smiled at each other, while the Queen, who sat
  With lips severely placid, felt the knot
  Climb in her throat, and with her feet unseen
  Crushed the wild passion out against the floor
  Beneath the banquet, where all the meats became
  As wormwood, and she hated all who pledged.

     But far away the maid in Astolat,
  Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept
  The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her heart,
  Crept to her father, while he mused alone,
  Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face and said,
  'Father, you call me wilful, and the fault
  Is yours who let me have my will, and now,
  Sweet father, will you let me lose my wits?'
  'Nay,' said he, 'surely.'  'Wherefore, let me hence,'
  She answered, 'and find out our dear Lavaine.'
  'Ye will not lose your wits for dear Lavaine:
  Bide,' answered he:  'we needs must hear anon
  Of him, and of that other.'  'Ay,' she said,
  'And of that other, for I needs must hence
  And find that other, wheresoe'er he be,
  And with mine own hand give his diamond to him,
  Lest I be found as faithless in the quest
  As yon proud Prince who left the quest to me.
  Sweet father, I behold him in my dreams
  Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself,
  Death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden's aid.
  The gentler-born the maiden, the more bound,
  My father, to be sweet and serviceable
  To noble knights in sickness, as ye know
  When these have worn their tokens:  let me hence
  I pray you.'  Then her father nodding said,
  'Ay, ay, the diamond:  wit ye well, my child,
  Right fain were I to learn this knight were whole,
  Being our greatest:  yea, and you must give it--
  And sure I think this fruit is hung too high
  For any mouth to gape for save a queen's--
  Nay, I mean nothing:  so then, get you gone,
  Being so very wilful you must go.'

     Lightly, her suit allowed, she slipt away,
  And while she made her ready for her ride,
  Her father's latest word hummed in her ear,
  'Being so very wilful you must go,'
  And changed itself and echoed in her heart,
  'Being so very wilful you must die.'
  But she was happy enough and shook it off,
  As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us;
  And in her heart she answered it and said,
  'What matter, so I help him back to life?'
  Then far away with good Sir Torre for guide
  Rode o'er the long backs of the bushless downs
  To Camelot, and before the city-gates
  Came on her brother with a happy face
  Making a roan horse caper and curvet
  For pleasure all about a field of flowers:
  Whom when she saw, 'Lavaine,' she cried, 'Lavaine,
  How fares my lord Sir Lancelot?'  He amazed,
  'Torre and Elaine! why here? Sir Lancelot!
  How know ye my lord's name is Lancelot?'
  But when the maid had told him all her tale,
  Then turned Sir Torre, and being in his moods
  Left them, and under the strange-statued gate,
  Where Arthur's wars were rendered mystically,
  Past up the still rich city to his kin,
  His own far blood, which dwelt at Camelot;
  And her, Lavaine across the poplar grove
  Led to the caves:  there first she saw the casque
  Of Lancelot on the wall:  her scarlet sleeve,
  Though carved and cut, and half the pearls away,
  Streamed from it still; and in her heart she laughed,
  Because he had not loosed it from his helm,
  But meant once more perchance to tourney in it.
  And when they gained the cell wherein he slept,
  His battle-writhen arms and mighty hands
  Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a dream
  Of dragging down his enemy made them move.
  Then she that saw him lying unsleek, unshorn,
  Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself,
  Uttered a little tender dolorous cry.
  The sound not wonted in a place so still
  Woke the sick knight, and while he rolled his eyes
  Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying,
  'Your prize the diamond sent you by the King:'
  His eyes glistened:  she fancied 'Is it for me?'
  And when the maid had told him all the tale
  Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, the quest
  Assigned to her not worthy of it, she knelt
  Full lowly by the corners of his bed,
  And laid the diamond in his open hand.
  Her face was near, and as we kiss the child
  That does the task assigned, he kissed her face.
  At once she slipt like water to the floor.
  'Alas,' he said, 'your ride hath wearied you.
  Rest must you have.'  'No rest for me,' she said;
  'Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest.'
  What might she mean by that? his large black eyes,
  Yet larger through his leanness, dwelt upon her,
  Till all her heart's sad secret blazed itself
  In the heart's colours on her simple face;
  And Lancelot looked and was perplext in mind,
  And being weak in body said no more;
  But did not love the colour; woman's love,
  Save one, he not regarded, and so turned
  Sighing, and feigned a sleep until he slept.

     Then rose Elaine and glided through the fields,
  And past beneath the weirdly-sculptured gates
  Far up the dim rich city to her kin;
  There bode the night:  but woke with dawn, and past
  Down through the dim rich city to the fields,
  Thence to the cave:  so day by day she past
  In either twilight ghost-like to and fro
  Gliding, and every day she tended him,
  And likewise many a night:  and Lancelot
  Would, though he called his wound a little hurt
  Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times
  Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem
  Uncourteous, even he:  but the meek maid
  Sweetly forbore him ever, being to him
  Meeker than any child to a rough nurse,
  Milder than any mother to a sick child,
  And never woman yet, since man's first fall,
  Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love
  Upbore her; till the hermit, skilled in all
  The simples and the science of that time,
  Told him that her fine care had saved his life.
  And the sick man forgot her simple blush,
  Would call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine,
  Would listen for her coming and regret
  Her parting step, and held her tenderly,
  And loved her with all love except the love
  Of man and woman when they love their best,
  Closest and sweetest, and had died the death
  In any knightly fashion for her sake.
  And peradventure had he seen her first
  She might have made this and that other world
  Another world for the sick man; but now
  The shackles of an old love straitened him,
  His honour rooted in dishonour stood,
  And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.

     Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness made
  Full many a holy vow and pure resolve.
  These, as but born of sickness, could not live:
  For when the blood ran lustier in him again,
  Full often the bright image of one face,
  Making a treacherous quiet in his heart,
  Dispersed his resolution like a cloud.
  Then if the maiden, while that ghostly grace
  Beamed on his fancy, spoke, he answered not,
  Or short and coldly, and she knew right well
  What the rough sickness meant, but what this meant
  She knew not, and the sorrow dimmed her sight,
  And drave her ere her time across the fields
  Far into the rich city, where alone
  She murmured, 'Vain, in vain:  it cannot be.
  He will not love me:  how then? must I die?'
  Then as a little helpless innocent bird,
  That has but one plain passage of few notes,
  Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er
  For all an April morning, till the ear
  Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid
  Went half the night repeating, 'Must I die?'
  And now to right she turned, and now to left,
  And found no ease in turning or in rest;
  And 'Him or death,' she muttered, 'death or him,'
  Again and like a burthen, 'Him or death.'

     But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was whole,
  To Astolat returning rode the three.
  There morn by morn, arraying her sweet self
  In that wherein she deemed she looked her best,
  She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought
  'If I be loved, these are my festal robes,
  If not, the victim's flowers before he fall.'
  And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid
  That she should ask some goodly gift of him
  For her own self or hers; 'and do not shun
  To speak the wish most near to your true heart;
  Such service have ye done me, that I make
  My will of yours, and Prince and Lord am I
  In mine own land, and what I will I can.'
  Then like a ghost she lifted up her face,
  But like a ghost without the power to speak.
  And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish,
  And bode among them yet a little space
  Till he should learn it; and one morn it chanced
  He found her in among the garden yews,
  And said, 'Delay no longer, speak your wish,
  Seeing I go today:' then out she brake:
  'Going? and we shall never see you more.
  And I must die for want of one bold word.'
  'Speak:  that I live to hear,' he said, 'is yours.'
  Then suddenly and passionately she spoke:
  'I have gone mad.  I love you:  let me die.'
  'Ah, sister,' answered Lancelot, 'what is this?'
  And innocently extending her white arms,
  'Your love,' she said, 'your love--to be your wife.'
  And Lancelot answered, 'Had I chosen to wed,
  I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine:
  But now there never will be wife of mine.'
  'No, no,' she cried, 'I care not to be wife,
  But to be with you still, to see your face,
  To serve you, and to follow you through the world.'
  And Lancelot answered, 'Nay, the world, the world,
  All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart
  To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue
  To blare its own interpretation--nay,
  Full ill then should I quit your brother's love,
  And your good father's kindness.'  And she said,
  'Not to be with you, not to see your face--
  Alas for me then, my good days are done.'
  'Nay, noble maid,' he answered, 'ten times nay!
  This is not love:  but love's first flash in youth,
  Most common:  yea, I know it of mine own self:
  And you yourself will smile at your own self
  Hereafter, when you yield your flower of life
  To one more fitly yours, not thrice your age:
  And then will I, for true you are and sweet
  Beyond mine old belief in womanhood,
  More specially should your good knight be poor,
  Endow you with broad land and territory
  Even to the half my realm beyond the seas,
  So that would make you happy:  furthermore,
  Even to the death, as though ye were my blood,
  In all your quarrels will I be your knight.
  This I will do, dear damsel, for your sake,
  And more than this I cannot.'

                               While he spoke
  She neither blushed nor shook, but deathly-pale
  Stood grasping what was nearest, then replied:
  'Of all this will I nothing;' and so fell,
  And thus they bore her swooning to her tower.

     Then spake, to whom through those black walls of yew
  Their talk had pierced, her father:  'Ay, a flash,
  I fear me, that will strike my blossom dead.
  Too courteous are ye, fair Lord Lancelot.
  I pray you, use some rough discourtesy
  To blunt or break her passion.'

                                 Lancelot said,
  'That were against me:  what I can I will;'
  And there that day remained, and toward even
  Sent for his shield:  full meekly rose the maid,
  Stript off the case, and gave the naked shield;
  Then, when she heard his horse upon the stones,
  Unclasping flung the casement back, and looked
  Down on his helm, from which her sleeve had gone.
  And Lancelot knew the little clinking sound;
  And she by tact of love was well aware
  That Lancelot knew that she was looking at him.
  And yet he glanced not up, nor waved his hand,
  Nor bad farewell, but sadly rode away.
  This was the one discourtesy that he used.

     So in her tower alone the maiden sat:
  His very shield was gone; only the case,
  Her own poor work, her empty labour, left.
  But still she heard him, still his picture formed
  And grew between her and the pictured wall.
  Then came her father, saying in low tones,
  'Have comfort,' whom she greeted quietly.
  Then came her brethren saying, 'Peace to thee,
  Sweet sister,' whom she answered with all calm.
  But when they left her to herself again,
  Death, like a friend's voice from a distant field
  Approaching through the darkness, called; the owls
  Wailing had power upon her, and she mixt
  Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms
  Of evening, and the moanings of the wind.

     And in those days she made a little song,
  And called her song 'The Song of Love and Death,'
  And sang it:  sweetly could she make and sing.

     'Sweet is true love though given in vain, in vain;
  And sweet is death who puts an end to pain:
  I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

     'Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be:
  Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me.
  O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die.

     'Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away,
  Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay,
  I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

     'I fain would follow love, if that could be;
  I needs must follow death, who calls for me;
  Call and I follow, I follow! let me die.'

     High with the last line scaled her voice, and this,
  All in a fiery dawning wild with wind
  That shook her tower, the brothers heard, and thought
  With shuddering, 'Hark the Phantom of the house
  That ever shrieks before a death,' and called
  The father, and all three in hurry and fear
  Ran to her, and lo! the blood-red light of dawn
  Flared on her face, she shrilling, 'Let me die!'

     As when we dwell upon a word we know,
  Repeating, till the word we know so well
  Becomes a wonder, and we know not why,
  So dwelt the father on her face, and thought
  'Is this Elaine?' till back the maiden fell,
  Then gave a languid hand to each, and lay,
  Speaking a still good-morrow with her eyes.
  At last she said, 'Sweet brothers, yesternight
  I seemed a curious little maid again,
  As happy as when we dwelt among the woods,
  And when ye used to take me with the flood
  Up the great river in the boatman's boat.
  Only ye would not pass beyond the cape
  That has the poplar on it:  there ye fixt
  Your limit, oft returning with the tide.
  And yet I cried because ye would not pass
  Beyond it, and far up the shining flood
  Until we found the palace of the King.
  And yet ye would not; but this night I dreamed
  That I was all alone upon the flood,
  And then I said, "Now shall I have my will:"
  And there I woke, but still the wish remained.
  So let me hence that I may pass at last
  Beyond the poplar and far up the flood,
  Until I find the palace of the King.
  There will I enter in among them all,
  And no man there will dare to mock at me;
  But there the fine Gawain will wonder at me,
  And there the great Sir Lancelot muse at me;
  Gawain, who bad a thousand farewells to me,
  Lancelot, who coldly went, nor bad me one:
  And there the King will know me and my love,
  And there the Queen herself will pity me,
  And all the gentle court will welcome me,
  And after my long voyage I shall rest!'

     'Peace,' said her father, 'O my child, ye seem
  Light-headed, for what force is yours to go
  So far, being sick? and wherefore would ye look
  On this proud fellow again, who scorns us all?'

     Then the rough Torre began to heave and move,
  And bluster into stormy sobs and say,
  'I never loved him:  an I meet with him,
  I care not howsoever great he be,
  Then will I strike at him and strike him down,
  Give me good fortune, I will strike him dead,
  For this discomfort he hath done the house.'

     To whom the gentle sister made reply,
  'Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor be wroth,
  Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's fault
  Not to love me, than it is mine to love
  Him of all men who seems to me the highest.'

     'Highest?' the father answered, echoing 'highest?'
  (He meant to break the passion in her) 'nay,
  Daughter, I know not what you call the highest;
  But this I know, for all the people know it,
  He loves the Queen, and in an open shame:
  And she returns his love in open shame;
  If this be high, what is it to be low?'

     Then spake the lily maid of Astolat:
  'Sweet father, all too faint and sick am I
  For anger:  these are slanders:  never yet
  Was noble man but made ignoble talk.
  He makes no friend who never made a foe.
  But now it is my glory to have loved
  One peerless, without stain:  so let me pass,
  My father, howsoe'er I seem to you,
  Not all unhappy, having loved God's best
  And greatest, though my love had no return:
  Yet, seeing you desire your child to live,
  Thanks, but you work against your own desire;
  For if I could believe the things you say
  I should but die the sooner; wherefore cease,
  Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly man
  Hither, and let me shrive me clean, and die.'

     So when the ghostly man had come and gone,
  She with a face, bright as for sin forgiven,
  Besought Lavaine to write as she devised
  A letter, word for word; and when he asked
  'Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear lord?
  Then will I bear it gladly;' she replied,
  'For Lancelot and the Queen and all the world,
  But I myself must bear it.'  Then he wrote
  The letter she devised; which being writ
  And folded, 'O sweet father, tender and true,
  Deny me not,' she said--'ye never yet
  Denied my fancies--this, however strange,
  My latest:  lay the letter in my hand
  A little ere I die, and close the hand
  Upon it; I shall guard it even in death.
  And when the heat is gone from out my heart,
  Then take the little bed on which I died
  For Lancelot's love, and deck it like the Queen's
  For richness, and me also like the Queen
  In all I have of rich, and lay me on it.
  And let there be prepared a chariot-bier
  To take me to the river, and a barge
  Be ready on the river, clothed in black.
  I go in state to court, to meet the Queen.
  There surely I shall speak for mine own self,
  And none of you can speak for me so well.
  And therefore let our dumb old man alone
  Go with me, he can steer and row, and he
  Will guide me to that palace, to the doors.'

     She ceased:  her father promised; whereupon
  She grew so cheerful that they deemed her death
  Was rather in the fantasy than the blood.
  But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh
  Her father laid the letter in her hand,
  And closed the hand upon it, and she died.
  So that day there was dole in Astolat.

     But when the next sun brake from underground,
  Then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows
  Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier
  Past like a shadow through the field, that shone
  Full-summer, to that stream whereon the barge,
  Palled all its length in blackest samite, lay.
  There sat the lifelong creature of the house,
  Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck,
  Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face.
  So those two brethren from the chariot took
  And on the black decks laid her in her bed,
  Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung
  The silken case with braided blazonings,
  And kissed her quiet brows, and saying to her
  'Sister, farewell for ever,' and again
  'Farewell, sweet sister,' parted all in tears.
  Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead,
  Oared by the dumb, went upward with the flood--
  In her right hand the lily, in her left
  The letter--all her bright hair streaming down--
  And all the coverlid was cloth of gold
  Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white
  All but her face, and that clear-featured face
  Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead,
  But fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled.

     That day Sir Lancelot at the palace craved
  Audience of Guinevere, to give at last,
  The price of half a realm, his costly gift,
  Hard-won and hardly won with bruise and blow,
  With deaths of others, and almost his own,
  The nine-years-fought-for diamonds:  for he saw
  One of her house, and sent him to the Queen
  Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen agreed
  With such and so unmoved a majesty
  She might have seemed her statue, but that he,
  Low-drooping till he wellnigh kissed her feet
  For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye
  The shadow of some piece of pointed lace,
  In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the walls,
  And parted, laughing in his courtly heart.

     All in an oriel on the summer side,
  Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward the stream,
  They met, and Lancelot kneeling uttered, 'Queen,
  Lady, my liege, in whom I have my joy,
  Take, what I had not won except for you,
  These jewels, and make me happy, making them
  An armlet for the roundest arm on earth,
  Or necklace for a neck to which the swan's
  Is tawnier than her cygnet's:  these are words:
  Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin
  In speaking, yet O grant my worship of it
  Words, as we grant grief tears.  Such sin in words
  Perchance, we both can pardon:  but, my Queen,
  I hear of rumours flying through your court.
  Our bond, as not the bond of man and wife,
  Should have in it an absoluter trust
  To make up that defect:  let rumours be:
  When did not rumours fly? these, as I trust
  That you trust me in your own nobleness,
  I may not well believe that you believe.'

     While thus he spoke, half turned away, the Queen
  Brake from the vast oriel-embowering vine
  Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast them off,
  Till all the place whereon she stood was green;
  Then, when he ceased, in one cold passive hand
  Received at once and laid aside the gems
  There on a table near her, and replied:

     'It may be, I am quicker of belief
  Than you believe me, Lancelot of the Lake.
  Our bond is not the bond of man and wife.
  This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill,
  It can be broken easier.  I for you
  This many a year have done despite and wrong
  To one whom ever in my heart of hearts
  I did acknowledge nobler.  What are these?
  Diamonds for me! they had been thrice their worth
  Being your gift, had you not lost your own.
  To loyal hearts the value of all gifts
  Must vary as the giver's.  Not for me!
  For her! for your new fancy.  Only this
  Grant me, I pray you:  have your joys apart.
  I doubt not that however changed, you keep
  So much of what is graceful:  and myself
  Would shun to break those bounds of courtesy
  In which as Arthur's Queen I move and rule:
  So cannot speak my mind.  An end to this!
  A strange one! yet I take it with Amen.
  So pray you, add my diamonds to her pearls;
  Deck her with these; tell her, she shines me down:
  An armlet for an arm to which the Queen's
  Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck
  O as much fairer--as a faith once fair
  Was richer than these diamonds--hers not mine--
  Nay, by the mother of our Lord himself,
  Or hers or mine, mine now to work my will--
  She shall not have them.'

                           Saying which she seized,
  And, through the casement standing wide for heat,
  Flung them, and down they flashed, and smote the stream.
  Then from the smitten surface flashed, as it were,
  Diamonds to meet them, and they past away.
  Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half disdain
  At love, life, all things, on the window ledge,
  Close underneath his eyes, and right across
  Where these had fallen, slowly past the barge.
  Whereon the lily maid of Astolat
  Lay smiling, like a star in blackest night.

     But the wild Queen, who saw not, burst away
  To weep and wail in secret; and the barge,
  On to the palace-doorway sliding, paused.
  There two stood armed, and kept the door; to whom,
  All up the marble stair, tier over tier,
  Were added mouths that gaped, and eyes that asked
  'What is it?' but that oarsman's haggard face,
  As hard and still as is the face that men
  Shape to their fancy's eye from broken rocks
  On some cliff-side, appalled them, and they said
  'He is enchanted, cannot speak--and she,
  Look how she sleeps--the Fairy Queen, so fair!
  Yea, but how pale! what are they? flesh and blood?
  Or come to take the King to Fairyland?
  For some do hold our Arthur cannot die,
  But that he passes into Fairyland.'

     While thus they babbled of the King, the King
  Came girt with knights:  then turned the tongueless man
  From the half-face to the full eye, and rose
  And pointed to the damsel, and the doors.
  So Arthur bad the meek Sir Percivale
  And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid;
  And reverently they bore her into hall.
  Then came the fine Gawain and wondered at her,
  And Lancelot later came and mused at her,
  And last the Queen herself, and pitied her:
  But Arthur spied the letter in her hand,
  Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it; this was all:

     'Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of the Lake,
  I, sometime called the maid of Astolat,
  Come, for you left me taking no farewell,
  Hither, to take my last farewell of you.
  I loved you, and my love had no return,
  And therefore my true love has been my death.
  And therefore to our Lady Guinevere,
  And to all other ladies, I make moan:
  Pray for my soul, and yield me burial.
  Pray for my soul thou too, Sir Lancelot,
  As thou art a knight peerless.'

                                 Thus he read;
  And ever in the reading, lords and dames
  Wept, looking often from his face who read
  To hers which lay so silent, and at times,
  So touched were they, half-thinking that her lips,
  Who had devised the letter, moved again.

     Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to them all:
  'My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that hear,
  Know that for this most gentle maiden's death
  Right heavy am I; for good she was and true,
  But loved me with a love beyond all love
  In women, whomsoever I have known.
  Yet to be loved makes not to love again;
  Not at my years, however it hold in youth.
  I swear by truth and knighthood that I gave
  No cause, not willingly, for such a love:
  To this I call my friends in testimony,
  Her brethren, and her father, who himself
  Besought me to be plain and blunt, and use,
  To break her passion, some discourtesy
  Against my nature:  what I could, I did.
  I left her and I bad her no farewell;
  Though, had I dreamt the damsel would have died,
  I might have put my wits to some rough use,
  And helped her from herself.'

                               Then said the Queen
  (Sea was her wrath, yet working after storm)
  'Ye might at least have done her so much grace,
  Fair lord, as would have helped her from her death.'
  He raised his head, their eyes met and hers fell,
  He adding,
            'Queen, she would not be content
  Save that I wedded her, which could not be.
  Then might she follow me through the world, she asked;
  It could not be.  I told her that her love
  Was but the flash of youth, would darken down
  To rise hereafter in a stiller flame
  Toward one more worthy of her--then would I,
  More specially were he, she wedded, poor,
  Estate them with large land and territory
  In mine own realm beyond the narrow seas,
  To keep them in all joyance:  more than this
  I could not; this she would not, and she died.'

     He pausing, Arthur answered, 'O my knight,
  It will be to thy worship, as my knight,
  And mine, as head of all our Table Round,
  To see that she be buried worshipfully.'

     So toward that shrine which then in all the realm
  Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly went
  The marshalled Order of their Table Round,
  And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, to see
  The maiden buried, not as one unknown,
  Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies,
  And mass, and rolling music, like a queen.
  And when the knights had laid her comely head
  Low in the dust of half-forgotten kings,
  Then Arthur spake among them, 'Let her tomb
  Be costly, and her image thereupon,
  And let the shield of Lancelot at her feet
  Be carven, and her lily in her hand.
  And let the story of her dolorous voyage
  For all true hearts be blazoned on her tomb
  In letters gold and azure!' which was wrought
  Thereafter; but when now the lords and dames
  And people, from the high door streaming, brake
  Disorderly, as homeward each, the Queen,
  Who marked Sir Lancelot where he moved apart,
  Drew near, and sighed in passing, 'Lancelot,
  Forgive me; mine was jealousy in love.'
  He answered with his eyes upon the ground,
  'That is love's curse; pass on, my Queen, forgiven.'
  But Arthur, who beheld his cloudy brows,
  Approached him, and with full affection said,

     'Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in whom I have
  Most joy and most affiance, for I know
  What thou hast been in battle by my side,
  And many a time have watched thee at the tilt
  Strike down the lusty and long practised knight,
  And let the younger and unskilled go by
  To win his honour and to make his name,
  And loved thy courtesies and thee, a man
  Made to be loved; but now I would to God,
  Seeing the homeless trouble in thine eyes,
  Thou couldst have loved this maiden, shaped, it seems,
  By God for thee alone, and from her face,
  If one may judge the living by the dead,
  Delicately pure and marvellously fair,
  Who might have brought thee, now a lonely man
  Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons
  Born to the glory of thine name and fame,
  My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of the Lake.'

     Then answered Lancelot, 'Fair she was, my King,
  Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be.
  To doubt her fairness were to want an eye,
  To doubt her pureness were to want a heart--
  Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love
  Could bind him, but free love will not be bound.'

     'Free love, so bound, were freest,' said the King.
  'Let love be free; free love is for the best:
  And, after heaven, on our dull side of death,
  What should be best, if not so pure a love
  Clothed in so pure a loveliness? yet thee
  She failed to bind, though being, as I think,
  Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I know.'

     And Lancelot answered nothing, but he went,
  And at the inrunning of a little brook
  Sat by the river in a cove, and watched
  The high reed wave, and lifted up his eyes
  And saw the barge that brought her moving down,
  Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and said
  Low in himself, 'Ah simple heart and sweet,
  Ye loved me, damsel, surely with a love
  Far tenderer than my Queen's.  Pray for thy soul?
  Ay, that will I.  Farewell too--now at last--
  Farewell, fair lily.  "Jealousy in love?"
  Not rather dead love's harsh heir, jealous pride?
  Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of love,
  May not your crescent fear for name and fame
  Speak, as it waxes, of a love that wanes?
  Why did the King dwell on my name to me?
  Mine own name shames me, seeming a reproach,
  Lancelot, whom the Lady of the Lake
  Caught from his mother's arms--the wondrous one
  Who passes through the vision of the night--
  She chanted snatches of mysterious hymns
  Heard on the winding waters, eve and morn
  She kissed me saying, "Thou art fair, my child,
  As a king's son," and often in her arms
  She bare me, pacing on the dusky mere.
  Would she had drowned me in it, where'er it be!
  For what am I? what profits me my name
  Of greatest knight?  I fought for it, and have it:
  Pleasure to have it, none; to lose it, pain;
  Now grown a part of me:  but what use in it?
  To make men worse by making my sin known?
  Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming great?
  Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a man
  Not after Arthur's heart!  I needs must break
  These bonds that so defame me:  not without
  She wills it:  would I, if she willed it? nay,
  Who knows? but if I would not, then may God,
  I pray him, send a sudden Angel down
  To seize me by the hair and bear me far,
  And fling me deep in that forgotten mere,
  Among the tumbled fragments of the hills.'

     So groaned Sir Lancelot in remorseful pain,
  Not knowing he should die a holy man.

 High up in her tower, Elaine of Astolat guards Lancelot's shield, which she keeps in a silken bag she has embroidered for it. She fantasizes about the battles that led to every dint and ding on the shield. Lancelot left his shield with Elaine before he went to compete in the great joust for the grand prize of a diamond. Once, in a mossy crag, Arthur found an ancient crown on the bleached-out bones of a fallen king. He decreed a series of nine jousts to distribute the nine diamonds from the crown. The first eight diamonds have been won by Lancelot. Now he plans to joust for the ninth, largest diamond and present them all to Guinevere at once. Before the ninth joust, Guinevere declares herself too sick to attend. Lancelot volunteers to stay behind in Camelot with her, but Guinevere ain't havin' it. What gives? When Lancelot questions whether Guinevere now wishes to be true to her husband, Guinevere responds that she wants a lover as perfect and pure as Arthur is. Guinevere explains that she fears Lancelot's decision to stay behind with her will set tongues wagging. And we know what gossip in Camelot is like. She counsels him to attend the tournament in disguise and later tell Arthur that he wished to test his mettle as an unknown knight rather than one already feared. On his way to the tournament, Lancelot seeks lodging in the Castle Astolat, where he is welcomed by the lord, his two sons, Lavaine and Torre, and his daughter, Elaine. Torre, who has been wounded and will not be jousting in the tournament, agrees to lend his shield to Lancelot to help him disguise himself. Lavaine offers to accompany him. The moment Elaine dares to look at Lancelot, she falls in love with him. Dude's got game. That night, Lancelot speaks of his role in Arthur's battles against the heathens, and of what a great and brave king he is. Elaine thinks Lancelot seems kind of sad, even though he's being cheerful and courteous. She wonders if the cheer and courtesy are for her. Does he love her? The next morning Elaine asks Lancelot to wear her favor the tournament. Although he has never worn a maiden's favor before, he agrees in order to enhance in his disguise. He asks Elaine to guard his shield for him. On the way to the tournament, Lancelot reveals his true identity to Lavaine, who hero-worships the our Lance on the spot. At the tournament, Lancelot's kinsmen are angry that the unknown knight seems just as good as Lancelot. They set upon him, wounding him with a spear. Lancelot wins the tournament but rides away with Lavaine before he can receive the diamond, calling his wound his only prize. Lavaine and Lancelot take shelter in a cave near a poplar grove not far from Camelot, where a hermit tends to Lancelot's wound. Meanwhile, back at the tournament, Arthur entrusts Gawain with the diamond and orders him to find the knight who won it and give it to him. When Arthur returns to Camelot, Guinevere reveals Lancelot's ruse. On learning from Arthur that Lancelot wore another woman's favor, Guinevere privately flies into a rage. Gawain arrives in Ascolat and becomes so enchanted with Elaine that he forgets about his quest to find the unknown knight. Finally, Elaine offers to show him the knight's shield, whereupon he and she both learn that the unknown knight is Lancelot. Elaine reveals to Gawain that she is in love with Lancelot. Upon learning this, Gawain leaves the diamond with her to give to him. Once Gawain arrives in Camelot, he spreads the rumor of Elaine's love for Lancelot, which quickly develops into a rumor that their love is mutual, which infuriates Guinevere. Elaine and Torre ride in search of Lancelot and Lavaine. They travel to Camelot, where they meet Lavaine outside the city walls. He takes them to Lancelot. Elaine gives Lancelot the diamond. From her blush, Lancelot realizes she is in love with him. Awkward. See, because of his devotion to Guinevere, he cannot return her love. Still, Elaine nurses Lancelot back to health. His coolness toward her convinces her that he does not love her, and she begins to think she may die of unrequited love. When they return to Astolat, Lancelot offers to give Elaine any gift she desires. She asks him to love and marry her. When Lancelot responds that he cannot, Elaine asks him to make her his lover. He refuses, citing his respect for her father and brothers. Lancelot tells Elaine that her love is just a passing fancy of youth. He offers to give her lands and wealth to support any marriage she later chooses to make, but she refuses. The Lord of Ascolat asks Lancelot to rebuff Elaine, hoping the snub will help cure her love bug. So when Lancelot rides back to Camelot, he fails to wish Elaine farewell. Elaine sits alone in her tower, where she sees visions of Lancelot and sings a song about the bitterness of love and the sweetness of death. When her father and brothers visit her, Elaine recalls a time when Torre and Lavaine rowed her up the river toward Camelot but refused to take her all the way. Now, she says, she wishes to follow the river all the way to Camelot. Trying to cool her love-longing, her father tells Elaine about Lancelot and Guinevere's adulterous affair. Elaine refuses to believe it, calling it idle slander. Elaine asks for a priest so she can make a confession. She knows she will soon die of lovesickness, so she dictates a letter to Lavaine, instructing him to place it in her hands after death. She instructs her father and brothers to lay her on a funeral barge and send it to Camelot after she dies, and they agree. After her death, the three men follow Elaine's instructions: they lay her out on a funeral barge with her letter in one hand and a lily in the other, then send her down the river. In Camelot, Lancelot tries to give his nine diamonds to Guinevere. She rejects them, thinking that he has been unfaithful to her with Elaine. She throws the diamonds out the window, where they sink in the river just next to Elaine's passing funeral barge. Everyone in Arthur's court gathers to wonder at the beautiful maiden in the boat. Arthur reads Elaine's letter aloud. It reveals her unrequited love for Lancelot as the cause of her death, asks for pity from the queen and her ladies, and begs Lancelot to pray for her soul. Lancelot explains what happened with Elaine, protesting that he did all he could for her but that he was not able to love her as she loved him. Arthur decrees a splendid burial for Elaine, with the story of her love and death, her image, and Lancelot's shield to be wrought on her tomb. In private, the queen asks for Lancelot's forgiveness, citing the jealousy of love as her excuse. Arthur tells Lancelot he wishes he could have loved Elaine, who seemed to have been made just for him. Lancelot responds that free love cannot be forced or bound. Still, Arthur can't understand why Elaine failed to attach Lancelot, a man he believes unbound to another. Little does he know, right? After his conversation with Arthur, Lancelot realizes that Elaine loved him more truly than Guinevere. He begins to think that Guinevere's concern for her reputation is more about pride, not love. He wishes to be free of his bond to Guinevere, since it shames him and makes him a bad example to other knights.

