Chapter: The Marriage of Geraint

  The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's court,
  A tributary prince of Devon, one
  Of that great Order of the Table Round,
  Had married Enid, Yniol's only child,
  And loved her, as he loved the light of Heaven.
  And as the light of Heaven varies, now
  At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night
  With moon and trembling stars, so loved Geraint
  To make her beauty vary day by day,
  In crimsons and in purples and in gems.
  And Enid, but to please her husband's eye,
  Who first had found and loved her in a state
  Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him
  In some fresh splendour; and the Queen herself,
  Grateful to Prince Geraint for service done,
  Loved her, and often with her own white hands
  Arrayed and decked her, as the loveliest,
  Next after her own self, in all the court.
  And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart
  Adored her, as the stateliest and the best
  And loveliest of all women upon earth.
  And seeing them so tender and so close,
  Long in their common love rejoiced Geraint.
  But when a rumour rose about the Queen,
  Touching her guilty love for Lancelot,
  Though yet there lived no proof, nor yet was heard
  The world's loud whisper breaking into storm,
  Not less Geraint believed it; and there fell
  A horror on him, lest his gentle wife,
  Through that great tenderness for Guinevere,
  Had suffered, or should suffer any taint
  In nature:  wherefore going to the King,
  He made this pretext, that his princedom lay
  Close on the borders of a territory,
  Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff knights,
  Assassins, and all flyers from the hand
  Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law:
  And therefore, till the King himself should please
  To cleanse this common sewer of all his realm,
  He craved a fair permission to depart,
  And there defend his marches; and the King
  Mused for a little on his plea, but, last,
  Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode,
  And fifty knights rode with them, to the shores
  Of Severn, and they past to their own land;
  Where, thinking, that if ever yet was wife
  True to her lord, mine shall be so to me,
  He compassed her with sweet observances
  And worship, never leaving her, and grew
  Forgetful of his promise to the King,
  Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt,
  Forgetful of the tilt and tournament,
  Forgetful of his glory and his name,
  Forgetful of his princedom and its cares.
  And this forgetfulness was hateful to her.
  And by and by the people, when they met
  In twos and threes, or fuller companies,
  Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him
  As of a prince whose manhood was all gone,
  And molten down in mere uxoriousness.
  And this she gathered from the people's eyes:
  This too the women who attired her head,
  To please her, dwelling on his boundless love,
  Told Enid, and they saddened her the more:
  And day by day she thought to tell Geraint,
  But could not out of bashful delicacy;
  While he that watched her sadden, was the more
  Suspicious that her nature had a taint.

     At last, it chanced that on a summer morn
  (They sleeping each by either) the new sun
  Beat through the blindless casement of the room,
  And heated the strong warrior in his dreams;
  Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside,
  And bared the knotted column of his throat,
  The massive square of his heroic breast,
  And arms on which the standing muscle sloped,
  As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone,
  Running too vehemently to break upon it.
  And Enid woke and sat beside the couch,
  Admiring him, and thought within herself,
  Was ever man so grandly made as he?
  Then, like a shadow, past the people's talk
  And accusation of uxoriousness
  Across her mind, and bowing over him,
  Low to her own heart piteously she said:

     'O noble breast and all-puissant arms,
  Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men
  Reproach you, saying all your force is gone?
  I am the cause, because I dare not speak
  And tell him what I think and what they say.
  And yet I hate that he should linger here;
  I cannot love my lord and not his name.
  Far liefer had I gird his harness on him,
  And ride with him to battle and stand by,
  And watch his mightful hand striking great blows
  At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world.
  Far better were I laid in the dark earth,
  Not hearing any more his noble voice,
  Not to be folded more in these dear arms,
  And darkened from the high light in his eyes,
  Than that my lord through me should suffer shame.
  Am I so bold, and could I so stand by,
  And see my dear lord wounded in the strife,
  And maybe pierced to death before mine eyes,
  And yet not dare to tell him what I think,
  And how men slur him, saying all his force
  Is melted into mere effeminacy?
  O me, I fear that I am no true wife.'

     Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke,
  And the strong passion in her made her weep
  True tears upon his broad and naked breast,
  And these awoke him, and by great mischance
  He heard but fragments of her later words,
  And that she feared she was not a true wife.
  And then he thought, 'In spite of all my care,
  For all my pains, poor man, for all my pains,
  She is not faithful to me, and I see her
  Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur's hall.'
  Then though he loved and reverenced her too much
  To dream she could be guilty of foul act,
  Right through his manful breast darted the pang
  That makes a man, in the sweet face of her
  Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable.
  At this he hurled his huge limbs out of bed,
  And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried,
  'My charger and her palfrey;' then to her,
  'I will ride forth into the wilderness;
  For though it seems my spurs are yet to win,
  I have not fallen so low as some would wish.
  And thou, put on thy worst and meanest dress
  And ride with me.'  And Enid asked, amazed,
  'If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault.'
  But he, 'I charge thee, ask not, but obey.'
  Then she bethought her of a faded silk,
  A faded mantle and a faded veil,
  And moving toward a cedarn cabinet,
  Wherein she kept them folded reverently
  With sprigs of summer laid between the folds,
  She took them, and arrayed herself therein,
  Remembering when first he came on her
  Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it,
  And all her foolish fears about the dress,
  And all his journey to her, as himself
  Had told her, and their coming to the court.

     For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before
  Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk.
  There on a day, he sitting high in hall,
  Before him came a forester of Dean,
  Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart
  Taller than all his fellows, milky-white,
  First seen that day:  these things he told the King.
  Then the good King gave order to let blow
  His horns for hunting on the morrow morn.
  And when the King petitioned for his leave
  To see the hunt, allowed it easily.
  So with the morning all the court were gone.
  But Guinevere lay late into the morn,
  Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of her love
  For Lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt;
  But rose at last, a single maiden with her,
  Took horse, and forded Usk, and gained the wood;
  There, on a little knoll beside it, stayed
  Waiting to hear the hounds; but heard instead
  A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraint,
  Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress
  Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand,
  Came quickly flashing through the shallow ford
  Behind them, and so galloped up the knoll.
  A purple scarf, at either end whereof
  There swung an apple of the purest gold,
  Swayed round about him, as he galloped up
  To join them, glancing like a dragon-fly
  In summer suit and silks of holiday.
  Low bowed the tributary Prince, and she,
  Sweet and statelily, and with all grace
  Of womanhood and queenhood, answered him:
  'Late, late, Sir Prince,' she said, 'later than we!'
  'Yea, noble Queen,' he answered, 'and so late
  That I but come like you to see the hunt,
  Not join it.'  'Therefore wait with me,' she said;
  'For on this little knoll, if anywhere,
  There is good chance that we shall hear the hounds:
  Here often they break covert at our feet.'

     And while they listened for the distant hunt,
  And chiefly for the baying of Cavall,
  King Arthur's hound of deepest mouth, there rode
  Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf;
  Whereof the dwarf lagged latest, and the knight
  Had vizor up, and showed a youthful face,
  Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments.
  And Guinevere, not mindful of his face
  In the King's hall, desired his name, and sent
  Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf;
  Who being vicious, old and irritable,
  And doubling all his master's vice of pride,
  Made answer sharply that she should not know.
  'Then will I ask it of himself,' she said.
  'Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not,' cried the dwarf;
  'Thou art not worthy even to speak of him;'
  And when she put her horse toward the knight,
  Struck at her with his whip, and she returned
  Indignant to the Queen; whereat Geraint
  Exclaiming, 'Surely I will learn the name,'
  Made sharply to the dwarf, and asked it of him,
  Who answered as before; and when the Prince
  Had put his horse in motion toward the knight,
  Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek.
  The Prince's blood spirted upon the scarf,
  Dyeing it; and his quick, instinctive hand
  Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him:
  But he, from his exceeding manfulness
  And pure nobility of temperament,
  Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrained
  From even a word, and so returning said:

     'I will avenge this insult, noble Queen,
  Done in your maiden's person to yourself:
  And I will track this vermin to their earths:
  For though I ride unarmed, I do not doubt
  To find, at some place I shall come at, arms
  On loan, or else for pledge; and, being found,
  Then will I fight him, and will break his pride,
  And on the third day will again be here,
  So that I be not fallen in fight.  Farewell.'

     'Farewell, fair Prince,' answered the stately Queen.
  'Be prosperous in this journey, as in all;
  And may you light on all things that you love,
  And live to wed with her whom first you love:
  But ere you wed with any, bring your bride,
  And I, were she the daughter of a king,
  Yea, though she were a beggar from the hedge,
  Will clothe her for her bridals like the sun.'

     And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he heard
  The noble hart at bay, now the far horn,
  A little vext at losing of the hunt,
  A little at the vile occasion, rode,
  By ups and downs, through many a grassy glade
  And valley, with fixt eye following the three.
  At last they issued from the world of wood,
  And climbed upon a fair and even ridge,
  And showed themselves against the sky, and sank.
  And thither there came Geraint, and underneath
  Beheld the long street of a little town
  In a long valley, on one side whereof,
  White from the mason's hand, a fortress rose;
  And on one side a castle in decay,
  Beyond a bridge that spanned a dry ravine:
  And out of town and valley came a noise
  As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed
  Brawling, or like a clamour of the rooks
  At distance, ere they settle for the night.

     And onward to the fortress rode the three,
  And entered, and were lost behind the walls.
  'So,' thought Geraint, 'I have tracked him to his earth.'
  And down the long street riding wearily,
  Found every hostel full, and everywhere
  Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss
  And bustling whistle of the youth who scoured
  His master's armour; and of such a one
  He asked, 'What means the tumult in the town?'
  Who told him, scouring still, 'The sparrow-hawk!'
  Then riding close behind an ancient churl,
  Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam,
  Went sweating underneath a sack of corn,
  Asked yet once more what meant the hubbub here?
  Who answered gruffly, 'Ugh! the sparrow-hawk.'
  Then riding further past an armourer's,
  Who, with back turned, and bowed above his work,
  Sat riveting a helmet on his knee,
  He put the self-same query, but the man
  Not turning round, nor looking at him, said:
  'Friend, he that labours for the sparrow-hawk
  Has little time for idle questioners.'
  Whereat Geraint flashed into sudden spleen:
  'A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk!
  Tits, wrens, and all winged nothings peck him dead!
  Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg
  The murmur of the world!  What is it to me?
  O wretched set of sparrows, one and all,
  Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks!
  Speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk-mad,
  Where can I get me harbourage for the night?
  And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy?  Speak!'
  Whereat the armourer turning all amazed
  And seeing one so gay in purple silks,
  Came forward with the helmet yet in hand
  And answered, 'Pardon me, O stranger knight;
  We hold a tourney here tomorrow morn,
  And there is scantly time for half the work.
  Arms? truth! I know not:  all are wanted here.
  Harbourage? truth, good truth, I know not, save,
  It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the bridge
  Yonder.'  He spoke and fell to work again.

     Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet,
  Across the bridge that spanned the dry ravine.
  There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl,
  (His dress a suit of frayed magnificence,
  Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said:
  'Whither, fair son?' to whom Geraint replied,
  'O friend, I seek a harbourage for the night.'
  Then Yniol, 'Enter therefore and partake
  The slender entertainment of a house
  Once rich, now poor, but ever open-doored.'
  'Thanks, venerable friend,' replied Geraint;
  'So that ye do not serve me sparrow-hawks
  For supper, I will enter, I will eat
  With all the passion of a twelve hours' fast.'
  Then sighed and smiled the hoary-headed Earl,
  And answered, 'Graver cause than yours is mine
  To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk:
  But in, go in; for save yourself desire it,
  We will not touch upon him even in jest.'

     Then rode Geraint into the castle court,
  His charger trampling many a prickly star
  Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones.
  He looked and saw that all was ruinous.
  Here stood a shattered archway plumed with fern;
  And here had fallen a great part of a tower,
  Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff,
  And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers:
  And high above a piece of turret stair,
  Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound
  Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems
  Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms,
  And sucked the joining of the stones, and looked
  A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove.

     And while he waited in the castle court,
  The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang
  Clear through the open casement of the hall,
  Singing; and as the sweet voice of a bird,
  Heard by the lander in a lonely isle,
  Moves him to think what kind of bird it is
  That sings so delicately clear, and make
  Conjecture of the plumage and the form;
  So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint;
  And made him like a man abroad at morn
  When first the liquid note beloved of men
  Comes flying over many a windy wave
  To Britain, and in April suddenly
  Breaks from a coppice gemmed with green and red,
  And he suspends his converse with a friend,
  Or it may be the labour of his hands,
  To think or say, 'There is the nightingale;'
  So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said,
  'Here, by God's grace, is the one voice for me.'

     It chanced the song that Enid sang was one
  Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang:

     'Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud;
  Turn thy wild wheel through sunshine, storm, and cloud;
  Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

     'Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown;
  With that wild wheel we go not up or down;
  Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

     'Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;
  Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands;
  For man is man and master of his fate.

     'Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;
  Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud;
  Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.'

     'Hark, by the bird's song ye may learn the nest,'
  Said Yniol; 'enter quickly.'  Entering then,
  Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones,
  The dusky-raftered many-cobwebbed hall,
  He found an ancient dame in dim brocade;
  And near her, like a blossom vermeil-white,
  That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath,
  Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk,
  Her daughter.  In a moment thought Geraint,
  'Here by God's rood is the one maid for me.'
  But none spake word except the hoary Earl:
  'Enid, the good knight's horse stands in the court;
  Take him to stall, and give him corn, and then
  Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine;
  And we will make us merry as we may.
  Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.'

     He spake:  the Prince, as Enid past him, fain
  To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol caught
  His purple scarf, and held, and said, 'Forbear!
  Rest! the good house, though ruined, O my son,
  Endures not that her guest should serve himself.'
  And reverencing the custom of the house
  Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore.

     So Enid took his charger to the stall;
  And after went her way across the bridge,
  And reached the town, and while the Prince and Earl
  Yet spoke together, came again with one,
  A youth, that following with a costrel bore
  The means of goodly welcome, flesh and wine.
  And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer,
  And in her veil enfolded, manchet bread.
  And then, because their hall must also serve
  For kitchen, boiled the flesh, and spread the board,
  And stood behind, and waited on the three.
  And seeing her so sweet and serviceable,
  Geraint had longing in him evermore
  To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb,
  That crost the trencher as she laid it down:
  But after all had eaten, then Geraint,
  For now the wine made summer in his veins,
  Let his eye rove in following, or rest
  On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work,
  Now here, now there, about the dusky hall;
  Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl:

     'Fair Host and Earl, I pray your courtesy;
  This sparrow-hawk, what is he? tell me of him.
  His name? but no, good faith, I will not have it:
  For if he be the knight whom late I saw
  Ride into that new fortress by your town,
  White from the mason's hand, then have I sworn
  From his own lips to have it--I am Geraint
  Of Devon--for this morning when the Queen
  Sent her own maiden to demand the name,
  His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing,
  Struck at her with his whip, and she returned
  Indignant to the Queen; and then I swore
  That I would track this caitiff to his hold,
  And fight and break his pride, and have it of him.
  And all unarmed I rode, and thought to find
  Arms in your town, where all the men are mad;
  They take the rustic murmur of their bourg
  For the great wave that echoes round the world;
  They would not hear me speak:  but if ye know
  Where I can light on arms, or if yourself
  Should have them, tell me, seeing I have sworn
  That I will break his pride and learn his name,
  Avenging this great insult done the Queen.'

     Then cried Earl Yniol, 'Art thou he indeed,
  Geraint, a name far-sounded among men
  For noble deeds? and truly I, when first
  I saw you moving by me on the bridge,
  Felt ye were somewhat, yea, and by your state
  And presence might have guessed you one of those
  That eat in Arthur's hall in Camelot.
  Nor speak I now from foolish flattery;
  For this dear child hath often heard me praise
  Your feats of arms, and often when I paused
  Hath asked again, and ever loved to hear;
  So grateful is the noise of noble deeds
  To noble hearts who see but acts of wrong:
  O never yet had woman such a pair
  Of suitors as this maiden:  first Limours,
  A creature wholly given to brawls and wine,
  Drunk even when he wooed; and be he dead
  I know not, but he past to the wild land.
  The second was your foe, the sparrow-hawk,
  My curse, my nephew--I will not let his name
  Slip from my lips if I can help it--he,
  When that I knew him fierce and turbulent
  Refused her to him, then his pride awoke;
  And since the proud man often is the mean,
  He sowed a slander in the common ear,
  Affirming that his father left him gold,
  And in my charge, which was not rendered to him;
  Bribed with large promises the men who served
  About my person, the more easily
  Because my means were somewhat broken into
  Through open doors and hospitality;
  Raised my own town against me in the night
  Before my Enid's birthday, sacked my house;
  From mine own earldom foully ousted me;
  Built that new fort to overawe my friends,
  For truly there are those who love me yet;
  And keeps me in this ruinous castle here,
  Where doubtless he would put me soon to death,
  But that his pride too much despises me:
  And I myself sometimes despise myself;
  For I have let men be, and have their way;
  Am much too gentle, have not used my power:
  Nor know I whether I be very base
  Or very manful, whether very wise
  Or very foolish; only this I know,
  That whatsoever evil happen to me,
  I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb,
  But can endure it all most patiently.'

     'Well said, true heart,' replied Geraint, 'but arms,
  That if the sparrow-hawk, this nephew, fight
  In next day's tourney I may break his pride.'

     And Yniol answered, 'Arms, indeed, but old
  And rusty, old and rusty, Prince Geraint,
  Are mine, and therefore at thy asking, thine.
  But in this tournament can no man tilt,
  Except the lady he loves best be there.
  Two forks are fixt into the meadow ground,
  And over these is placed a silver wand,
  And over that a golden sparrow-hawk,
  The prize of beauty for the fairest there.
  And this, what knight soever be in field
  Lays claim to for the lady at his side,
  And tilts with my good nephew thereupon,
  Who being apt at arms and big of bone
  Has ever won it for the lady with him,
  And toppling over all antagonism
  Has earned himself the name of sparrow-hawk.'
  But thou, that hast no lady, canst not fight.'

     To whom Geraint with eyes all bright replied,
  Leaning a little toward him, 'Thy leave!
  Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host,
  For this dear child, because I never saw,
  Though having seen all beauties of our time,
  Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair.
  And if I fall her name will yet remain
  Untarnished as before; but if I live,
  So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost,
  As I will make her truly my true wife.'

     Then, howsoever patient, Yniol's heart
  Danced in his bosom, seeing better days,
  And looking round he saw not Enid there,
  (Who hearing her own name had stolen away)
  But that old dame, to whom full tenderly
  And folding all her hand in his he said,
  'Mother, a maiden is a tender thing,
  And best by her that bore her understood.
  Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest
  Tell her, and prove her heart toward the Prince.'

     So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she
  With frequent smile and nod departing found,
  Half disarrayed as to her rest, the girl;
  Whom first she kissed on either cheek, and then
  On either shining shoulder laid a hand,
  And kept her off and gazed upon her face,
  And told them all their converse in the hall,
  Proving her heart:  but never light and shade
  Coursed one another more on open ground
  Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale
  Across the face of Enid hearing her;
  While slowly falling as a scale that falls,
  When weight is added only grain by grain,
  Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast;
  Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word,
  Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of it;
  So moving without answer to her rest
  She found no rest, and ever failed to draw
  The quiet night into her blood, but lay
  Contemplating her own unworthiness;
  And when the pale and bloodless east began
  To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised
  Her mother too, and hand in hand they moved
  Down to the meadow where the jousts were held,
  And waited there for Yniol and Geraint.

     And thither came the twain, and when Geraint
  Beheld her first in field, awaiting him,
  He felt, were she the prize of bodily force,
  Himself beyond the rest pushing could move
  The chair of Idris.  Yniol's rusted arms
  Were on his princely person, but through these
  Princelike his bearing shone; and errant knights
  And ladies came, and by and by the town
  Flowed in, and settling circled all the lists.
  And there they fixt the forks into the ground,
  And over these they placed the silver wand,
  And over that the golden sparrow-hawk.
  Then Yniol's nephew, after trumpet blown,
  Spake to the lady with him and proclaimed,
  'Advance and take, as fairest of the fair,
  What I these two years past have won for thee,
  The prize of beauty.'  Loudly spake the Prince,
  'Forbear:  there is a worthier,' and the knight
  With some surprise and thrice as much disdain
  Turned, and beheld the four, and all his face
  Glowed like the heart of a great fire at Yule,
  So burnt he was with passion, crying out,
  'Do battle for it then,' no more; and thrice
  They clashed together, and thrice they brake their spears.
  Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lashed at each
  So often and with such blows, that all the crowd
  Wondered, and now and then from distant walls
  There came a clapping as of phantom hands.
  So twice they fought, and twice they breathed, and still
  The dew of their great labour, and the blood
  Of their strong bodies, flowing, drained their force.
  But either's force was matched till Yniol's cry,
  'Remember that great insult done the Queen,'
  Increased Geraint's, who heaved his blade aloft,
  And cracked the helmet through, and bit the bone,
  And felled him, and set foot upon his breast,
  And said, 'Thy name?'  To whom the fallen man
  Made answer, groaning, 'Edyrn, son of Nudd!
  Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee.
  My pride is broken:  men have seen my fall.'
  'Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd,' replied Geraint,
  'These two things shalt thou do, or else thou diest.
  First, thou thyself, with damsel and with dwarf,
  Shalt ride to Arthur's court, and coming there,
  Crave pardon for that insult done the Queen,
  And shalt abide her judgment on it; next,
  Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin.
  These two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt die.'
  And Edyrn answered, 'These things will I do,
  For I have never yet been overthrown,
  And thou hast overthrown me, and my pride
  Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall!'
  And rising up, he rode to Arthur's court,
  And there the Queen forgave him easily.
  And being young, he changed and came to loathe
  His crime of traitor, slowly drew himself
  Bright from his old dark life, and fell at last
  In the great battle fighting for the King.

     But when the third day from the hunting-morn
  Made a low splendour in the world, and wings
  Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay
  With her fair head in the dim-yellow light,
  Among the dancing shadows of the birds,
  Woke and bethought her of her promise given
  No later than last eve to Prince Geraint--
  So bent he seemed on going the third day,
  He would not leave her, till her promise given--
  To ride with him this morning to the court,
  And there be made known to the stately Queen,
  And there be wedded with all ceremony.
  At this she cast her eyes upon her dress,
  And thought it never yet had looked so mean.
  For as a leaf in mid-November is
  To what it is in mid-October, seemed
  The dress that now she looked on to the dress
  She looked on ere the coming of Geraint.
  And still she looked, and still the terror grew
  Of that strange bright and dreadful thing, a court,
  All staring at her in her faded silk:
  And softly to her own sweet heart she said:

     'This noble prince who won our earldom back,
  So splendid in his acts and his attire,
  Sweet heaven, how much I shall discredit him!
  Would he could tarry with us here awhile,
  But being so beholden to the Prince,
  It were but little grace in any of us,
  Bent as he seemed on going this third day,
  To seek a second favour at his hands.
  Yet if he could but tarry a day or two,
  Myself would work eye dim, and finger lame,
  Far liefer than so much discredit him.'

     And Enid fell in longing for a dress
  All branched and flowered with gold, a costly gift
  Of her good mother, given her on the night
  Before her birthday, three sad years ago,
  That night of fire, when Edyrn sacked their house,
  And scattered all they had to all the winds:
  For while the mother showed it, and the two
  Were turning and admiring it, the work
  To both appeared so costly, rose a cry
  That Edyrn's men were on them, and they fled
  With little save the jewels they had on,
  Which being sold and sold had bought them bread:
  And Edyrn's men had caught them in their flight,
  And placed them in this ruin; and she wished
  The Prince had found her in her ancient home;
  Then let her fancy flit across the past,
  And roam the goodly places that she knew;
  And last bethought her how she used to watch,
  Near that old home, a pool of golden carp;
  And one was patched and blurred and lustreless
  Among his burnished brethren of the pool;
  And half asleep she made comparison
  Of that and these to her own faded self
  And the gay court, and fell asleep again;
  And dreamt herself was such a faded form
  Among her burnished sisters of the pool;
  But this was in the garden of a king;
  And though she lay dark in the pool, she knew
  That all was bright; that all about were birds
  Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work;
  That all the turf was rich in plots that looked
  Each like a garnet or a turkis in it;
  And lords and ladies of the high court went
  In silver tissue talking things of state;
  And children of the King in cloth of gold
  Glanced at the doors or gamboled down the walks;
  And while she thought 'They will not see me,' came
  A stately queen whose name was Guinevere,
  And all the children in their cloth of gold
  Ran to her, crying, 'If we have fish at all
  Let them be gold; and charge the gardeners now
  To pick the faded creature from the pool,
  And cast it on the mixen that it die.'
  And therewithal one came and seized on her,
  And Enid started waking, with her heart
  All overshadowed by the foolish dream,
  And lo! it was her mother grasping her
  To get her well awake; and in her hand
  A suit of bright apparel, which she laid
  Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly:

     'See here, my child, how fresh the colours look,
  How fast they hold like colours of a shell
  That keeps the wear and polish of the wave.
  Why not?  It never yet was worn, I trow:
  Look on it, child, and tell me if ye know it.'

     And Enid looked, but all confused at first,
  Could scarce divide it from her foolish dream:
  Then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced,
  And answered, 'Yea, I know it; your good gift,
  So sadly lost on that unhappy night;
  Your own good gift!'  'Yea, surely,' said the dame,
  'And gladly given again this happy morn.
  For when the jousts were ended yesterday,
  Went Yniol through the town, and everywhere
  He found the sack and plunder of our house
  All scattered through the houses of the town;
  And gave command that all which once was ours
  Should now be ours again:  and yester-eve,
  While ye were talking sweetly with your Prince,
  Came one with this and laid it in my hand,
  For love or fear, or seeking favour of us,
  Because we have our earldom back again.
  And yester-eve I would not tell you of it,
  But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn.
  Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise?
  For I myself unwillingly have worn
  My faded suit, as you, my child, have yours,
  And howsoever patient, Yniol his.
  Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house,
  With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare,
  And page, and maid, and squire, and seneschal,
  And pastime both of hawk and hound, and all
  That appertains to noble maintenance.
  Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house;
  But since our fortune swerved from sun to shade,
  And all through that young traitor, cruel need
  Constrained us, but a better time has come;
  So clothe yourself in this, that better fits
  Our mended fortunes and a Prince's bride:
  For though ye won the prize of fairest fair,
  And though I heard him call you fairest fair,
  Let never maiden think, however fair,
  She is not fairer in new clothes than old.
  And should some great court-lady say, the Prince
  Hath picked a ragged-robin from the hedge,
  And like a madman brought her to the court,
  Then were ye shamed, and, worse, might shame the Prince
  To whom we are beholden; but I know,
  That when my dear child is set forth at her best,
  That neither court nor country, though they sought
  Through all the provinces like those of old
  That lighted on Queen Esther, has her match.'

     Here ceased the kindly mother out of breath;
  And Enid listened brightening as she lay;
  Then, as the white and glittering star of morn
  Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by
  Slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose,
  And left her maiden couch, and robed herself,
  Helped by the mother's careful hand and eye,
  Without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown;
  Who, after, turned her daughter round, and said,
  She never yet had seen her half so fair;
  And called her like that maiden in the tale,
  Whom Gwydion made by glamour out of flowers
  And sweeter than the bride of Cassivelaun,
  Flur, for whose love the Roman Caesar first
  Invaded Britain, 'But we beat him back,
  As this great Prince invaded us, and we,
  Not beat him back, but welcomed him with joy
  And I can scarcely ride with you to court,
  For old am I, and rough the ways and wild;
  But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall dream
  I see my princess as I see her now,
  Clothed with my gift, and gay among the gay.'

     But while the women thus rejoiced, Geraint
  Woke where he slept in the high hall, and called
  For Enid, and when Yniol made report
  Of that good mother making Enid gay
  In such apparel as might well beseem
  His princess, or indeed the stately Queen,
  He answered:  'Earl, entreat her by my love,
  Albeit I give no reason but my wish,
  That she ride with me in her faded silk.'
  Yniol with that hard message went; it fell
  Like flaws in summer laying lusty corn:
  For Enid, all abashed she knew not why,
  Dared not to glance at her good mother's face,
  But silently, in all obedience,
  Her mother silent too, nor helping her,
  Laid from her limbs the costly-broidered gift,
  And robed them in her ancient suit again,
  And so descended.  Never man rejoiced
  More than Geraint to greet her thus attired;
  And glancing all at once as keenly at her
  As careful robins eye the delver's toil,
  Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall,
  But rested with her sweet face satisfied;
  Then seeing cloud upon the mother's brow,
  Her by both hands she caught, and sweetly said,

     'O my new mother, be not wroth or grieved
  At thy new son, for my petition to her.
  When late I left Caerleon, our great Queen,
  In words whose echo lasts, they were so sweet,
  Made promise, that whatever bride I brought,
  Herself would clothe her like the sun in Heaven.
  Thereafter, when I reached this ruined hall,
  Beholding one so bright in dark estate,
  I vowed that could I gain her, our fair Queen,
  No hand but hers, should make your Enid burst
  Sunlike from cloud--and likewise thought perhaps,
  That service done so graciously would bind
  The two together; fain I would the two
  Should love each other:  how can Enid find
  A nobler friend?  Another thought was mine;
  I came among you here so suddenly,
  That though her gentle presence at the lists
  Might well have served for proof that I was loved,
  I doubted whether daughter's tenderness,
  Or easy nature, might not let itself
  Be moulded by your wishes for her weal;
  Or whether some false sense in her own self
  Of my contrasting brightness, overbore
  Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall;
  And such a sense might make her long for court
  And all its perilous glories:  and I thought,
  That could I someway prove such force in her
  Linked with such love for me, that at a word
  (No reason given her) she could cast aside
  A splendour dear to women, new to her,
  And therefore dearer; or if not so new,
  Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power
  Of intermitted usage; then I felt
  That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows,
  Fixt on her faith.  Now, therefore, I do rest,
  A prophet certain of my prophecy,
  That never shadow of mistrust can cross
  Between us.  Grant me pardon for my thoughts:
  And for my strange petition I will make
  Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day,
  When your fair child shall wear your costly gift
  Beside your own warm hearth, with, on her knees,
  Who knows? another gift of the high God,
  Which, maybe, shall have learned to lisp you thanks.'

     He spoke:  the mother smiled, but half in tears,
  Then brought a mantle down and wrapt her in it,
  And claspt and kissed her, and they rode away.

     Now thrice that morning Guinevere had climbed
  The giant tower, from whose high crest, they say,
  Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset,
  And white sails flying on the yellow sea;
  But not to goodly hill or yellow sea
  Looked the fair Queen, but up the vale of Usk,
  By the flat meadow, till she saw them come;
  And then descending met them at the gates,
  Embraced her with all welcome as a friend,
  And did her honour as the Prince's bride,
  And clothed her for her bridals like the sun;
  And all that week was old Caerleon gay,
  For by the hands of Dubric, the high saint,
  They twain were wedded with all ceremony.

     And this was on the last year's Whitsuntide.
  But Enid ever kept the faded silk,
  Remembering how first he came on her,
  Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it,
  And all her foolish fears about the dress,
  And all his journey toward her, as himself
  Had told her, and their coming to the court.

     And now this morning when he said to her,
  'Put on your worst and meanest dress,' she found
  And took it, and arrayed herself therein.

 A Knight of the Round Table named Geraint has married a woman named Enid. Enid and Guinevere are besties, but when rumors swirl that Guinevere is cheating on Arthur, Geraint begins to fear that his wife's reputation will suffer by association. He doesn't want Enid to become tainted. To protect Enid from "taint," Geraint takes her to his castle in the hinterlands. There he forgets about jousting, hunting, and even governing his kingdom, preferring just to keep house with Enid. Everyone begins to make fun of him. When Enid learns of the mean gossip, she's so upset that she begins to cry in bed with Geraint one night. Interpreting her tears as love-longing for another knight, Geraint leaps from the bed, calls for his horse, and orders Enid to put on her worst dress. Now that's revenge. Looking at her worst dress reminds Enid of the time when she first met Geraint and he brought her to Arthur's court. This recollection prompts a flashback to that episode. Camelot, One Year Earlier: A forester arrives in Arthur's court with news of a huge white hart , prompting the whole court to go on the hunt. Guinevere arrives late to the hunt. Prince Geraint rides up while she's watching for it from a little hillside next to the woods. A knight, a lady, and a dwarf walk into a bar. Um... ride by, that is. When Guinevere sends her maiden to ask the knight's name, the dwarf refuses to answer and whips her. Geraint approaches with the same request and receives the same treatment. He vows to Guinevere to avenge the insult to her by learning the knight's name by force and rides off in pursuit of the trio. Before he leaves, Guinevere makes him promise to bring any future bride he finds to her so that Guinevere can dress her for her wedding. Geraint follows the trio to a little town. At one end stands a new white fortress, at the other end a dilapidated castle. There's a lot of noise being made throughout the town. As he rides through the town, Geraint finds every hostel full and discovers that the noise he hears is the sound of squires preparing their masters' armor for battle. When Geraint asks what all the fuss is about, everyone responds, "The Sparrow-Hawk." He can't get a satisfactory explanation of what this means from anyone, which annoys him. He asks an armorer about lodging and is directed to the home of Earl Yniol, over the bridge. When he arrives at the castle, Geraint finds the place in total disrepair. It's occupied by a welcoming host, his wife, and their beautiful daughter Enid. Yniol tells Geraint that the Sparrow-Hawk is his nephew. He's the knight who insulted Guinevere. Angered by Enid's refusal of his advances, the Sparrow-Hawk spread a rumor that Yniol stole his inheritance, prompting the townspeople to turn against Yniol and steal everything he owned. The town has a tradition in which knights compete to win a golden sparrow-hawk for their lady. Yniol's nephew has won it for the past few years, which is why he is called The Sparrow-Hawk. Geraint announces his intention to defeat Yniol's nephew in that year's tournament. When Yniol protests that he cannot because he has no lady, he proposes to fight for Enid. Furthermore, he wishes to marry Enid if he wins. Geraint defeats The Sparrow Hawk in the tournament, learning that his name is Edyrn, Son of Nudd. He sends Edyrn to apologize to Queen Guinevere. Geraint forces Edyrn to return Yniol's earldom. Edyrn eventually reforms and becomes a good man and knight. The next day Enid wakes in anticipation of traveling to Camelot to marry Geraint. But she is ashamed that all she has to wear is a threadbare old dress. She wishes she had the beautiful, rich dress that was stolen from her when the townspeople turned against her family. Her mother comes in to wake her up, carrying the beautiful new dress, which has been recovered from the townspeople who stole it. She begins to dress Enid in it. Geraint sends a message to Enid requesting that she travel to court in the oldest dress she has. Without a word of dissent, Enid takes off the new dress and puts on the old one. Enid's mother is angry with Geraint for making this request, until he explains his reasons for it: He wants to honor Guinevere's request to dress his bride for her wedding. He wants to be sure that Enid really wants to marry him and is not just doing it for the rich life marriage to a prince would bring. He wants to test Enid's obedience. Geraint promises that someday Enid will wear the beautiful dress her mother gave her next to her family's hearth, perhaps with a child in her lap. All being forgiven, Geraint and Enid ride to Camelot, where Guinevere dresses her for her wedding, which is presided over by Dubric, bishop of Britain. End of flashback: Enid's thoughts return to the present, where she gazes on the threadbare dress she wore to court one year ago. Acceding to Geraint's request that she put on her worst dress, she wears it once again.

