Chapter: Geraint and Enid 

  O purblind race of miserable men,
  How many among us at this very hour
  Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves,
  By taking true for false, or false for true;
  Here, through the feeble twilight of this world
  Groping, how many, until we pass and reach
  That other, where we see as we are seen!

     So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth
  That morning, when they both had got to horse,
  Perhaps because he loved her passionately,
  And felt that tempest brooding round his heart,
  Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce
  Upon a head so dear in thunder, said:
  'Not at my side.  I charge thee ride before,
  Ever a good way on before; and this
  I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife,
  Whatever happens, not to speak to me,
  No, not a word!' and Enid was aghast;
  And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on,
  When crying out, 'Effeminate as I am,
  I will not fight my way with gilded arms,
  All shall be iron;' he loosed a mighty purse,
  Hung at his belt, and hurled it toward the squire.
  So the last sight that Enid had of home
  Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown
  With gold and scattered coinage, and the squire
  Chafing his shoulder:  then he cried again,
  'To the wilds!' and Enid leading down the tracks
  Through which he bad her lead him on, they past
  The marches, and by bandit-haunted holds,
  Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern,
  And wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode:
  Round was their pace at first, but slackened soon:
  A stranger meeting them had surely thought
  They rode so slowly and they looked so pale,
  That each had suffered some exceeding wrong.
  For he was ever saying to himself,
  'O I that wasted time to tend upon her,
  To compass her with sweet observances,
  To dress her beautifully and keep her true'--
  And there he broke the sentence in his heart
  Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue
  May break it, when his passion masters him.
  And she was ever praying the sweet heavens
  To save her dear lord whole from any wound.
  And ever in her mind she cast about
  For that unnoticed failing in herself,
  Which made him look so cloudy and so cold;
  Till the great plover's human whistle amazed
  Her heart, and glancing round the waste she feared
  In every wavering brake an ambuscade.
  Then thought again, 'If there be such in me,
  I might amend it by the grace of Heaven,
  If he would only speak and tell me of it.'

     But when the fourth part of the day was gone,
  Then Enid was aware of three tall knights
  On horseback, wholly armed, behind a rock
  In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all;
  And heard one crying to his fellow, 'Look,
  Here comes a laggard hanging down his head,
  Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound;
  Come, we will slay him and will have his horse
  And armour, and his damsel shall be ours.'

     Then Enid pondered in her heart, and said:
  'I will go back a little to my lord,
  And I will tell him all their caitiff talk;
  For, be he wroth even to slaying me,
  Far liefer by his dear hand had I die,
  Than that my lord should suffer loss or shame.'

     Then she went back some paces of return,
  Met his full frown timidly firm, and said;
  'My lord, I saw three bandits by the rock
  Waiting to fall on you, and heard them boast
  That they would slay you, and possess your horse
  And armour, and your damsel should be theirs.'

     He made a wrathful answer:  'Did I wish
  Your warning or your silence? one command
  I laid upon you, not to speak to me,
  And thus ye keep it!  Well then, look--for now,
  Whether ye wish me victory or defeat,
  Long for my life, or hunger for my death,
  Yourself shall see my vigour is not lost.'

     Then Enid waited pale and sorrowful,
  And down upon him bare the bandit three.
  And at the midmost charging, Prince Geraint
  Drave the long spear a cubit through his breast
  And out beyond; and then against his brace
  Of comrades, each of whom had broken on him
  A lance that splintered like an icicle,
  Swung from his brand a windy buffet out
  Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunned the twain
  Or slew them, and dismounting like a man
  That skins the wild beast after slaying him,
  Stript from the three dead wolves of woman born
  The three gay suits of armour which they wore,
  And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits
  Of armour on their horses, each on each,
  And tied the bridle-reins of all the three
  Together, and said to her, 'Drive them on
  Before you;' and she drove them through the waste.

     He followed nearer; ruth began to work
  Against his anger in him, while he watched
  The being he loved best in all the world,
  With difficulty in mild obedience
  Driving them on:  he fain had spoken to her,
  And loosed in words of sudden fire the wrath
  And smouldered wrong that burnt him all within;
  But evermore it seemed an easier thing
  At once without remorse to strike her dead,
  Than to cry 'Halt,' and to her own bright face
  Accuse her of the least immodesty:
  And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more
  That she could speak whom his own ear had heard
  Call herself false:  and suffering thus he made
  Minutes an age:  but in scarce longer time
  Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk,
  Before he turn to fall seaward again,
  Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold
  In the first shallow shade of a deep wood,
  Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks,
  Three other horsemen waiting, wholly armed,
  Whereof one seemed far larger than her lord,
  And shook her pulses, crying, 'Look, a prize!
  Three horses and three goodly suits of arms,
  And all in charge of whom? a girl:  set on.'
  'Nay,' said the second, 'yonder comes a knight.'
  The third, 'A craven; how he hangs his head.'
  The giant answered merrily, 'Yea, but one?
  Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him.'

     And Enid pondered in her heart and said,
  'I will abide the coming of my lord,
  And I will tell him all their villainy.
  My lord is weary with the fight before,
  And they will fall upon him unawares.
  I needs must disobey him for his good;
  How should I dare obey him to his harm?
  Needs must I speak, and though he kill me for it,
  I save a life dearer to me than mine.'

     And she abode his coming, and said to him
  With timid firmness, 'Have I leave to speak?'
  He said, 'Ye take it, speaking,' and she spoke.

     'There lurk three villains yonder in the wood,
  And each of them is wholly armed, and one
  Is larger-limbed than you are, and they say
  That they will fall upon you while ye pass.'

     To which he flung a wrathful answer back:
  'And if there were an hundred in the wood,
  And every man were larger-limbed than I,
  And all at once should sally out upon me,
  I swear it would not ruffle me so much
  As you that not obey me.  Stand aside,
  And if I fall, cleave to the better man.'

     And Enid stood aside to wait the event,
  Not dare to watch the combat, only breathe
  Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath.
  And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him.
  Aimed at the helm, his lance erred; but Geraint's,
  A little in the late encounter strained,
  Struck through the bulky bandit's corselet home,
  And then brake short, and down his enemy rolled,
  And there lay still; as he that tells the tale
  Saw once a great piece of a promontory,
  That had a sapling growing on it, slide
  From the long shore-cliff's windy walls to the beach,
  And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew:
  So lay the man transfixt.  His craven pair
  Of comrades making slowlier at the Prince,
  When now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood;
  On whom the victor, to confound them more,
  Spurred with his terrible war-cry; for as one,
  That listens near a torrent mountain-brook,
  All through the crash of the near cataract hears
  The drumming thunder of the huger fall
  At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear
  His voice in battle, and be kindled by it,
  And foemen scared, like that false pair who turned
  Flying, but, overtaken, died the death
  Themselves had wrought on many an innocent.

     Thereon Geraint, dismounting, picked the lance
  That pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolves
  Their three gay suits of armour, each from each,
  And bound them on their horses, each on each,
  And tied the bridle-reins of all the three
  Together, and said to her, 'Drive them on
  Before you,' and she drove them through the wood.

     He followed nearer still:  the pain she had
  To keep them in the wild ways of the wood,
  Two sets of three laden with jingling arms,
  Together, served a little to disedge
  The sharpness of that pain about her heart:
  And they themselves, like creatures gently born
  But into bad hands fallen, and now so long
  By bandits groomed, pricked their light ears, and felt
  Her low firm voice and tender government.

     So through the green gloom of the wood they past,
  And issuing under open heavens beheld
  A little town with towers, upon a rock,
  And close beneath, a meadow gemlike chased
  In the brown wild, and mowers mowing in it:
  And down a rocky pathway from the place
  There came a fair-haired youth, that in his hand
  Bare victual for the mowers:  and Geraint
  Had ruth again on Enid looking pale:
  Then, moving downward to the meadow ground,
  He, when the fair-haired youth came by him, said,
  'Friend, let her eat; the damsel is so faint.'
  'Yea, willingly,' replied the youth; 'and thou,
  My lord, eat also, though the fare is coarse,
  And only meet for mowers;' then set down
  His basket, and dismounting on the sward
  They let the horses graze, and ate themselves.
  And Enid took a little delicately,
  Less having stomach for it than desire
  To close with her lord's pleasure; but Geraint
  Ate all the mowers' victual unawares,
  And when he found all empty, was amazed;
  And 'Boy,' said he, 'I have eaten all, but take
  A horse and arms for guerdon; choose the best.'
  He, reddening in extremity of delight,
  'My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold.'
  'Ye will be all the wealthier,' cried the Prince.
  'I take it as free gift, then,' said the boy,
  'Not guerdon; for myself can easily,
  While your good damsel rests, return, and fetch
  Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl;
  For these are his, and all the field is his,
  And I myself am his; and I will tell him
  How great a man thou art:  he loves to know
  When men of mark are in his territory:
  And he will have thee to his palace here,
  And serve thee costlier than with mowers' fare.'

     Then said Geraint, 'I wish no better fare:
  I never ate with angrier appetite
  Than when I left your mowers dinnerless.
  And into no Earl's palace will I go.
  I know, God knows, too much of palaces!
  And if he want me, let him come to me.
  But hire us some fair chamber for the night,
  And stalling for the horses, and return
  With victual for these men, and let us know.'

     'Yea, my kind lord,' said the glad youth, and went,
  Held his head high, and thought himself a knight,
  And up the rocky pathway disappeared,
  Leading the horse, and they were left alone.

     But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes
  Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance
  At Enid, where she droopt:  his own false doom,
  That shadow of mistrust should never cross
  Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sighed;
  Then with another humorous ruth remarked
  The lusty mowers labouring dinnerless,
  And watched the sun blaze on the turning scythe,
  And after nodded sleepily in the heat.
  But she, remembering her old ruined hall,
  And all the windy clamour of the daws
  About her hollow turret, plucked the grass
  There growing longest by the meadow's edge,
  And into many a listless annulet,
  Now over, now beneath her marriage ring,
  Wove and unwove it, till the boy returned
  And told them of a chamber, and they went;
  Where, after saying to her, 'If ye will,
  Call for the woman of the house,' to which
  She answered, 'Thanks, my lord;' the two remained
  Apart by all the chamber's width, and mute
  As two creatures voiceless through the fault of birth,
  Or two wild men supporters of a shield,
  Painted, who stare at open space, nor glance
  The one at other, parted by the shield.

     On a sudden, many a voice along the street,
  And heel against the pavement echoing, burst
  Their drowse; and either started while the door,
  Pushed from without, drave backward to the wall,
  And midmost of a rout of roisterers,
  Femininely fair and dissolutely pale,
  Her suitor in old years before Geraint,
  Entered, the wild lord of the place, Limours.
  He moving up with pliant courtliness,
  Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily,
  In the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt hand,
  Found Enid with the corner of his eye,
  And knew her sitting sad and solitary.
  Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly cheer
  To feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously
  According to his fashion, bad the host
  Call in what men soever were his friends,
  And feast with these in honour of their Earl;
  'And care not for the cost; the cost is mine.'

     And wine and food were brought, and Earl Limours
  Drank till he jested with all ease, and told
  Free tales, and took the word and played upon it,
  And made it of two colours; for his talk,
  When wine and free companions kindled him,
  Was wont to glance and sparkle like a gem
  Of fifty facets; thus he moved the Prince
  To laughter and his comrades to applause.
  Then, when the Prince was merry, asked Limours,
  'Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and speak
  To your good damsel there who sits apart,
  And seems so lonely?'  'My free leave,' he said;
  'Get her to speak:  she doth not speak to me.'
  Then rose Limours, and looking at his feet,
  Like him who tries the bridge he fears may fail,
  Crost and came near, lifted adoring eyes,
  Bowed at her side and uttered whisperingly:

     'Enid, the pilot star of my lone life,
  Enid, my early and my only love,
  Enid, the loss of whom hath turned me wild--
  What chance is this? how is it I see you here?
  Ye are in my power at last, are in my power.
  Yet fear me not:  I call mine own self wild,
  But keep a touch of sweet civility
  Here in the heart of waste and wilderness.
  I thought, but that your father came between,
  In former days you saw me favourably.
  And if it were so do not keep it back:
  Make me a little happier:  let me know it:
  Owe you me nothing for a life half-lost?
  Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you are.
  And, Enid, you and he, I see with joy,
  Ye sit apart, you do not speak to him,
  You come with no attendance, page or maid,
  To serve you--doth he love you as of old?
  For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know
  Though men may bicker with the things they love,
  They would not make them laughable in all eyes,
  Not while they loved them; and your wretched dress,
  A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks
  Your story, that this man loves you no more.
  Your beauty is no beauty to him now:
  A common chance--right well I know it--palled--
  For I know men:  nor will ye win him back,
  For the man's love once gone never returns.
  But here is one who loves you as of old;
  With more exceeding passion than of old:
  Good, speak the word:  my followers ring him round:
  He sits unarmed; I hold a finger up;
  They understand:  nay; I do not mean blood:
  Nor need ye look so scared at what I say:
  My malice is no deeper than a moat,
  No stronger than a wall:  there is the keep;
  He shall not cross us more; speak but the word:
  Or speak it not; but then by Him that made me
  The one true lover whom you ever owned,
  I will make use of all the power I have.
  O pardon me! the madness of that hour,
  When first I parted from thee, moves me yet.'

     At this the tender sound of his own voice
  And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it,
  Made his eye moist; but Enid feared his eyes,
  Moist as they were, wine-heated from the feast;
  And answered with such craft as women use,
  Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance
  That breaks upon them perilously, and said:

     'Earl, if you love me as in former years,
  And do not practise on me, come with morn,
  And snatch me from him as by violence;
  Leave me tonight:  I am weary to the death.'

     Low at leave-taking, with his brandished plume
  Brushing his instep, bowed the all-amorous Earl,
  And the stout Prince bad him a loud good-night.
  He moving homeward babbled to his men,
  How Enid never loved a man but him,
  Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her lord.

     But Enid left alone with Prince Geraint,
  Debating his command of silence given,
  And that she now perforce must violate it,
  Held commune with herself, and while she held
  He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart
  To wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly pleased
  To find him yet unwounded after fight,
  And hear him breathing low and equally.
  Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heaped
  The pieces of his armour in one place,
  All to be there against a sudden need;
  Then dozed awhile herself, but overtoiled
  By that day's grief and travel, evermore
  Seemed catching at a rootless thorn, and then
  Went slipping down horrible precipices,
  And strongly striking out her limbs awoke;
  Then thought she heard the wild Earl at the door,
  With all his rout of random followers,
  Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summoning her;
  Which was the red cock shouting to the light,
  As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy world,
  And glimmered on his armour in the room.
  And once again she rose to look at it,
  But touched it unawares:  jangling, the casque
  Fell, and he started up and stared at her.
  Then breaking his command of silence given,
  She told him all that Earl Limours had said,
  Except the passage that he loved her not;
  Nor left untold the craft herself had used;
  But ended with apology so sweet,
  Low-spoken, and of so few words, and seemed
  So justified by that necessity,
  That though he thought 'was it for him she wept
  In Devon?' he but gave a wrathful groan,
  Saying, 'Your sweet faces make good fellows fools
  And traitors.  Call the host and bid him bring
  Charger and palfrey.'  So she glided out
  Among the heavy breathings of the house,
  And like a household Spirit at the walls
  Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and returned:
  Then tending her rough lord, though all unasked,
  In silence, did him service as a squire;
  Till issuing armed he found the host and cried,
  'Thy reckoning, friend?' and ere he learnt it, 'Take
  Five horses and their armours;' and the host
  Suddenly honest, answered in amaze,
  'My lord, I scarce have spent the worth of one!'
  'Ye will be all the wealthier,' said the Prince,
  And then to Enid, 'Forward! and today
  I charge you, Enid, more especially,
  What thing soever ye may hear, or see,
  Or fancy (though I count it of small use
  To charge you) that ye speak not but obey.'

     And Enid answered, 'Yea, my lord, I know
  Your wish, and would obey; but riding first,
  I hear the violent threats you do not hear,
  I see the danger which you cannot see:
  Then not to give you warning, that seems hard;
  Almost beyond me:  yet I would obey.'

     'Yea so,' said he, 'do it:  be not too wise;
  Seeing that ye are wedded to a man,
  Not all mismated with a yawning clown,
  But one with arms to guard his head and yours,
  With eyes to find you out however far,
  And ears to hear you even in his dreams.'

     With that he turned and looked as keenly at her
  As careful robins eye the delver's toil;
  And that within her, which a wanton fool,
  Or hasty judger would have called her guilt,
  Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall.
  And Geraint looked and was not satisfied.

     Then forward by a way which, beaten broad,
  Led from the territory of false Limours
  To the waste earldom of another earl,
  Doorm, whom his shaking vassals called the Bull,
  Went Enid with her sullen follower on.
  Once she looked back, and when she saw him ride
  More near by many a rood than yestermorn,
  It wellnigh made her cheerful; till Geraint
  Waving an angry hand as who should say
  'Ye watch me,' saddened all her heart again.
  But while the sun yet beat a dewy blade,
  The sound of many a heavily-galloping hoof
  Smote on her ear, and turning round she saw
  Dust, and the points of lances bicker in it.
  Then not to disobey her lord's behest,
  And yet to give him warning, for he rode
  As if he heard not, moving back she held
  Her finger up, and pointed to the dust.
  At which the warrior in his obstinacy,
  Because she kept the letter of his word,
  Was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood.
  And in the moment after, wild Limours,
  Borne on a black horse, like a thunder-cloud
  Whose skirts are loosened by the breaking storm,
  Half ridden off with by the thing he rode,
  And all in passion uttering a dry shriek,
  Dashed down on Geraint, who closed with him, and bore
  Down by the length of lance and arm beyond
  The crupper, and so left him stunned or dead,
  And overthrew the next that followed him,
  And blindly rushed on all the rout behind.
  But at the flash and motion of the man
  They vanished panic-stricken, like a shoal
  Of darting fish, that on a summer morn
  Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot
  Come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand,
  But if a man who stands upon the brink
  But lift a shining hand against the sun,
  There is not left the twinkle of a fin
  Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower;
  So, scared but at the motion of the man,
  Fled all the boon companions of the Earl,
  And left him lying in the public way;
  So vanish friendships only made in wine.

     Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint,
  Who saw the chargers of the two that fell
  Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly,
  Mixt with the flyers.  'Horse and man,' he said,
  'All of one mind and all right-honest friends!
  Not a hoof left:  and I methinks till now
  Was honest--paid with horses and with arms;
  I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg:
  And so what say ye, shall we strip him there
  Your lover? has your palfrey heart enough
  To bear his armour? shall we fast, or dine?
  No?--then do thou, being right honest, pray
  That we may meet the horsemen of Earl Doorm,
  I too would still be honest.'  Thus he said:
  And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins,
  And answering not one word, she led the way.

     But as a man to whom a dreadful loss
  Falls in a far land and he knows it not,
  But coming back he learns it, and the loss
  So pains him that he sickens nigh to death;
  So fared it with Geraint, who being pricked
  In combat with the follower of Limours,
  Bled underneath his armour secretly,
  And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife
  What ailed him, hardly knowing it himself,
  Till his eye darkened and his helmet wagged;
  And at a sudden swerving of the road,
  Though happily down on a bank of grass,
  The Prince, without a word, from his horse fell.

     And Enid heard the clashing of his fall,
  Suddenly came, and at his side all pale
  Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms,
  Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye
  Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound,
  And tearing off her veil of faded silk
  Had bared her forehead to the blistering sun,
  And swathed the hurt that drained her dear lord's life.
  Then after all was done that hand could do,
  She rested, and her desolation came
  Upon her, and she wept beside the way.

     And many past, but none regarded her,
  For in that realm of lawless turbulence,
  A woman weeping for her murdered mate
  Was cared as much for as a summer shower:
  One took him for a victim of Earl Doorm,
  Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him:
  Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms,
  Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl;
  Half whistling and half singing a coarse song,
  He drove the dust against her veilless eyes:
  Another, flying from the wrath of Doorm
  Before an ever-fancied arrow, made
  The long way smoke beneath him in his fear;
  At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel,
  And scoured into the coppices and was lost,
  While the great charger stood, grieved like a man.

     But at the point of noon the huge Earl Doorm,
  Broad-faced with under-fringe of russet beard,
  Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey,
  Came riding with a hundred lances up;
  But ere he came, like one that hails a ship,
  Cried out with a big voice, 'What, is he dead?'
  'No, no, not dead!' she answered in all haste.
  'Would some of your people take him up,
  And bear him hence out of this cruel sun?
  Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead.'

     Then said Earl Doorm:  'Well, if he be not dead,
  Why wail ye for him thus? ye seem a child.
  And be he dead, I count you for a fool;
  Your wailing will not quicken him:  dead or not,
  Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears.
  Yet, since the face is comely--some of you,
  Here, take him up, and bear him to our hall:
  An if he live, we will have him of our band;
  And if he die, why earth has earth enough
  To hide him.  See ye take the charger too,
  A noble one.'
               He spake, and past away,
  But left two brawny spearmen, who advanced,
  Each growling like a dog, when his good bone
  Seems to be plucked at by the village boys
  Who love to vex him eating, and he fears
  To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it,
  Gnawing and growling:  so the ruffians growled,
  Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man,
  Their chance of booty from the morning's raid,
  Yet raised and laid him on a litter-bier,
  Such as they brought upon their forays out
  For those that might be wounded; laid him on it
  All in the hollow of his shield, and took
  And bore him to the naked hall of Doorm,
  (His gentle charger following him unled)
  And cast him and the bier in which he lay
  Down on an oaken settle in the hall,
  And then departed, hot in haste to join
  Their luckier mates, but growling as before,
  And cursing their lost time, and the dead man,
  And their own Earl, and their own souls, and her.
  They might as well have blest her:  she was deaf
  To blessing or to cursing save from one.

     So for long hours sat Enid by her lord,
  There in the naked hall, propping his head,
  And chafing his pale hands, and calling to him.
  Till at the last he wakened from his swoon,
  And found his own dear bride propping his head,
  And chafing his faint hands, and calling to him;
  And felt the warm tears falling on his face;
  And said to his own heart, 'She weeps for me:'
  And yet lay still, and feigned himself as dead,
  That he might prove her to the uttermost,
  And say to his own heart, 'She weeps for me.'

     But in the falling afternoon returned
  The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall.
  His lusty spearmen followed him with noise:
  Each hurling down a heap of things that rang
  Against his pavement, cast his lance aside,
  And doffed his helm:  and then there fluttered in,
  Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes,
  A tribe of women, dressed in many hues,
  And mingled with the spearmen:  and Earl Doorm
  Struck with a knife's haft hard against the board,
  And called for flesh and wine to feed his spears.
  And men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves,
  And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh:
  And none spake word, but all sat down at once,
  And ate with tumult in the naked hall,
  Feeding like horses when you hear them feed;
  Till Enid shrank far back into herself,
  To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe.
  But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would,
  He rolled his eyes about the hall, and found
  A damsel drooping in a corner of it.
  Then he remembered her, and how she wept;
  And out of her there came a power upon him;
  And rising on the sudden he said, 'Eat!
  I never yet beheld a thing so pale.
  God's curse, it makes me mad to see you weep.
  Eat!  Look yourself.  Good luck had your good man,
  For were I dead who is it would weep for me?
  Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath
  Have I beheld a lily like yourself.
  And so there lived some colour in your cheek,
  There is not one among my gentlewomen
  Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove.
  But listen to me, and by me be ruled,
  And I will do the thing I have not done,
  For ye shall share my earldom with me, girl,
  And we will live like two birds in one nest,
  And I will fetch you forage from all fields,
  For I compel all creatures to my will.'

     He spoke:  the brawny spearman let his cheek
  Bulge with the unswallowed piece, and turning stared;
  While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawn
  Down, as the worm draws in the withered leaf
  And makes it earth, hissed each at other's ear
  What shall not be recorded--women they,
  Women, or what had been those gracious things,
  But now desired the humbling of their best,
  Yea, would have helped him to it:  and all at once
  They hated her, who took no thought of them,
  But answered in low voice, her meek head yet
  Drooping, 'I pray you of your courtesy,
  He being as he is, to let me be.'

     She spake so low he hardly heard her speak,
  But like a mighty patron, satisfied
  With what himself had done so graciously,
  Assumed that she had thanked him, adding, 'Yea,
  Eat and be glad, for I account you mine.'

     She answered meekly, 'How should I be glad
  Henceforth in all the world at anything,
  Until my lord arise and look upon me?'

     Here the huge Earl cried out upon her talk,
  As all but empty heart and weariness
  And sickly nothing; suddenly seized on her,
  And bare her by main violence to the board,
  And thrust the dish before her, crying, 'Eat.'

     'No, no,' said Enid, vext, 'I will not eat
  Till yonder man upon the bier arise,
  And eat with me.'  'Drink, then,' he answered.  'Here!'
  (And filled a horn with wine and held it to her,)
  'Lo! I, myself, when flushed with fight, or hot,
  God's curse, with anger--often I myself,
  Before I well have drunken, scarce can eat:
  Drink therefore and the wine will change thy will.'

     'Not so,' she cried, 'by Heaven, I will not drink
  Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it,
  And drink with me; and if he rise no more,
  I will not look at wine until I die.'

     At this he turned all red and paced his hall,
  Now gnawed his under, now his upper lip,
  And coming up close to her, said at last:
  'Girl, for I see ye scorn my courtesies,
  Take warning:  yonder man is surely dead;
  And I compel all creatures to my will.
  Not eat nor drink?  And wherefore wail for one,
  Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn
  By dressing it in rags?  Amazed am I,
  Beholding how ye butt against my wish,
  That I forbear you thus:  cross me no more.
  At least put off to please me this poor gown,
  This silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed:
  I love that beauty should go beautifully:
  For see ye not my gentlewomen here,
  How gay, how suited to the house of one
  Who loves that beauty should go beautifully?
  Rise therefore; robe yourself in this:  obey.'

     He spoke, and one among his gentlewomen
  Displayed a splendid silk of foreign loom,
  Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue
  Played into green, and thicker down the front
  With jewels than the sward with drops of dew,
  When all night long a cloud clings to the hill,
  And with the dawn ascending lets the day
  Strike where it clung:  so thickly shone the gems.

     But Enid answered, harder to be moved
  Than hardest tyrants in their day of power,
  With life-long injuries burning unavenged,
  And now their hour has come; and Enid said:

     'In this poor gown my dear lord found me first,
  And loved me serving in my father's hall:
  In this poor gown I rode with him to court,
  And there the Queen arrayed me like the sun:
  In this poor gown he bad me clothe myself,
  When now we rode upon this fatal quest
  Of honour, where no honour can be gained:
  And this poor gown I will not cast aside
  Until himself arise a living man,
  And bid me cast it.  I have griefs enough:
  Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be:
  I never loved, can never love but him:
  Yea, God, I pray you of your gentleness,
  He being as he is, to let me be.'

     Then strode the brute Earl up and down his hall,
  And took his russet beard between his teeth;
  Last, coming up quite close, and in his mood
  Crying, 'I count it of no more avail,
  Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you;
  Take my salute,' unknightly with flat hand,
  However lightly, smote her on the cheek.

     Then Enid, in her utter helplessness,
  And since she thought, 'He had not dared to do it,
  Except he surely knew my lord was dead,'
  Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry,
  As of a wild thing taken in the trap,
  Which sees the trapper coming through the wood.

     This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword,
  (It lay beside him in the hollow shield),
  Made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it
  Shore through the swarthy neck, and like a ball
  The russet-bearded head rolled on the floor.
  So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead.
  And all the men and women in the hall
  Rose when they saw the dead man rise, and fled
  Yelling as from a spectre, and the two
  Were left alone together, and he said:

     'Enid, I have used you worse than that dead man;
  Done you more wrong:  we both have undergone
  That trouble which has left me thrice your own:
  Henceforward I will rather die than doubt.
  And here I lay this penance on myself,
  Not, though mine own ears heard you yestermorn--
  You thought me sleeping, but I heard you say,
  I heard you say, that you were no true wife:
  I swear I will not ask your meaning in it:
  I do believe yourself against yourself,
  And will henceforward rather die than doubt.'

     And Enid could not say one tender word,
  She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart:
  She only prayed him, 'Fly, they will return
  And slay you; fly, your charger is without,
  My palfrey lost.'  'Then, Enid, shall you ride
  Behind me.'  'Yea,' said Enid, 'let us go.'
  And moving out they found the stately horse,
  Who now no more a vassal to the thief,
  But free to stretch his limbs in lawful fight,
  Neighed with all gladness as they came, and stooped
  With a low whinny toward the pair:  and she
  Kissed the white star upon his noble front,
  Glad also; then Geraint upon the horse
  Mounted, and reached a hand, and on his foot
  She set her own and climbed; he turned his face
  And kissed her climbing, and she cast her arms
  About him, and at once they rode away.

     And never yet, since high in Paradise
  O'er the four rivers the first roses blew,
  Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind
  Than lived through her, who in that perilous hour
  Put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart,
  And felt him hers again:  she did not weep,
  But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist
  Like that which kept the heart of Eden green
  Before the useful trouble of the rain:
  Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes
  As not to see before them on the path,
  Right in the gateway of the bandit hold,
  A knight of Arthur's court, who laid his lance
  In rest, and made as if to fall upon him.
  Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of blood,
  She, with her mind all full of what had chanced,
  Shrieked to the stranger 'Slay not a dead man!'
  'The voice of Enid,' said the knight; but she,
  Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd,
  Was moved so much the more, and shrieked again,
  'O cousin, slay not him who gave you life.'
  And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake:
  'My lord Geraint, I greet you with all love;
  I took you for a bandit knight of Doorm;
  And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him,
  Who love you, Prince, with something of the love
  Wherewith we love the Heaven that chastens us.
  For once, when I was up so high in pride
  That I was halfway down the slope to Hell,
  By overthrowing me you threw me higher.
  Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table Round,
  And since I knew this Earl, when I myself
  Was half a bandit in my lawless hour,
  I come the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm
  (The King is close behind me) bidding him
  Disband himself, and scatter all his powers,
  Submit, and hear the judgment of the King.'

     'He hears the judgment of the King of kings,'
  Cried the wan Prince; 'and lo, the powers of Doorm
  Are scattered,' and he pointed to the field,
  Where, huddled here and there on mound and knoll,
  Were men and women staring and aghast,
  While some yet fled; and then he plainlier told
  How the huge Earl lay slain within his hall.
  But when the knight besought him, 'Follow me,
  Prince, to the camp, and in the King's own ear
  Speak what has chanced; ye surely have endured
  Strange chances here alone;' that other flushed,
  And hung his head, and halted in reply,
  Fearing the mild face of the blameless King,
  And after madness acted question asked:
  Till Edyrn crying, 'If ye will not go
  To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you,'
  'Enough,' he said, 'I follow,' and they went.
  But Enid in their going had two fears,
  One from the bandit scattered in the field,
  And one from Edyrn.  Every now and then,
  When Edyrn reined his charger at her side,
  She shrank a little.  In a hollow land,
  From which old fires have broken, men may fear
  Fresh fire and ruin.  He, perceiving, said:

     'Fair and dear cousin, you that most had cause
  To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed.
  Yourself were first the blameless cause to make
  My nature's prideful sparkle in the blood
  Break into furious flame; being repulsed
  By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and wrought
  Until I overturned him; then set up
  (With one main purpose ever at my heart)
  My haughty jousts, and took a paramour;
  Did her mock-honour as the fairest fair,
  And, toppling over all antagonism,
  So waxed in pride, that I believed myself
  Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh mad:
  And, but for my main purpose in these jousts,
  I should have slain your father, seized yourself.
  I lived in hope that sometime you would come
  To these my lists with him whom best you loved;
  And there, poor cousin, with your meek blue eyes
  The truest eyes that ever answered Heaven,
  Behold me overturn and trample on him.
  Then, had you cried, or knelt, or prayed to me,
  I should not less have killed him.  And so you came,--
  But once you came,--and with your own true eyes
  Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one
  Speaks of a service done him) overthrow
  My proud self, and my purpose three years old,
  And set his foot upon me, and give me life.
  There was I broken down; there was I saved:
  Though thence I rode all-shamed, hating the life
  He gave me, meaning to be rid of it.
  And all the penance the Queen laid upon me
  Was but to rest awhile within her court;
  Where first as sullen as a beast new-caged,
  And waiting to be treated like a wolf,
  Because I knew my deeds were known, I found,
  Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn,
  Such fine reserve and noble reticence,
  Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace
  Of tenderest courtesy, that I began
  To glance behind me at my former life,
  And find that it had been the wolf's indeed:
  And oft I talked with Dubric, the high saint,
  Who, with mild heat of holy oratory,
  Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness,
  Which, when it weds with manhood, makes a man.
  And you were often there about the Queen,
  But saw me not, or marked not if you saw;
  Nor did I care or dare to speak with you,
  But kept myself aloof till I was changed;
  And fear not, cousin; I am changed indeed.'

     He spoke, and Enid easily believed,
  Like simple noble natures, credulous
  Of what they long for, good in friend or foe,
  There most in those who most have done them ill.
  And when they reached the camp the King himself
  Advanced to greet them, and beholding her
  Though pale, yet happy, asked her not a word,
  But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held
  In converse for a little, and returned,
  And, gravely smiling, lifted her from horse,
  And kissed her with all pureness, brother-like,
  And showed an empty tent allotted her,
  And glancing for a minute, till he saw her
  Pass into it, turned to the Prince, and said:

     'Prince, when of late ye prayed me for my leave
  To move to your own land, and there defend
  Your marches, I was pricked with some reproof,
  As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be,
  By having looked too much through alien eyes,
  And wrought too long with delegated hands,
  Not used mine own:  but now behold me come
  To cleanse this common sewer of all my realm,
  With Edyrn and with others:  have ye looked
  At Edyrn? have ye seen how nobly changed?
  This work of his is great and wonderful.
  His very face with change of heart is changed.
  The world will not believe a man repents:
  And this wise world of ours is mainly right.
  Full seldom doth a man repent, or use
  Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch
  Of blood and custom wholly out of him,
  And make all clean, and plant himself afresh.
  Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart
  As I will weed this land before I go.
  I, therefore, made him of our Table Round,
  Not rashly, but have proved him everyway
  One of our noblest, our most valorous,
  Sanest and most obedient:  and indeed
  This work of Edyrn wrought upon himself
  After a life of violence, seems to me
  A thousand-fold more great and wonderful
  Than if some knight of mine, risking his life,
  My subject with my subjects under him,
  Should make an onslaught single on a realm
  Of robbers, though he slew them one by one,
  And were himself nigh wounded to the death.'

     So spake the King; low bowed the Prince, and felt
  His work was neither great nor wonderful,
  And past to Enid's tent; and thither came
  The King's own leech to look into his hurt;
  And Enid tended on him there; and there
  Her constant motion round him, and the breath
  Of her sweet tendance hovering over him,
  Filled all the genial courses of his blood
  With deeper and with ever deeper love,
  As the south-west that blowing Bala lake
  Fills all the sacred Dee.  So past the days.

     But while Geraint lay healing of his hurt,
  The blameless King went forth and cast his eyes
  On each of all whom Uther left in charge
  Long since, to guard the justice of the King:
  He looked and found them wanting; and as now
  Men weed the white horse on the Berkshire hills
  To keep him bright and clean as heretofore,
  He rooted out the slothful officer
  Or guilty, which for bribe had winked at wrong,
  And in their chairs set up a stronger race
  With hearts and hands, and sent a thousand men
  To till the wastes, and moving everywhere
  Cleared the dark places and let in the law,
  And broke the bandit holds and cleansed the land.

     Then, when Geraint was whole again, they past
  With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk.
  There the great Queen once more embraced her friend,
  And clothed her in apparel like the day.
  And though Geraint could never take again
  That comfort from their converse which he took
  Before the Queen's fair name was breathed upon,
  He rested well content that all was well.
  Thence after tarrying for a space they rode,
  And fifty knights rode with them to the shores
  Of Severn, and they past to their own land.
  And there he kept the justice of the King
  So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts
  Applauded, and the spiteful whisper died:
  And being ever foremost in the chase,
  And victor at the tilt and tournament,
  They called him the great Prince and man of men.
  But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call
  Enid the Fair, a grateful people named
  Enid the Good; and in their halls arose
  The cry of children, Enids and Geraints
  Of times to be; nor did he doubt her more,
  But rested in her fealty, till he crowned
  A happy life with a fair death, and fell
  Against the heathen of the Northern Sea
  In battle, fighting for the blameless King.

 Geraint and Enid set out on their journey that very morning. All their troubles, the poet comments, are due to Geraint's susceptibility to the common, human failing of not being able to discern between truth and falsity. Geraint orders Enid to ride in front of him and not to speak, whatever the provocation. Perhaps, Tennyson hints, this command is because he still loves her and is afraid that in some outburst of his brooding jealousy he will harm her. Before they have ridden three paces, Geraint shouts: "Effeminate as I am,I will not fight my way with gilded arms,All shall be iron; . . ." He tosses away his purse and sends his squire home. The two ride on slowly into the bandit-infested wilderness adjoining Devon. Neither speaks, and both look pale and unhappy. Enid muses sadly: "If there be such in me,I might amend it by the grace of Heaven,If he would only speak and tell me of it." After a while, Enid notices three knights and overhears them planning to attack Geraint. He is riding so listlessly that he inspires no fear in them. She does not wish to disobey his order to her, but is afraid that he might be harmed. Finally she rides back and warns him. Rather than show any gratitude, Geraint criticizes Enid for her disobedience and needles her about his suspicion that she really wants him to be defeated. Geraint engages the knights and is victorious. He piles the armor of the dead knights on their horses and makes Enid lead them as she rides. The same episode is repeated again with three other knights, and once more Geraint chastises Enid for her disobedience. He is triumphant in each fight. Now Enid is forced to lead six captured horses. Geraint has some sympathy for her difficulty handling them, but does not offer to help. In the afternoon, Geraint and Enid dine with some farm workers and are then guided to an inn for the night. After arranging for accommodations, Geraint continues to be sullen and nasty. Later that evening, they are visited at the inn by the local ruler, Earl Limours, who, by chance, happens to have once been a suitor of Enid's. Limours is a crude drunkard, and Geraint callously allows him to make all sorts of coarse jokes, much to the distress and embarrassment of Enid. Before leaving for the night, Limours informs Enid that he still loves her and plans the next morning to rescue her from her cruel husband. When day breaks, Enid warns Geraint of the plot. He, of course, suspects her of having encouraged the earl and is angry. They leave the inn immediately but are pursued by Limours and his followers. In a running fight, Geraint is able to drive them off. Soon the unhappy couple enters the lawless territory of Earl Doorm the Bull. Suddenly Geraint collapses, for he was wounded in the battle with Limours' men, but said nothing. His injury is serious, and Enid is powerless to aid him. She sits by his side, weeping while he lies unconscious. All the passersby are afraid to offer any help. After a while, Doorm and his soldiers ride past, returning from a raid. The outlaw earl's curiosity is aroused by the lovely maiden and he questions her. Doorm insists that the wounded knight is dead, but Enid refuses to believe him. Doorm says: "Well, if he be not dead,Why wail ye for him thus? Ye seem a child.And he be dead, I count you for a fool;Your wailing will not quicken him; dead or not,Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears. . . . " The outlaw chieftain has his soldiers bring Geraint's body and Enid to his stronghold. In Doorm's hall that night, a banquet takes place. His rough soldiers and their lewd women drink heavily and exchange ribald jests. Meanwhile, Enid sits in a corner tending Geraint's body. She refuses to eat or drink and is obsessed with the thought that he is still alive. Doorm approaches Enid and, after offering her food, drink, and new clothing, tries to force her to become his mistress. Geraint revives and overhears, but pretends to be dead in order to test Enid's fidelity to him. She continues to refuse Doorm's advances, and the earl angrily slaps her. Geraint leaps up and stabs the robber chief. The soldiers and women scatter in panic. Geraint apologizes to Enid for his misuse of her, and the two then flee, fearing that Doorm's spearmen will seek revenge. As they gallop off together on one horse, they meet Edyrn, son of Nudd. He informs them that he is an advance scout for an army led by Arthur to rid this province of thieves and outlaws. He offers to guide them to the king's camp. At first Enid is afraid of her cousin, but he informs her that she no longer has any grounds for worry. Through the influence of Guinevere and Dubric and others at the court, he has become a reformed man and is now a Knight of the Round Table. At the camp, Geraint reports to Arthur. The king informs him that his original request to return to Devon had been a reminder of the sorry conditions in this area and had motivated the present punitive expedition. Moreover, Arthur praises the change in the character of Edyrn and expresses pride in the moral influence that his court has had on the young man. Hearing this praise, Geraint becomes deeply ashamed of his blameworthy and pointless behavior. Geraint's wounds are cared for by the king's own surgeon. In their tent that night, Geraint and Enid are reconciled. Meanwhile, Arthur continues his police operations in this lawless territory. New officers and judges are appointed to "guard the justice of the King," and the army destroys all the bandits' strongholds. When Geraint is well again they all return to Caerleon. Guinevere and Enid renew their friendship, and although Geraint is never again as happy about their relationship as he once was, he no longer suspects his wife of infidelity. Later on, the happy couple returns to Devon. Geraint's chivalrous and commendable behavior as ruler and knight ends all rumors about him. In time, children are born to them, and the small family lives a happy and long life together. Never again does Geraint doubt the love or loyalty of Enid. Many years later, Geraint dies a noble death while fighting for the king in a battle against the northern heathen.

