III.

The eve now came; and shadows cowled the way Like somber palmers, who have kneeled to pray Beside a wayside shrine, and rosy rolled Up the capacious West a grainy gold,

Luxuriant fluid, burned thro’ strong, keen skies, Which seemed as towering gates of Paradise Surged dim, far glories on the hungry gaze. And from that sunset down the roseate ways,

To Accolon, who with his idle lute, Reclined in revery against a root Of a great oak, a fragment of that West, A dwarf, in crimson satin tightly dressed,

Skipped like a leaf the rather frosts have burned And cozened to a fever red, that turned And withered all its sap. And this one came From Camelot; from his beloved dame,

Morgane the Fay. He on his shoulder bore A burning blade wrought strange with wizard lore, Runed mystically; and a scabbard which Glared venomous, with angry jewels rich.

He, louting to the knight, “Sir knight,” said he, “Your lady with all sweetest courtesy Assures you — ah, unworthy messenger I of such brightness!— of that love of her.”

Then doffing that great baldric, with the sword To him he gave: “And this from him, my lord King Arthur; even his Excalibur, The sovereign blade, which Merlin gat of her,

The Ladye of the Lake, who Launcelot Fostered from infanthood, as well you wot, In some wierd mere in Briogn's tangled lands Of charms and mist; where filmy fairy bands

By lazy moons of Autumn spin their fill Of giddy morrice on the frosty hill. By goodness of her favor this is sent; Who craved King Arthur boon with this intent:

That soon for her a desperate combat one With one of mightier prowess were begun; And with the sword Excalibur right sure Were she against that champion to endure.

The blade flame-trenchant, but more prize the sheath Which stauncheth blood and guardeth from all death.” He said: and Accolon looked on the sword, A mystic falchion, and, “It shall wend hard

With him thro’ thee, unconquerable blade, Whoe'er he be, who on my Queen hath laid Stress of unworship: and the hours as slow As palsied hours in Purgatory go

For those unmassed, till I have slain this foe! My purse, sweet page; and now — to her who gave, Dispatch! and this:— to all commands — her slave, To death obedient. In love or war

Her love to make me all the warrior. Plead her grace mercy for so long delay From love that dies an hourly death each day Till her white hands kissed he shall kiss her face,

By which his life breathes in continual grace.” Thus he commanded; and incontinent The dwarf departed like a red ray sent From rich down-flowering clouds of suffused light

Winged o'er long, purple glooms; and with the night, Whose votaress cypress stoled the dying strife Softly of day, and for whose perished life Gave heaven her golden stars, in dreamy thought

Wends Accolon to hazy Chariot. And it befell him; wandering one dawn, As was his wont, across a dew-drenched lawn, Glad with night freshness and elastic health

In sky and earth that lavished worlds of wealth From heady breeze and racy smells, a knight And lofty lady met he; gay bedight, With following of six esquires; and they

Held on straight wrists the jess'd gerfalcon gray, And rode a-hawking o'er the leas of Gore From Ontzlake's manor, where he languished; sore Hurt in the lists, a spear thrust in his thigh:

Who had besought — for much he feared to die — This knight and his fair lady, as they rode To hawk near Chariot, the Queen's abode, That they would pray her in all charity

Fare post to him,— for in chirurgery Of all that land she was the greatest leach,— And her to his recovery beseech. So, Accolon saluted, they drew rein,

And spake their message,— for right over fain Were they toward their sport,— that he might bare Petition to that lady. But, not there Was Arthur's sister, as they well must wot;

But now a se'nnight lay at Camelot, Of Guenevere the guest; and there with her Four other queens of farther Britain were: Isoud of Ireland, she of Cornwall Queen,

King Mark's wife; who right rarely then was seen At court for jealousy of Mark, who knew Her to that lance of Lyonesse how true Since mutual quaffing of a philter; while

How guilty Guenevere on such could smile: She of Northgales and she of Eastland: and She of the Out Isles Queen. A fairer band For sovereignty and love and loveliness

Was not in any realm to grace and bless. Then quoth the knight, “Ay? see how fortune turns And varies like an April day, that burns Now welkins blue with calm, now scowls them down,

Revengeful, with a black storm's wrinkled frown. For, look, this Damas, who so long hath lain A hiding vermin, fearful of all pain, Dark in his bandit towers by the deep,

Wakes from a five years’ torpor and a sleep; So sends dispatch a courier to my lord With,‘ Lo! behold! to-morrow with the sword Earl Damas by his knight at point of lance

Decides the issue of inheritance, Body to body, or by champion.’ Right hard to find such ere to-morrow dawn. Though sore bestead lies Ontzlake, and he could,

Right fain were he to save his livelihood. Then mused Sir Accolon: “The adventure goes Ev'n as my Lady fashioneth; who knows But what her arts develop this and make?”

And thus to those: “His battle I will take,— And he be so conditioned, harried of Estate and life,— in knighthood and for love. Conduct me thither.”

And, gramercied, then Mounted a void horse of that wondering train, And thence departed with two squires. And they Came to a lone, dismantled priory

Hard by a castle gray on whose square towers, Machicolated, o'er the forest's bowers, The immemorial morning bloomed and blushed. A woodland manor olden, dark embushed

In wild and woody hills. And then one wound An echoy horn, and with the boundless sound The drawbridge rumbled moatward clanking, and Into a paved court passed that little band....

When all the world was morning, gleam and glare Of far deluging glory, and the air Sang with the wood-bird, like a humming lyre Swept bold of minstrel fingers wire on wire;

Ere that fixed hour of prime came Arthur armed For battle royally. A black steed warmed A fierce impatience‘ neath him cased in mail, Huge, foreign; and accoutered head to tail

In costly sendal; rearward wine-dark red, Amber as sunlight to his fretful head. Firm, heavy armor blue had Arthur on Beneath a robe of honor, like the dawn,

Satin and diapered and purflewed deep With lordly golden purple; whence did sweep Two hanging acorn tuftings of fine gold, And at his thigh a falchion, long and bold,

Heavy and triple-edged; its scabbard, red Cordovan leather; thence a baldric led Of new cut deer-skin; this laborious wrought, And curiously with slides of gold was fraught,

And buckled with a buckle white that shone, Bone of the sea-horse, tongued with jet-black bone. And, sapphire-set, a burgonet of gold Barbaric, wyvern-crested whose throat rolled

A flame-sharp tongue of agate, and whose eyes Glowed venomous great rubies fierce of prize. And in his hand, a wiry lance of ash, Lattened with finest silver, like a flash

Of sunlight in the morning shone a-gash. Clad was his squire most richly; he whose head Curled with close locks of yellow tinged to red: Of noble bearing; fair face; hawk eyes keen,

And youthful, bearded chin. Right well beseen, Scarfed with blue satin; on his shoulder strong One broad gold brooch chased strangely, thick and long. His legs in hose of rarest Totness clad,

And parti-colored leathern shoes he had Gold-latched; and in his hand a bannered spear Speckled and bronzen sharpened in the air. So with his following, while lay like scars

The blue mist thin along the woodland bars, Thro’ dew and fog, thro’ shadow and thro’ ray Joustward Earl Damas led the forest way. Then to King Arthur when arrived were these

To where the lists shone silken thro’ the trees, Bannered and draped, a wimpled damsel came, Secret, upon a palfrey all aflame With sweat and heat of hurry, and, “From her,

Your sister Morgane, your Excalibur, With tender greeting: For ye well have need In this adventure of him. So, God speed!” And so departed suddenly: nor knew

The king but this his weapon tried and true. But brittle this and fashioned like thereof, And false of baser metal, in unlove And treason to his life, of her of kin

Half sister, Morgane — an unnatural sin. Then heralded into the lists he rode. Opposed flashed Accolon, who light bestrode, Exultant, proud in talisman of that sword,

A dun horse lofty as a haughty lord, Pure white about each hollow, pasterned hoof. Equipped shone knight and steed in arms of proof, Dappled with yellow variegated plate

Of Spanish laton. And of sovereign state His surcoat robe of honor white and black Of satin, red-silk needled front and back Then blackly bordered. And above his robe

That two-edged sword,— a throbbing golden globe Of vicious jewels,— thrust its burning hilt, Its broad belt, tawny and with gold-work gilt, Clasped with the eyelid of a black sea-horse

Whose tongue was rosy gold. And stern as Force His visored helmet burned like fire, of rich And bronzen laton hammered; and on which An hundred crystals glittered, thick as on

A silver web bright-studding dews of dawn. The casque's tail crest a taloned griffin ramped, In whose horned brow one virtuous jewel stamped. An ashen spear round-shafted, overlaid

With fine blue silver, whereon colors played, Firm in his iron gauntlet lithely swayed. Intense on either side an instant stood Glittering as serpents which, with Spring renewed,

In glassy scales meet on some greening way, Angry advance, quick tongues at poisonous play. Then clanged a herald's clarion and sharp heels, Harsh-spurred, each champion's springing courser feels

Touch to red onset; the aventured spears Hurled like two sun-bursts of a storm when clears Laborious thunders; and in middle course Shrieked shrill the unpierced shields; mailed horse from horse

Lashed madly pawing — and a hoarse roar rang From buckram lists, till the wild echoes sang Of leagues on leagues of forest and of cliff. Rigid the proof-shelled warriors passed and stiff

Whither their squires fresher spears upheld; Nor stayed to breathe; but scarcely firmly selled Launched deadly forward. Shield to savage shield Opposing; crest to crest, whose fronts did wield

A towering war's unmercifulest scath; Rocking undaunted, glared wan withering wrath From balls of jeweled eyes, and raging stood Slim, slippery bodies, in the sun like blood.

The lance of Accolon, as on a rock Long storm-launched foam breaks baffled, with the shock, On Arthur's sounding shield burst splintered force; But him resistless Arthur's,— high from horse

Sell-lifted,— ruinous bare crashing on A long sword's length; unsaddled Accolon For one stunned moment lay. Then rising, drew The great sword at his hip, that shone like dew

Fresh flashed in morn. “Descend;” he stiffly said, “To proof of better weapons head for head! Enough of spears, to swords!” and so the knight Addressed him to the King. Dismounting light,

Arthur his moon-bright brand unsheathed, and high Each covering shield gleamed slanting to the sky, Relentless, strong, and stubborn; underneath Their wary shelters foined the glittering death

Of stolid steel thrust livid arm to arm: As cloud to cloud growls up a soaring storm Above the bleak wood and lithe lightnings work Brave blades wild warring, in the black that lurk,

Thus fenced and thrust — one tortoise shield descends, Leaps a fierce sword shrill,— like a flame which sends A long fang heavenward,— for a crushing stroke; Swings hard and trenchant, and, resounding heard,

Sings surly helmward full; defiance reared Soars to a brother blow to shriek again Blade on brave blade. And o'er the battered plain, Forward and backward, blade on baleful blade,

Teeth clenched as visors where the fierce eyes made A cavernous, smouldering fury, shield at shield, Unflinchingly remained and scorned to yield. So Arthur drew aside to rest upon

His falchion for a pause; but Accolon As yet, thro’ virtue of that magic sheath Fresh and almighty, being no nearer death Thro’ loss of blood than when the trial begun,

Chafed with delay. But Arthur with the sun, Its thirsty heat, the loss from wounds of blood, Leaned fainting weary and so resting stood. Cried Accolon, “Here is no time for rest!

Defend thee!” and straight on the monarch pressed; “Defend or yield thee as one recreant!” Full on his helm a hewing blow did plant, Which beat a flying fire from the steel;

Smote, like one drunk with wine, the King did reel, Breath, brain bewildered. Then, infuriate, Nerve-stung with vigor by that blow, in hate Gnarled all his strength into one stroke of might,

And in both fists the huge blade knotted tight, Swung red, terrific to a sundering stroke.— As some bright wind that hurls th’ uprooted oak,— Boomed full the beaten burgonet he wore:

Hacked thro’ and thro’ the crest, and cleanly shore The golden boasting of its griffin fierce With hollow clamor down astounded ears: No further thence — but, shattered to the grass,

That brittle blade, crushed as if made of glass, Into hot pieces like a broken ray Burst sunward and in feverish fragments lay. Then groaned the King unarmed; and so he knew

This no Excalibur; that tried and true Most perfect tempered, runed and mystical. Sobbed, “Oh, hell-false! betray me?” — Then withal Him seemed this foe, who fought with so much stress,

So long untiring, and with no distress Of wounds or heat, through treachery bare his brand; And then he knew it by its hilt that hand Clutched to an avenging stroke. For Accolon

In madness urged the belted battle on His King defenseless; who, the hilted cross Of that false weapon grasped, beneath the boss Of his deep-dented shield crouched; and around

Crawled the unequal conflict o'er the ground, Sharded with shattered spears and off-hewn bits Of shivered steel and gold that burnt in fits. So hunted, yet defiant, cowering

Beneath his bossy shield's defense, the King Persisted stoutly. And, devising still How to secure his sword and by what skill, Him so it fortuned when most desperate:

In that hot chase they came where shattered late Lay tossed the truncheon of a bursten lance, Which deftly seized, to Accolon's advance He wielded valorous. Against the fist

Smote where the gauntlet husked the nervous wrist, Which strained the weapon to a wrathful blow; Palsied, the tightened sinews of his foe Loosened from effort, and, the falchion seized,

Easy was yielded. Then the wroth King squeezed, — Hurling the moon-disk of his shield afar,— Him in both knotted arms of wiry war, Rocked sidewise twice or thrice,— as one hath seen

Some stern storm take an ash tree, roaring green, Nodding its sappy bulk of trunk and boughs To dizziness, from tough, coiled roots carouse Its long height thundering;— so King Arthur shook

Sir Accolon and headlong flung; then took, Tearing away, that scabbard from his side, Tossed thro’ the breathless lists, that far and wide Gulped in the battle voiceless. Then right wroth

Secured Excalibur, and grasped of both Wild hands swung glittering and brought bitter down On rising Accolon; steel, bone and brawn Hewed thro’ that blow; unsettled every sense:

Bathed in a world of blood his limbs grew tense And writhen then ungathered limp with death. Bent to him Arthur, from the brow beneath, Unlaced the helm and doffed it and so asked,

When the fair forehead's hair curled dark uncasqued, “Say! ere I slay thee, whence and what thou art? What King, what court be thine? and from what part, Speak! or thou diest!— Yet, that brow, methinks

I have beheld it — where? say, ere death drinks The soul-light from life's cups, thine eyes! thou art — What art thou, speak!” He answered slow and short

With tortured breathing: “I?— one, Accolon Of Gaul, a knight of Arthur's court — at dawn — God wot what now I am for love so slain!” Then seemed the victor spasmed with keen pain,

Covered with mailed hands his visored face; “Thou Accolon? art Accolon?” a space Exclaimed and conned him: then asked softly, “Say, Whence gatest thou this sword, or in what way

Thou hadst it, speak?” But wandering that knight Heard dully, senses clodded thick with night; Then rallying earthward: “Woe, woe worth the sword! — From love of love who lives, for love yet lord!—

Morgane!— thy love for love in love hadst made Me strong o'er kings an hundred! to have swayed Britain! had this not risen like a fate, Spawned up, a Hell's miscarriage sired of Hate!—

A king? thou curse! a gold and blood crowned king, With Arthur's sister queen?—‘ Twas she who schemed. And there at Chariot we loved and dreamed Gone some twelve months. There so we had devolved

How Arthur's death were compassed and resolved Each liberal morning, like an almoner, Prodigal of silver to the begging air; Each turbulent eve that in heaven's turquoise rolled

Convulsive fiery glories deep in gold; Each night — hilarious heavens vast of night!— Boisterous with quivering stars buoyed bubble-light In flexuous labyrinths o’ the intricate sphere.

We dreamed and spake Ambition at our ear — Nay! a crowned curse and crimeful clad she came, To me, that woman, brighter than a flame; And laughed on me with pouting lips up-pursed

For kisses which I gave for love: How cursed Was I thereafter! For, lie fleshed in truth, She shrivels to a hag! Behind that youth Ugly, misshapen; Lust not Love, wherein

Germs pregnant seed of Hell for hate and sin.— I seek for such the proudest height of seat, King Arthur's kingdom, and bold fame complete?— Harlot!— sweet spouse of Urience King of Gore!—

Sweet harlot!— here's that death determined o'er! And now thou hast thy dream, and dreaming grieve That death so ruins it?— Thy mouth to shrieve!— Nay, nay, I love thee! witness bare this field!

I love thee!— heart, dost love her and yet yield?— Enow! enow! so hale me hence to die!” Then anger in the good King's gloomy eye Burnt, instant-embered, as one oft may see

A star leak out of heaven and cease to be. Slow from his visage he his visor raised, And on the dying one mute moment gazed, Then low bespake him grimly: “Accolon,

I am that King.” He with an awful groan, Blade-battered as he was, beheld and knew; Strained to his tottering knees and haggard drew Up full his armored tallness, hoarsely cried,

“The King!” and at his mailed feet clashed and died. Then rose a world of anxious faces pressed About King Arthur, who, though wound-distressed, Bespake that multitude: “Whiles breath and power

Remain, judge we these brethren: This harsh hour Hath yielded Damas all this rich estate;— So it is his — allotted his of Fate Thro’ might of arms; so let it be to him.

For, stood our oath on knighthood not so slim But that it hath this strong conclusion: This much by us as errant knight is done: Now our decree as King of Britain, hear:

We do adjudge this Damas banned fore'er, Outlawed and exiled from all shores and isles Of farthest Britain in its many miles. One month be his — no more! then will we come

Even with an iron host to seal his doom; If he be not departed over seas, Hang naked from his battlements to please Of carrion ravens and wild hawks the craws.

Thus much for Damas. But our pleasure draws Toward sir Ontzlake, whom it likes the King To take into his knightly following Of that Round Table royal.— Stand our word!—

But I am overweary; take my sword;— Unharness me; for, battle worn, I tire With bruises’ achings and wounds mad with fire; And monasteryward would I right fain,

Even Glastonbury and with me the slain.” So bare they then the wounded King away, The dead behind. So, closed the Autumn day. But when within that abbey he waxed strong,

The King remembering him of all the wrong That Damas had inflicted on the land, Commanded Lionell with a staunch band This weed's out-stamping if still rooted there.

He riding thither to that robber lair, Led Arthur's hopefulest helms, when thorn on thorn Reddened an hundred spears one winter morn; Built up, a bulk of bastioned rock on rock,

Vast battlements, that loomed above the shock Of freshening foam that climbed with haling hands, Lone cloudy-clustered turrets in loud lands Set desolate,— mournful o'er wide, frozen flats,—

Found hollow towers the haunt of owls and bats.