V

As thought from thought takes wing and flies, As month on month with sunlit eyes Tramples and triumphs in its rise, As wave smites wave to death and dies,

So chance on hurtling chance like steel Strikes, flashes, and is quenched, ere fear Can whisper hope, or hope can hear, If sorrow or joy be far or near

For time to hurt or heal. Swift as a shadow and strange as light That cleaves in twain the shadow of night Before the wide-winged word takes flight

That thunder speaks to depth and height And quells the quiet hour with sound, There came before King Mark and stood Between the moorside and the wood

The man whose word God’ s will made good, Nor guile was in it found. And Merlin said to Balen: “Lo, Thou hast wrought thyself a grievous woe

To let this lady die, and know Thou mightst have stayed her deadly blow.” And Balen answered him and said, “Nay, by my truth to faith, not I,

So fiercely fain she was to die; Ere well her sword had flashed on high, Self-slain she lay there dead.” Again and sadly Merlin spake:

“My heart is wrung for this deed’ s sake, To know thee therefore doomed to take Upon thine hand a curse, and make Three kingdoms pine through twelve years’ change,

In want and woe: for thou shalt smite The man most noble and truest knight That looks upon the live world’ s light A dolorous stroke and strange.

“And not till years shall round their goal May this man’ s wound thou hast given be whole.” And Balen, stricken through the soul By dark-winged words of doom and dole,

Made answer: “If I wist it were No lie but sooth thou sayest of me, Then even to make a liar of thee Would I too slay myself, and see

How death bids dead men fare.” And Merlin took his leave and passed And was not: and the shadow as fast Went with him that his word had cast,

Too fleet for thought thereof to last: And there those brethren bade King Mark Farewell: but fain would Mark have known The strong knight’ s name who had overthrown

The pride of Launceor, when it shone Bright as it now lay dark. And Balan for his brother spake, Saying: “Sir, albeit him list not break

The seal of secret time, nor shake Night off him ere his morning wake, By these two swords he is girt withal May men that praise him, knights and lords,

Call him the knight that bears two swords, And all the praise his fame accords Make answer when they call.” So parted they toward eventide;

And tender twilight, heavy-eyed, Saw deep down glimmering woodlands ride Balen and Balan side by side, Till where the leaves grew dense and dim

Again they spied from far draw near The presence of the sacred seer, But so disguised and strange of cheer That seeing they knew not him.

“Now whither ride ye,” Merlin said, “Through shadows that the sun strikes red, Ere night be born or day be dead?” But they, for doubt half touched with dread,

Would say not where their goal might lie. “And thou,” said Balen, “what art thou, To walk with shrouded eye and brow?” He said: “Me lists not show thee now

By name what man am I.” “Ill seen is this of thee,” said they, “That thou art true in word and way Nor fain to fear the face of day,

Who wilt not as a true man say The name it shames not him to bear.” He answered: “Be it or be it not so, Yet why ye ride this way I know,

To meet King Ryons as a foe, And how your hope shall fare. “Well, if ye hearken toward my rede, Ill, if ye hear not, shall ye speed.”

“Ah, now,” they cried, “thou art ours at need What Merlin saith we are fain to heed.” “Great worship shall ye win,” said he, “And look that ye do knightly now,

For great shall be your need, I trow.” And Balen smiled: “By knighthood’ s vow, The best we may will we.” Then Merlin bade them turn and take

Rest, for their good steeds’ weary sake, Between the highway and the brake, Till starry midnight bade them wake: Then “Rise,” he said, “the king is nigh,

Who hath stolen from all his host away With threescore horse in armed array, The goodliest knights that bear his sway And hold his kingdom high.

“And twenty ride of them before To bear his errand, ere the door Turn of the night, sealed fast no more, And sundawn bid the stars wax hoar;

For by the starshine of to-night He seeks a leman where she waits His coming, dark and swift as fate’ s, And hearkens toward the unopening gates

That yield not him to sight. Then through the glimmering gloom around A shadowy sense of light and sound Made, ere the proof thereof were found,

The brave blithe hearts within them bound, And “Where,” quoth Balen, “rides the king?” But softer spake the seer: “Abide, Till hither toward your spears he ride,

Where all the narrowing woodland side Grows dense with boughs that cling.” There in that straitening way they met The wild Welsh host against them set,

And smote their strong king down, ere yet His hurrying horde of spears might get Fierce vantage of them. Then the fight Grew great and joyous as it grew,

For left and right those brethren slew, Till all the lawn waxed red with dew More deep than dews of night. And ere the full fierce tale was read

Full forty lay before them dead, And fast the hurtling remnant fled And wist not whither fear had led: And toward the king they went again,

And would have slain him: but he bowed Before them, crying in fear aloud For grace they gave him, seeing the proud Wild king brought lowest of men.

And ere the wildwood leaves were stirred With song or wing of wakening bird, In Camelot was Merlin’ s word With joy in joyous wonder heard

That told of Arthur’ s bitterest foe Diskingdomed and discomfited. “By whom?” the high king smiled and said. He answered: “Ere the dawn wax red,

To-morrow bids you know. “Two knights whose heart and hope are one And fain to win your grace have done This work whereby if grace be won

Their hearts shall hail the enkindling sun With joy more keen and deep than day.” And ere the sundawn drank the dew Those brethren with their prisoner drew

To the outer guard they gave him to And passed again away. And Arthur came as toward his guest To greet his foe, and bade him rest

As one returned from nobler quest And welcome from the stormbright west, But by what chance he fain would hear. “The chance was hard and strange, sir king,”

Quoth Ryons, bowed in thanksgiving. “Who won you?” Arthur said: “the thing Is worth a warrior’ s ear.” The wild king flushed with pride and shame,

Answering: “I know not either name Of those that there against us came And withered all our strength like flame: The knight that bears two swords is one,

And one his brother: not on earth May men meet men of knightlier worth Nor mightier born of mortal birth That hail the sovereign sun.”

And Arthur said: “I know them not But much am I for this, God wet, Beholden to them: Launcelot Nor Tristram, when the war waxed hot

Along the marches east and west, Wrought ever nobler work than this.” “Ah,” Merlin said, “sore pity it is And strange mischance of doom, I wis,

That death should mar their quest. “Balen, the perfect knight that won The sword whose name is malison, And made his deed his doom, is one:

Nor hath his brother Balan done Less royal service: not on earth Lives there a nobler knight, more strong Of soul to win men’ s praise in song,

Albeit the light abide not long That lightened round his birth. “Yea, and of all sad things I know The heaviest and the highest in woe

Is this, the doom whose date brings low Too soon in timeless overthrow A head so high, a hope so sure. The greatest moan for any knight

That ever won fair fame in fight Shall be for Balen, seeing his might Must now not long endure.” “Alas,” King Arthur said, “he hath shown

Such love to me-ward that the moan Made of him should be mine alone Above all other, knowing it known I have ill deserved it of him.” “Nay,”

Said Merlin, “he shall do for you Much more, when time shall be anew, Than time hath given him chance to do Or hope may think to say.

“But now must be your powers purveyed To meet, ere noon of morn be made To-morrow, all the host arrayed Of this wild foe’ s wild brother, laid

Around against you: see to it well, For now I part from you.” And soon, When sundawn slew the withering moon, Two hosts were met to win the boon

Whose tale is death’ s to tell. A lordly tale of knights and lords For death to tell by count of swords When war’ s wild harp in all its chords

Rang royal triumph, and the hordes Of hurtling foemen rocked and reeled As waves wind-thwarted on the sea, Was told of all that there might be,

Till scarce might battle hear or see The fortune of the field. And many a knight won fame that day When even the serpent soul of Kay

Was kindled toward the fiery play As might a lion’ s be for prey, And won him fame that might not die With passing of his rancorous breath

But clung about his life and death As fire that speaks in cloud, and saith What strong men hear and fly. And glorious works were Arthur’ s there,

That lit the battle-darkened air: But when they saw before them fare Like stars of storm the knight that bare Two swords about him girt for fray,

Balen, and Balan with him, then Strong wonder smote the souls of men If heaven’ s own host or hell’ s deep den Had sent them forth to slay.

So keen they rode across the fight, So sharp they smote to left and right, And made of hurtling darkness light With lightning of their swords, till flight

And fear before them flew like flame, That Arthur’ s self had never known, He said, since first his blast was blown, Such lords of war as these alone

That whence he knew not came. But while the fire of war waxed hot The wild king hearkened, hearing not, Through storm of spears and arrow-shot,

For succour toward him from King Lot And all his host of sea-born men, Strong as the strong storm-baffling bird Whose cry round Orkney’ s headlands heard

Is as the sea’ s own sovereign word That mocks our mortal ken. For Merlin’ s craft of prophecy, Who wist that one of twain must die,

Put might in him to say thereby Which head should lose its crown, and lie Stricken, though loth he were to know That either life should wane and fail;

Yet most might Arthur’ s love avail, And still with subtly tempered tale His wile held fast the foe. With woven words of magic might

Wherein the subtle shadow and light Changed hope and fear till fear took flight, He stayed King Lot’ s fierce lust of fight Till all the wild Welsh war was driven

As foam before the wind that wakes With the all-awakening sun, and breaks Strong ships that rue the mirth it makes When grace to slay is given.

And ever hotter lit and higher, As fire that meets encountering fire, Waxed in King Lot his keen desire To bid revenge within him tire

On Arthur’ s ravaged fame and life: Across the waves of war between Floated and flashed, unseen and seen, The lustrous likeness of the queen

Whom shame had sealed his wife. But when the woful word was brought That while he tarried, doubting nought, The hope was lost whose goal he sought

And all the fight he yearned for fought, His heart was rent for grief and shame, And half his hope was set on flight Till word was given him of a knight

Who said: “They are weary and worn with fight, And we more fresh than flame.” And bright and dark as night and day Ere either find the unopening way

Clear, and forego the unaltering sway, The sad king’ s face shone, frowning: “Yea, I would that every knight of mine Would do his part as I shall do,”

He said, “till death or life anew Shall judge between us as is due With wiser doom than thine.” Then thundered all the awakening field

With crash of hosts that clashed and reeled, Banner to banner, shield to shield, And spear to splintering spear-shaft, steeled As heart against high heart of man,

As hope against high hope of knight To pluck the crest and crown of fight From war’ s clenched hand by storm’ s wild light, For blessing given or ban.

All hearts of hearkening men that heard The ban twin-born with blessing, stirred Like springtide waters, knew the word Whereby the steeds of storm are spurred

With ravenous rapture to destroy, And laughed for love of battle, pierced With passion of tempestuous thirst And hungering hope to assuage it first

With draughts of stormy joy. But sheer ahead of the iron tide That rocked and roared from side to side Rode as the lightning’ s lord might ride

King Lot, whose heart was set to abide All peril of the raging hour, And all his host of warriors born Where lands by warring seas are worn

Was only by his hands upborne Who gave them pride and power. But as the sea’ s hand smites the shore And shatters all the strengths that bore

The ravage earth may bear no more, So smote the hand of Pellinore Charging, a knight of Arthur’ s chief, And clove his strong steed’ s neck in twain,

And smote him sheer through brow and brain, Falling: and there King Lot lay slain, And knew not wrath or grief. And all the host of Orkney fled,

And many a mother’ s son lay dead: But when they raised the stricken head Whence pride and power and shame were fled And rage and anguish now cast out,

And bore it toward a kingly tomb, The wife whose love had wrought his doom Came thither, fair as morning’ s bloom And dark as twilight’ s doubt.

And there her four strong sons and his, Gawain and Gareth, Gaherys And Agravain, whose sword’ s sharp kiss With sound of hell’ s own serpent’ s hiss

Should one day turn her life to death, Stood mourning with her: but by these Seeing Mordred as a seer that sees, Anguish of terror bent her knees

And caught her shuddering breath. The splendour of her sovereign eyes Flashed darkness deeper than the skies Feel or fear when the sunset dies

On his that felt as midnight rise Their doom upon them, there undone By faith in fear ere thought could yield A shadowy sense of days revealed,

The ravin of the final field, The terror of their son. For Arthur’ s, as they caught the light That sought and durst not seek his sight,

Darkened, and all his spirit’ s might Withered within him even as night Withers when sunrise thrills the sea. But Mordred’ s lightened as with fire

That smote his mother and his sire With darkling doom and deep desire That bade its darkness be. And heavier on their hearts the weight

Sank of the fear that brings forth fate, The bitter doubt whose womb is great With all the grief and love and hate That turn to fire men’ s days on earth.

And glorious was the funeral made, And dark the deepening dread that swayed Their darkening souls whose light grew shade With sense of death in birth.