Of Pentecost, and with it brought
Another marvel to the court.
A damsel unattended rode
To Carlion, the King's abode :
A clear dark eye was hers, a smile
That flickered with insidious wile
About her mouth; but, none the less
Imperious for her winsomeness,
She sued the King with fearless air
For succour to a lady fair,
Her sister, whom a foeman's host
In leaguer held since Pentecost
The third preceding. "Will no knight
Adventure in her cause to fight,
And rescue her from this despite ?"
'Damsel, a hundred," said the King,
"Will come, nor make long tarrying,
When they have heard thy name and hers
Who in this cruel fashion fares."
"Lack of my name shall no man let
From this adventure: 'tis Linet.
My sister doth a worthier own,
But will not that it now be known."
"Then," answered Arthur, "by my leave No knight shall gird him to achieve This peril. Though thy words be fair, Thy face still fairer, yet the snare Of words and beauty fair as thine Hath ruined many a knight of mine." She, half despair and half disdain Thrilling her gesture, spake again: "Then further search a champion must Discover, who my tale can trust."
Scarce had the trouble of her tone Died on her trembling lips, when one Stood forward, light upon his face, And on his dauntless brow no trace
Of humble Beaumains, though 'twas he
Who to King Arthur bent the knee,
And spake in accents joy-inspired :
"This damsel's tale, my lord, hath fired
My heart the other boons to claim,
Which I deferred when first I came.
A year thy bounty hath me fed,
And full am I of lustihead:
Therefore I first my knighthood crave
That from Sir Lancelot I may have;
Next this adventure to assay,
And win such glory as I may."
"Brave words," said Arthur, "and thy mien Betrays a heart as brave, I ween.
Sir Lancelot, if I judge aright,
Will do thy wish to dub thee knight;
Nor will this damsel, as I deem,
Reject thee." Cried Sir Kay, "I dream!
Or can it be the grosser steam
Of kitchen dainties rich and sweet
My turnspit's reason doth unseat?"
"Fie, on thee, base-born kitchen page!"
The damsel said with face of rage;
"Wilt thou my peril undertake?
I know a sight or two will slake
Thy thirst for glory!" As she spake
The dwarf, that Beaumains with him brought
When first he entered Arthur's court,
Came bending low beneath the weight
Of armour, rich with many a plate
Of gold and silver; this he laid
Before his master's feet, and said:
"My lord, thy charger waits thy will,
And I attend thee." Then with skill
His lord he hastened to array
In panoply of armour gay.
Meanwhile the damsel went her way
Sped by a wrathful-seeming haste,
Nor lingering long did Beaumain waste
The fleeting time, but gat to horse.
Then spake Sir Kay: "Upon his course
My kitchen-boy will I pursue
And try his metal, whether true
Or false it rings at peril's touch."
But Lancelot: "Surely overmuch
Thou lovest thy unknightly jest;
See that thou follow not this quest
To thy dishonour. As for me
I needs must after, till I see
In doughty deed of arms his right
To win and wear the spurs of knight."
But nought of Lancelot recked Sir Kay,
But at a gallop rode away.
Half-circled on the horizon's rim
The moon through clouds was looming dim,
And chased the straggling beams of day
That lingered on their western way,
When Beaumains turned and saw Sir Kay.
His brow as thunderclouds was dark,
But in his eye the lightning spark
Of fury glittered, as, with spear
In rest, he rode in full career
With fell intent to bear him down
And strike him dead when overthrown :
But Beaumains, though nor spear nor shield
Was in his hand, yet scorned to yield,
And lifting high his trusty sword
Smote down the spear upon the sward;
Then on his helm another blow,
Nor vaguely aimed nor falling slow,
He weighted with the memory
Of the long year's discourtesy
Suffered in silence: in that stroke
His silence found a voice, and spoke
In such a thunder to Sir Kay
That from his horse he slipt, and lay
Among the flowers a senseless mass,
And with his blood befouled the grass.
Then Beaumains took the shield and spear
That strewed the earth Sir Kay anear,
And while a little space he bode
Sir Lancelot lightly to him rode,
And kindly-mannered praise bestowed;
And from his charger did alight
To dub him, as of merit, knight.
But not the more the livelong night,
As Beaumains with the damsel went,
Did she from bitter taunts relent,
But swore 'twas shame a kitchen-knave
Should bear a knight both good and brave
By misadventure from his horse.
But he, though listening perforce,
His heart to hot resentment barred,
And mused upon the myriad-starred
O'er-arched heaven, or lent an ear
To leaves that shuddered as in fear
Of that sweet wind whose balmy breath
Anon would blow a blast of death,
And rend them from their place on high
In dust and in contempt to lie.
But when the darkness fled away,
And morn, that rose in garb of grey,
Had donned her summer-tinted blue,
A gleaming river met their view,
And, at the passage where alone
The sun on rippled shallows shone,
Two knights defending it forbade
The shore thus guarded to invade.
Then spake Linet: "Away with thee,
Base scullion, while the strength to flee
Is in thee! Lo! a crescent fear,
Like moonlight rising on a mere,
Is blanching all thy bloodless cheek."
But he, nought caring then to speak,
Into the water dashed amain,
And one, the stronger of the twain,
Midmost the shining river met,
And brake his spear and overset
With reeling rider reeling horse;
A moment, and a gory corse
Enmeshed in slimy weeds and dank
Into the troubled torrent sank.
Nor long his comrade on the bank
Was left to muse upon the scene,
Ere, sunlight and his eyes between,
A sword-stroke for a moment flashed,
And through his shattered buckler crashed
Ringing a discord on his mail;
And honour balanced in the scale.
With life seemed but a featherweight,
And fear was as a giant fate
That over-shadowed all the field
And cloaked the shame of that "I yield,"
Which took the terror from his life,
And ended, not with death, the strife.
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