Part 10

As one hath seen a green-gowned huntress fair, Morn in her cheeks and midnight in her hair; Keen eyes as gray as rain, young limbs as lithe As the wild fawn's; and silvery voice as blithe As is the wind that breathes of flowers and dews, Breast through the bramble-tangled avenues; Through brier and thorn, that pluck her gown of green, And snag it here and there,--through which the sheen Of her white skin gleams rosy;--eyes and face, Ardent and flushed, fixed on the lordly chase: So came the Evening to that shadowy wood, Or so it seemed to Accolon, who stood Watching the sunset through the solitude. So Evening came; and shadows cowled the way Like ghostly pilgrims who kneel down to pray Before a wayside shrine: and, radiant-rolled, Along the west, the battlemented gold Of sunset walled the opal-tinted skies, That seemed to open gates of Paradise On soundless hinges of the winds, and blaze A glory, far within, of chrysoprase, Towering in topaz through the purple haze. And from the sunset, down the roseate ways, To Accolon, who, with his idle lute, Reclined in revery against the root Of a great oak, a fragment of the west, A dwarf, in crimson satin tightly dressed, Skipped like a leaf the early frosts have burned, A red oak-leaf; and like a leaf he turned, And danced and rustled. And it seemed he came From Camelot; from his belovéd dame, Morgane le Fay. He on his shoulder bore A mighty blade, wrought strangely o'er and o'er With mystic runes, drawn from a scabbard which Glared venomous, with angry jewels rich. He, louting to the knight, "Sir knight," said he, "Your Lady, with all tenderest courtesy, Assures you--ah, unworthy bearer I Of her good message!--of her constancy." Then, doffing the great baldric, with the sword, To him he gave them, saying, "From my lord, King Arthur: even his Excalibur, The magic blade which Merlin gat of her, The Ladyé of the Lake, who, as you wot, Fostered in infanthood Sir Launcelot, Upon some isle in Briogne's tangled lands Of meres and mists; where filmy fairy bands, By lazy moons of summer, dancing, fill With rings of morrice every grassy hill. Through her fair favor is this weapon sent, Who begged it of the King with this intent: That, for her honor, soon would be begun A desperate battle with a champion, Of wondrous prowess, by Sir Accolon: And with the sword, Excalibur, more sure Were she that he against him would endure. Magic the blade, and magic, too, the sheath, Which, while 'tis worn, wards from the wearer death." He ceased: and Accolon held up the sword Excalibur and said, "It shall go hard With him through thee, unconquerable blade, Whoe'er he be, who on my Queen hath laid Insult or injury! And hours as slow As palsied hours in Purgatory go For those unmassed, till I have slain this foe!-- Here, page, my purse.--And now, to her who gave, Despatch! and say: To all commands, her slave, To death obedient, I!--In love or war Her love to make me all the warrior.-- Bid her have mercy, nor too long delay From him, who dies an hourly death each day Till, her white hands kissed, he shall kiss her face, Through which his life lives on, and still finds grace." Thus he commanded. And, incontinent, The dwarf departed, like a red shaft sent Into the sunset's sea of scarlet light Burning through wildwood glooms. And as the night With votaress cypress veiled the dying strife Sadly of day, and closed his book of life And clasped with golden stars, in dreamy thought Of what this fight was that must soon be fought, Belting the blade about him, Accolon, Through the dark woods tow'rds Chariot passed on.

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And it befell him thus, the following dawn, As he was wandering on a dew-drenched lawn, Glad with the freshness and elastic health Of sky and earth, that lavished all their wealth Of heady winds and racy scents,--a knight And gentle lady met him, gay bedight, With following of six esquires; and they Held on gloved wrists the hooded falcon 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 wound 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, Morgane's abode, That they would beg her in all charity To come to him (for in chirurgery Of all that land she was the greatest leach), And her for his recovery beseech. So, Accolon saluted, they drew rein, And spake their message, for, right over fain Were they toward their sport,--that he would bear Petition to that lady. But, not there Was Arthur's sister, as they well must wot; But now a sennight lay at Camelot, The guest of Guenevere; and with her there 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. So Accolon informed them. In distress Then quoth that 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, And sends despatch a courier to my lord, Sir Ontzlake, with, 'To-morrow, with the sword, Earl Damas and 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, if he could, He would arise and save his livelihood."

Then thought Sir Accolon: "One might suppose, So soon this follows on her message, those Same things befall through Morgane's arts--who knows?-- Howe'er it be, as 'twere for her own sake, This battle I myself will undertake." Then said to those, "I know the good Ontzlake. If he be so conditioned, harried of Estate and life,--in knighthood and for love Of justice I his quarrel will assume. My limbs are keen for armor. Let the groom Prepare my steed. Right good 'twill be again To feel him under me."--Then, of that train, Asked that one gentleman with him remain, And men to squire his horse and arms. And then, When this was granted, mounted with his men And thence departed. And, ere noontide, they Came to a lone, dismantled priory Hard by a castle 'gainst whose square, grey towers, Machicolated, mossed, in forest bowers, Full many a siege had beat and onset rushed: A forest fortress, old and deep-imbushed In wild and woody hills. And then one wound A hoarse slug-horn, and at the savage sound The drawbridge rumbled moatward, clanking, and Into a paved court rode that little band.

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When all the world was morning, gleam and glare Of autumn glory; and the frost-touched air Rang with the rooks as rings a silver lyre Swept swift of minstrel fingers, wire on wire; Ere that fixed hour of prime, came Arthur, armed For battle royally. A black steed warmed A keen impatience 'neath him, cased in mail Of foreign make; accoutered head and tail In costly sendal; rearward, wine-dark red, Amber as sunlight to his fretful head. Blue armor of linked steel had Arthur on, Beneath a robe of honor made of drawn, Ribbed satin, diapered and purfled deep With lordly gold and purple; whence did sweep Two acorn-tufted bangles of fine gold: And at his thigh a falchion, battle-old And triple-edged; its rune-stamped scabbard, of Cordovan leather, baldric'd rich above With new-cut deer-skin, that, laborious wrought, And curiously, with slides of gold was fraught, And buckled with a buckle white, that shone, Tongued red with gold, and carved of walrus' bone. And, sapphire-set, a burgonet of gold,-- Whereon a wyvern sprawled, whose jaws unrolled A tongue of garnet agate, of great prize; Its orbs of glaring ruby, great in size,-- Incased his head and visor-barred his eyes. And in his hand a wiry lance of ash, Lattened with sapphire silver, like a flash, A splinter of sunlight, in the morning's zeal Glittered, its point, as 'twere, a star of steel.-- A squire attended him; a youth, whose head Waved many a jaunty curl; whereon a red Cock-feathered cap shone brave: 'neath which, as keen As some wild hawk's, his green-gray eyes were seen: And parti-colored leather shoes he had Upon his feet; his legs were silken clad In hose of rarest Totness: and a spear, Bannered and bronzen, dappled as a deer, One hand upheld, like some bright beam of morn; And round his neck was hung a bugle-horn. So with his following, while, bar on bar, The blue mist lay on woodside and on scar, Through mist and dew, through shadow and through ray, Joustward Earl Damas led the forest way. Then to King Arthur, when arrived were these Where bright the lists shone, bannered, through the trees, A wimpled damsel with a falchion came, Mounted upon a palfrey, all aflame With sweat and heat of hurry; and, "From her, Your sister, Morgane, your Excalibur! With tender greeting. For you well may need Its aid in this adventure. So, God speed!" Said and departed suddenly: nor knew The King that this was not his weapon true: A brittle forgery, in likeness of That blade, of baser metal;--in unlove And treason made by her, of all his kin The nearest, Morgane; who, her end to win, Stopped at no thing; thinking, with Arthur dead, The crown would grace her own and Accolon's head. Then, heralded, into the lists he rode. Opposed flashed Accolon, whose strength bestrode, Exultant, strong in talisman of that sword, A dun horse lofty as a haughty lord, White-pasterned, and of small, impatient hoof: Both knight and steed shone armed in mail of proof, Of yellow-dappled, variegated plate Of Spanish laton. And of sovereign state His surcoat robe of honor,--white and black, Of satin, crimson-orphreyed,--at his back The wind made billow: and, from forth this robe, Excalibur,--a throbbing golden globe Of vicious jewels,--thrust its splendid hilt; Its broad belt, tawny and with goldwork gilt, An eyelid clasped, black, of the black sea-horse, Tongued red with rosy gold. And pride and force Sat on his wingéd helmet, plumed, of rich Bronze-hammered laton; blazing upon which A hundred brilliants glittered, thick as on A silver web bright-studding dews of dawn: Its crest, a taloned griffin, high that ramped; In whose horned brow one blood-red gem was stamped. A spear of ash, long-shafted, overlaid With azure silver, whereon colors played, Firm in his iron gauntlet lithely swayed.

Intense on either side the champions stood, Shining as serpents that, with spring renewed, In gleaming scales, meet on a wild-wood way, Their angry tongues flickering at poisonous play. Then clanged a herald's trumpet: and harsh heels, Sharp-thrust, each courser felt; the roweled steels Spurred forward; and the couched and fiery spears, Flashed, as two bolts of storm the tempest steers With adverse thunder; and, in middle course, Crashed full the unpierced shields, and horse from horse Lashed, madly pawing.--And a hoarse roar rang From the loud lists, till far the echoes sang Of hill and rock-hung forest and wild cliff. Rigid the champions rode where, standing stiff, Their esquires tendered them the spears they held. Again the trumpet blew, and, firmly selled, Forward they galloped, shield to savage shield, And crest to angry crest: the wyvern reeled, Towering, against the griffin: scorn and scath Upon their fiery fronts and in the wrath Of their gem-blazing eyes: each figure stood A symbol of the heart beneath the hood.-- The lance of Accolon, as on a rock The storm-launched foam breaks baffled, with the shock, On Arthur's sounding shield burst splintered force; But him resistless Arthur's,--high from horse Uplifted,--headlong bore, and crashed him down; 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 Smitten with morn. "Descend!" he grimly said, "To proof of better weapons, head to head! Enough of spears! to swords!"--And from his height The King clanged down. And quick, like some swift light, His moon-bright brand unsheathed. And, hollowed high, Each covering shield gleamed, slantwise, to'ards the sky, A blazoned eye of bronze: and underneath, As 'neath two clouds, the lightning and the death Of the fierce swords played. Now a shield descends-- A long blade leaps;--and now, a fang that rends, Another blade, loud as a battle word, Beats downward, trenchant; and, resounding heard, A shield's fierce face replies: again a sword Swings for a giant blow, and, balked again, Burns crashing from a sword. Thus, o'er the plain, Over and over, blade on baleful blade; Teeth clenched; and eyes, behind their visors' shade, Like wild beasts' eyes in caverns; shield to shield, The champions strove, each scorning still to yield.

Then Arthur drew aside to rest upon His falchion for a space. But Accolon, As yet,--through virtue of that magic sheath,-- Fresh and almighty, and no nearer death Now than when first the fight to death begun, Chafed at delay. But Arthur, with the sun, His heavy mail, his wounds, and loss of blood, Made weary, ceased and for a moment stood Leaning upon his sword. Then, "Dost thou tire?" Sneered Accolon. And then, with fiercer fire, "Defend thee! yield thee! or die recreant!" And at the King aimed a wild blow, aslant, That beat a flying fire from the steel. Stunned by that blow, the King, with brain a-reel, Sank on one knee; then rose, infuriate, Nerved with new vigor; and with heat and hate Gnarled all his strength into one blow of might, And in both fists his huge blade knotted tight, And swung, terrific, for a final stroke,-- And,--as the lightning flames upon an oak,-- Boomed on the burgonet his foeman wore; Hacked through and through its crest, and cleanly shore, With hollow clamor, from his head and ears, The brag and boasting of that griffin fierce: Then, in an instant, as if made of glass, That brittle blade burst, shattered; and the grass Shone, strewn with shards; as 'twere a broken ray, It fell and bright in feverish fragments lay. Then groaned the King, disarmed. And straight he knew This sword was not Excalibur: too true And perfect tempered, runed and mystical, That weapon of old wars! and then withal, Looking upon his foe, who still with stress Fought on, untiring, and with no distress Of wounds or heat, he thought, "I am betrayed!" Then as the sunlight struck along that blade, He knew it, by the hilt, for his own brand, The true Excalibur, that high in hand Now rose avenging. For Sir Accolon In madness urged th' unequal 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, Like some great beetle, labored o'er the ground, Whereon the shards of shattered spears and bits Of shivered steel and gold made sombre fits Of flame, 'mid which, hard-pressed and cowering Beneath his shield's defense, the dauntless King Crawled still defiant. And, devising still How to secure his sword and by what skill, Him thus it fortuned when most desperate: In that close chase they came where, shattered late, Lay, tossed, the truncheon of a bursten lance, Which, deftly seized, to Accolon's advance He wielded with effect. Against the fist Smote, where the gauntlet clasped the nervous wrist, That heaved Excalibur for one last blow; Sudden the palsied sinews of his foe Relaxed in effort, and, the great sword seized, Was wrenched away: and straight the wroth King eased Himself of his huge shield, and hurled it far; And clasping in both arms of wiry war His foe, Sir Accolon,--as one hath seen A strong wind take an ash tree, rocking green, And swing its sappy bulk, then, trunk and boughs, Crash down its thundering height in wild carouse And wrath of tempest,--so King Arthur shook And headlong flung Sir Accolon. Then took, Tearing away, that scabbard from his side And hurled it through the lists, that far and wide Gulped in the battle breathless. Then, still wroth, He seized Excalibur; and grasped of both Wild hands, swung trenchant, and brought glittering down On rising Accolon. Steel, bone and brawn That blow hewed through. Unsettled every sense. Bathed in a world of blood, his limbs lay tense A moment, then grew limp, relaxed in death. And bending o'er him, from the brow beneath, The King unlaced the helm. When dark, uncasqued, The knight's slow eyelids opened, Arthur asked: "Say, ere thou diest, whence and who thou art! What king, what court is thine? And from what part Of Britain dost thou come? Speak!--for, methinks, I have beheld thee--where? Some memory links Me strangely with thy face, thy eyes ... thou art-- Who art thou?--speak!"--

He answered, slow, then short, With labored breathing: "I?--one, Accolon,-- Of Gaul--a knight of Arthur's court--anon-- But to what end--yea, tell me--am I slain?"-- Then bent King Arthur nearer and again Drew back: then, anguish in his utterance, sighed: "One of my Table!"--Then asked softly, "Say, Whence hadst thou this, my sword? say, in what way Thou cam'st by it?"--But, wandering, that knight Heard with dull ears, divining but by sight The question asked; and answered, "Woe!--the sword!-- Woe worth the sword!--Lean down!--Canst hear my word?-- From Morgane! Arthur's sister, who had made Me king of all this kingdom, so she said-- Hadst thou not 'risen, accurséd, like a fate, To make our schemes miscarry!--Wait! nay, wait!-- A king! dost hear?--a gold and blood-crowned king, I!--Arthur's sister, queen!--No bird can wing Higher than her ambition! that resolved Her brother's death was needed, and evolved Plots that should ripen with the ripening year, And here be reaped, perhaps--nay, nay! not here!-- Farewell, my Morgane!--Yea, 'twas she who schemed While there at Chariot we loved and dreamed Gone some six months.--There nothing gave us care. Each morning was a liberal almoner Prodigal of silver to the earth and air: Each eve, a fiery dragon, cloud-enrolled, Convulsive, dying overwhelmed with gold; On such an eve it was, that, redolent, She sat by me and said,--'My message sent, Some night--within the forest--thou, my knight! Thou and the king!--my men--the forest fight!-- Murder perhaps.--But, well?--who is to blame?'... So with her blood-red thoughts to me she came. To me! that woman, brighter than a flame, And wooed my soul to hell, with love accurs'd; With harlot lips, from which my being first Drank hell and heaven. She, who was in sooth My heaven and hell.--But now, behind her youth She shrivels to a hag!--I see the truth!-- Harlot!--nay, spouse of Urience, King of Gore!-- Wanton!--nay, witch! sweet witch!--what wouldst thou more?-- Hast thou not had thy dream? and wilt thou grieve That death so ruins it?--Thou dost perceive How I still love thee! witness bear this field, This field and he to whom I would not yield!-- Would thou wert here to kiss me ere I die!"--

Then anger in the good King's gloomy eye Glowed, instant-embered, as one oft may see A star blaze up in heaven, then cease to be. Slow from his visage he his visor raised, And on the dying knight a moment gazed; Then grimly said, "Look on me, Accolon! I am thy King!" He, with an awful groan, Blade-battered as he was, beheld and knew; Strained to his tottering knees; and, gasping, drew Up full his armored height and hoarsely cried, "The King!" and at his mailed feet crashed and died.

Then came a world of anxious faces, pressed About King Arthur; who, though sore distressed, Bespake that multitude: "While breath and power Remain, judge we these brothers: This hard hour Hath given to Damas all this rich estate: So it is his; allotted his by fate And force of arms. So let it be to him. For, stood our oath on knighthood not so slim But that it hath this strong conclusiön. This much by us as errant knight is done.-- Now our decree, as King of Britain, hear: We do command Earl Damas to appear No more upon our shores, or any isles Of farthest Britain in its many miles. One week be his, no more! then will we come, Even with an iron host, to seal his doom: If he be not departed overseas, With all his men and all his outlawries, From his own towers, around which sea-birds clang, Alive and naked shall he starve and hang And rot! vile food for kites and carrion crows. Thus much for him!... But all our favor goes Toward Sir Ontzlake, whom it likes the King To take into his knightly following Of the Round Table. Bear to him our word. But I am over weary. Take my sword.-- Unharness me, for more and more I tire; And all my wounds are so much aching fire. Yea; help me hence. To-morrow I would fain To Glastonbury and with me the slain." So bore they then the wounded King away, The dead behind, as closed the autumn day.

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But when, within that abbey, he waxed strong, The King, remembering the marauder wrong Which Damas had inflicted on that land, Commanded Lionell, with a stanch band, To stamp this weed out 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: And found--a ruin of fire-blackened rock, Of tottering towers, that shook to every shock Of the wild waves; and loomed above the bents Turrets and cloudy-clustered battlements, Wailing with wind that swept those clamorous lands: Above the foam, that climbed with haling hands, Desolate and gaunt; reflected in the flats; Hollow and huge, the haunt of owls and bats.

IV