Part 21

“These be the ways of ladies,” Pelleas thought, “To those who love them, trials of our faith. Yea, let her prove me to the uttermost, For loyal to the uttermost am I.” So made his moan; and darkness falling, sought A priory not far off, there lodged, but rose With morning every day, and, moist or dry, Full-armed upon his charger all day long Sat by the walls, and no one opened to him.

And this persistence turned her scorn to wrath. Then calling her three knights, she charged them, “Out! And drive him from the walls.” And out they came But Pelleas overthrew them as they dashed Against him one by one; and these returned, But still he kept his watch beneath the wall.

Thereon her wrath became a hate; and once, A week beyond, while walking on the walls With her three knights, she pointed downward, “Look, He haunts me—I cannot breathe—besieges me; Down! strike him! put my hate into your strokes, And drive him from my walls.” And down they went, And Pelleas overthrew them one by one; And from the tower above him cried Ettarre, “Bind him, and bring him in.”

He heard her voice; Then let the strong hand, which had overthrown Her minion-knights, by those he overthrew Be bounden straight, and so they brought him in.

Then when he came before Ettarre, the sight Of her rich beauty made him at one glance More bondsman in his heart than in his bonds. Yet with good cheer he spake, “Behold me, Lady, A prisoner, and the vassal of thy will; And if thou keep me in thy donjon here, Content am I so that I see thy face But once a day: for I have sworn my vows, And thou hast given thy promise, and I know That all these pains are trials of my faith, And that thyself, when thou hast seen me strained And sifted to the utmost, wilt at length Yield me thy love and know me for thy knight.”

Then she began to rail so bitterly, With all her damsels, he was stricken mute; But when she mocked his vows and the great King, Lighted on words: “For pity of thine own self, Peace, Lady, peace: is he not thine and mine?” “Thou fool,” she said, “I never heard his voice But longed to break away. Unbind him now, And thrust him out of doors; for save he be Fool to the midmost marrow of his bones, He will return no more.” And those, her three, Laughed, and unbound, and thrust him from the gate.

And after this, a week beyond, again She called them, saying, “There he watches yet, There like a dog before his master’s door! Kicked, he returns: do ye not hate him, ye? Ye know yourselves: how can ye bide at peace, Affronted with his fulsome innocence? Are ye but creatures of the board and bed, No men to strike? Fall on him all at once, And if ye slay him I reck not: if ye fail, Give ye the slave mine order to be bound, Bind him as heretofore, and bring him in: It may be ye shall slay him in his bonds.”

She spake; and at her will they couched their spears, Three against one: and Gawain passing by, Bound upon solitary adventure, saw Low down beneath the shadow of those towers A villainy, three to one: and through his heart The fire of honour and all noble deeds Flashed, and he called, “I strike upon thy side— The caitiffs!” “Nay,” said Pelleas, “but forbear; He needs no aid who doth his lady’s will.”

So Gawain, looking at the villainy done, Forbore, but in his heat and eagerness Trembled and quivered, as the dog, withheld A moment from the vermin that he sees Before him, shivers, ere he springs and kills.

And Pelleas overthrew them, one to three; And they rose up, and bound, and brought him in. Then first her anger, leaving Pelleas, burned Full on her knights in many an evil name Of craven, weakling, and thrice-beaten hound: “Yet, take him, ye that scarce are fit to touch, Far less to bind, your victor, and thrust him out, And let who will release him from his bonds. And if he comes again”—there she brake short; And Pelleas answered, “Lady, for indeed I loved you and I deemed you beautiful, I cannot brook to see your beauty marred Through evil spite: and if ye love me not, I cannot bear to dream you so forsworn: I had liefer ye were worthy of my love, Than to be loved again of you—farewell; And though ye kill my hope, not yet my love, Vex not yourself: ye will not see me more.”

While thus he spake, she gazed upon the man Of princely bearing, though in bonds, and thought, “Why have I pushed him from me? this man loves, If love there be: yet him I loved not. Why? I deemed him fool? yea, so? or that in him A something—was it nobler than myself? Seemed my reproach? He is not of my kind. He could not love me, did he know me well. Nay, let him go—and quickly.” And her knights Laughed not, but thrust him bounden out of door.

Forth sprang Gawain, and loosed him from his bonds, And flung them o’er the walls; and afterward, Shaking his hands, as from a lazar’s rag, “Faith of my body,” he said, “and art thou not— Yea thou art he, whom late our Arthur made Knight of his table; yea and he that won The circlet? wherefore hast thou so defamed Thy brotherhood in me and all the rest, As let these caitiffs on thee work their will?”

And Pelleas answered, “O, their wills are hers For whom I won the circlet; and mine, hers, Thus to be bounden, so to see her face, Marred though it be with spite and mockery now, Other than when I found her in the woods; And though she hath me bounden but in spite, And all to flout me, when they bring me in, Let me be bounden, I shall see her face; Else must I die through mine unhappiness.”

And Gawain answered kindly though in scorn, “Why, let my lady bind me if she will, And let my lady beat me if she will: But an she send her delegate to thrall These fighting hands of mine—Christ kill me then But I will slice him handless by the wrist, And let my lady sear the stump for him, Howl as he may. But hold me for your friend: Come, ye know nothing: here I pledge my troth, Yea, by the honour of the Table Round, I will be leal to thee and work thy work, And tame thy jailing princess to thine hand. Lend me thine horse and arms, and I will say That I have slain thee. She will let me in To hear the manner of thy fight and fall; Then, when I come within her counsels, then From prime to vespers will I chant thy praise As prowest knight and truest lover, more Than any have sung thee living, till she long To have thee back in lusty life again, Not to be bound, save by white bonds and warm, Dearer than freedom. Wherefore now thy horse And armour: let me go: be comforted: Give me three days to melt her fancy, and hope The third night hence will bring thee news of gold.”

Then Pelleas lent his horse and all his arms, Saving the goodly sword, his prize, and took Gawain’s, and said, “Betray me not, but help— Art thou not he whom men call light-of-love?”

“Ay,” said Gawain, “for women be so light.” Then bounded forward to the castle walls, And raised a bugle hanging from his neck, And winded it, and that so musically That all the old echoes hidden in the wall Rang out like hollow woods at hunting-tide.

Up ran a score of damsels to the tower; “Avaunt,” they cried, “our lady loves thee not.” But Gawain lifting up his vizor said, “Gawain am I, Gawain of Arthur’s court, And I have slain this Pelleas whom ye hate: Behold his horse and armour. Open gates, And I will make you merry.”

And down they ran, Her damsels, crying to their lady, “Lo! Pelleas is dead—he told us—he that hath His horse and armour: will ye let him in? He slew him! Gawain, Gawain of the court, Sir Gawain—there he waits below the wall, Blowing his bugle as who should say him nay.”

And so, leave given, straight on through open door Rode Gawain, whom she greeted courteously. “Dead, is it so?” she asked. “Ay, ay,” said he, “And oft in dying cried upon your name.” “Pity on him,” she answered, “a good knight, But never let me bide one hour at peace.” “Ay,” thought Gawain, “and you be fair enow: But I to your dead man have given my troth, That whom ye loathe, him will I make you love.”

So those three days, aimless about the land, Lost in a doubt, Pelleas wandering Waited, until the third night brought a moon With promise of large light on woods and ways.

Hot was the night and silent; but a sound Of Gawain ever coming, and this lay— Which Pelleas had heard sung before the Queen, And seen her sadden listening—vext his heart, And marred his rest—“A worm within the rose.”

“A rose, but one, none other rose had I, A rose, one rose, and this was wondrous fair, One rose, a rose that gladdened earth and sky, One rose, my rose, that sweetened all mine air— I cared not for the thorns; the thorns were there.

“One rose, a rose to gather by and by, One rose, a rose, to gather and to wear, No rose but one—what other rose had I? One rose, my rose; a rose that will not die,— He dies who loves it,—if the worm be there.”

This tender rhyme, and evermore the doubt, “Why lingers Gawain with his golden news?” So shook him that he could not rest, but rode Ere midnight to her walls, and bound his horse Hard by the gates. Wide open were the gates, And no watch kept; and in through these he past, And heard but his own steps, and his own heart Beating, for nothing moved but his own self, And his own shadow. Then he crost the court, And spied not any light in hall or bower, But saw the postern portal also wide Yawning; and up a slope of garden, all Of roses white and red, and brambles mixt And overgrowing them, went on, and found, Here too, all hushed below the mellow moon, Save that one rivulet from a tiny cave Came lightening downward, and so spilt itself Among the roses, and was lost again.

Then was he ware of three pavilions reared Above the bushes, gilden-peakt: in one, Red after revel, droned her lurdane knights Slumbering, and their three squires across their feet: In one, their malice on the placid lip Frozen by sweet sleep, four of her damsels lay: And in the third, the circlet of the jousts Bound on her brow, were Gawain and Ettarre.

Back, as a hand that pushes through the leaf To find a nest and feels a snake, he drew: Back, as a coward slinks from what he fears To cope with, or a traitor proven, or hound Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter shame Creep with his shadow through the court again, Fingering at his sword-handle until he stood There on the castle-bridge once more, and thought, “I will go back, and slay them where they lie.”

And so went back, and seeing them yet in sleep Said, “Ye, that so dishallow the holy sleep, Your sleep is death,” and drew the sword, and thought, “What! slay a sleeping knight? the King hath bound And sworn me to this brotherhood;” again, “Alas that ever a knight should be so false.” Then turned, and so returned, and groaning laid The naked sword athwart their naked throats, There left it, and them sleeping; and she lay, The circlet of her tourney round her brows, And the sword of the tourney across her throat.

And forth he past, and mounting on his horse Stared at her towers that, larger than themselves In their own darkness, thronged into the moon. Then crushed the saddle with his thighs, and clenched His hands, and maddened with himself and moaned: