Rough-thicketed were the banks and steep; the streamFull, narrow; this a bridge of single arc
Took at a leap; and on the further side
Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold
In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily in hue,
Save that the dome was purple, and above,
Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering.
And therebefore the lawless warrior paced
Unarmed, and calling, ‘Damsel, is this he,
The champion thou hast brought from Arthur’s hall?
For whom we let thee pass.’ ‘Nay, nay,’ she said,
‘Sir Morning-Star. The King in utter scorn
Of thee and thy much folly hath sent thee here
His kitchen-knave: and look thou to thyself:
See that he fall not on thee suddenly,
And slay thee unarmed: he is not knight but knave.’
Then at his call, ‘O daughters of the Dawn,
And servants of the Morning-Star, approach,
Arm me,’ from out the silken curtain-folds
Bare-footed and bare-headed three fair girls
In gilt and rosy raiment came: their feet
In dewy grasses glistened; and the hair
All over glanced with dewdrop or with gem
Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine.
These armed him in blue arms, and gave a shield
Blue also, and thereon the morning star.
And Gareth silent gazed upon the knight,
Who stood a moment, ere his horse was brought,
Glorying; and in the stream beneath him, shone
Immingled with Heaven’s azure waveringly,
The gay pavilion and the naked feet,
His arms, the rosy raiment, and the star.
Then she that watched him, ‘Wherefore stare ye so?
Thou shakest in thy fear: there yet is time:
Flee down the valley before he get to horse.
Who will cry shame? Thou art not knight but knave.’
Said Gareth, ‘Damsel, whether knave or knight,
Far liefer had I fight a score of times
Than hear thee so missay me and revile.
Fair words were best for him who fights for thee;
But truly foul are better, for they send
That strength of anger through mine arms, I know
That I shall overthrow him.’
And he that bore
The star, when mounted, cried from o’er the bridge,
‘A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of me!
Such fight not I, but answer scorn with scorn.
For this were shame to do him further wrong
Than set him on his feet, and take his horse
And arms, and so return him to the King.
Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, knave.
Avoid: for it beseemeth not a knave
To ride with such a lady.’
‘Dog, thou liest.
I spring from loftier lineage than thine own.’
He spake; and all at fiery speed the two
Shocked on the central bridge, and either spear
Bent but not brake, and either knight at once,
Hurled as a stone from out of a catapult
Beyond his horse’s crupper and the bridge,
Fell, as if dead; but quickly rose and drew,
And Gareth lashed so fiercely with his brand
He drave his enemy backward down the bridge,
The damsel crying, ‘Well-stricken, kitchen-knave!’
Till Gareth’s shield was cloven; but one stroke
Laid him that clove it grovelling on the ground.
Then cried the fallen, ‘Take not my life: I yield.’
And Gareth, ‘So this damsel ask it of me
Good — I accord it easily as a grace.’
She reddening, ‘Insolent scullion: I of thee?
I bound to thee for any favour asked!’
‘Then he shall die.’ And Gareth there unlaced
His helmet as to slay him, but she shrieked,
‘Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay
One nobler than thyself.’ ‘Damsel, thy charge
Is an abounding pleasure to me. Knight,
Thy life is thine at her command. Arise
And quickly pass to Arthur’s hall, and say
His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See thou crave
His pardon for thy breaking of his laws.
Myself, when I return, will plead for thee.
Thy shield is mine — farewell; and, damsel, thou,
Lead, and I follow.’
And fast away she fled.
Then when he came upon her, spake, ‘Methought,
Knave, when I watched thee striking on the bridge
The savour of thy kitchen came upon me
A little faintlier: but the wind hath changed:
I scent it twenty-fold.’ And then she sang,
