He seemed to pace the strand of Brittany Between Isolt of Britain and his bride,And showed them both the ruby-chain,and both Began to struggle for it,till his Queen Graspt it so hard,that all her hand was red.
Then cried the Breton,'Look,her hand is red!
These be no rubies,this is frozen blood,And melts within her hand--her hand is hot With ill desires,but this I gave thee,look,Is all as cool and white as any flower.'
Followed a rush of eagle's wings,and then A whimpering of the spirit of the child,Because the twain had spoiled her carcanet.
He dreamed;but Arthur with a hundred spears Rode far,till o'er the illimitable reed,And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle,The wide-winged sunset of the misty marsh Glared on a huge machicolated tower That stood with open doors,whereout was rolled A roar of riot,as from men secure Amid their marshes,ruffians at their ease Among their harlot-brides,an evil song.
'Lo there,'said one of Arthur's youth,for there,High on a grim dead tree before the tower,A goodly brother of the Table Round Swung by the neck:and on the boughs a shield Showing a shower of blood in a field noir,And therebeside a horn,inflamed the knights At that dishonour done the gilded spur,Till each would clash the shield,and blow the horn.
But Arthur waved them back.Alone he rode.
Then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn,That sent the face of all the marsh aloft An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud Of shriek and plume,the Red Knight heard,and all,Even to tipmost lance and topmost helm,In blood-red armour sallying,howled to the King,'The teeth of Hell flay bare and gnash thee flat!--Lo!art thou not that eunuch-hearted King Who fain had clipt free manhood from the world--The woman-worshipper?Yea,God's curse,and I!
Slain was the brother of my paramour By a knight of thine,and I that heard her whine And snivel,being eunuch-hearted too,Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in hell,And stings itself to everlasting death,To hang whatever knight of thine I fought And tumbled.Art thou King?--Look to thy life!'
He ended:Arthur knew the voice;the face Wellnigh was helmet-hidden,and the name Went wandering somewhere darkling in his mind.
And Arthur deigned not use of word or sword,But let the drunkard,as he stretched from horse To strike him,overbalancing his bulk,Down from the causeway heavily to the swamp Fall,as the crest of some slow-arching wave,Heard in dead night along that table-shore,Drops flat,and after the great waters break Whitening for half a league,and thin themselves,Far over sands marbled with moon and cloud,From less and less to nothing;thus he fell Head-heavy;then the knights,who watched him,roared And shouted and leapt down upon the fallen;There trampled out his face from being known,And sank his head in mire,and slimed themselves:
Nor heard the King for their own cries,but sprang Through open doors,and swording right and left Men,women,on their sodden faces,hurled The tables over and the wines,and slew Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells,And all the pavement streamed with massacre:
Then,echoing yell with yell,they fired the tower,Which half that autumn night,like the live North,Red-pulsing up through Alioth and Alcor,Made all above it,and a hundred meres About it,as the water Moab saw Came round by the East,and out beyond them flushed The long low dune,and lazy-plunging sea.
So all the ways were safe from shore to shore,But in the heart of Arthur pain was lord.
Then,out of Tristram waking,the red dream Fled with a shout,and that low lodge returned,Mid-forest,and the wind among the boughs.
He whistled his good warhorse left to graze Among the forest greens,vaulted upon him,And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf,Till one lone woman,weeping near a cross,Stayed him.'Why weep ye?''Lord,'she said,'my man Hath left me or is dead;'whereon he thought--'What,if she hate me now?I would not this.
What,if she love me still?I would not that.
I know not what I would'--but said to her,'Yet weep not thou,lest,if thy mate return,He find thy favour changed and love thee not'--Then pressing day by day through Lyonnesse Last in a roky hollow,belling,heard The hounds of Mark,and felt the goodly hounds Yelp at his heart,but turning,past and gained Tintagil,half in sea,and high on land,A crown of towers.
Down in a casement sat,A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair And glossy-throated grace,Isolt the Queen.
And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind The spiring stone that scaled about her tower,Flushed,started,met him at the doors,and there Belted his body with her white embrace,Crying aloud,'Not Mark--not Mark,my soul!
The footstep fluttered me at first:not he:
Catlike through his own castle steals my Mark,But warrior-wise thou stridest through his halls Who hates thee,as I him--even to the death.
My soul,I felt my hatred for my Mark Quicken within me,and knew that thou wert nigh.'
To whom Sir Tristram smiling,'I am here.
Let be thy Mark,seeing he is not thine.'
And drawing somewhat backward she replied,'Can he be wronged who is not even his own,But save for dread of thee had beaten me,Scratched,bitten,blinded,marred me somehow--Mark?
What rights are his that dare not strike for them?
Not lift a hand--not,though he found me thus!
But harken!have ye met him?hence he went Today for three days'hunting--as he said--And so returns belike within an hour.
Mark's way,my soul!--but eat not thou with Mark,Because he hates thee even more than fears;Nor drink:and when thou passest any wood Close vizor,lest an arrow from the bush Should leave me all alone with Mark and hell.
My God,the measure of my hate for Mark Is as the measure of my love for thee.'
