And were himself nigh wounded to the death."

So spake the King; low bow'd the Prince, and felt

His work was neither great nor wonderful,

And past to Enid's tent; and thither

came

The King's own leech to look into his hurt;

And Enid tended on him there; and there

Her constant motion round him, and the breath

Of her sweet tendance hovering over him,

Fill'd all the genial courses of his blood

With deeper and with ever deeper love,

As the south-west that blowing Bala lake

Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the days.

But while Geraint lay healing of his hurt,

The blameless King went forth and cast his eyes

On each of all whom Uther left in charge

Long since, to guard the justice of the

She hated all the knights, and heard in thought

Their lavish comment when her name was named.

For once, when Arthur walking all alone,

Vext at a rumor rife about the Queen, Had met her, Vivien, being greeted fair,

Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood

With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken voice,

And flutter'd adoration, and at last With dark sweet hints of some who prized him more

Than who should prize him most; at which the King

Had gazed upon her blankly and gone by:

But one had watch'd, and had not held

sprightly talk,

And vivid smiles, and faintly-venom'd points

Of slander, glancing here and gazing there;

And yielding to his kindlier moods, the Seer

Would watch her at her petulance, and play,

E'en when they seem'd unlovable, and laugh

As those that watch a kitten; thus he grew

Tolerant of what he half disdain'd, and sue,

Perceiving that she was but half disdain'd,

Began to break her sports with graver fits,

Turn red or pale, would often when they met

Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him With such a fixt devotion, that the old

man,

Tho' doubtful, felt the flattery, and at times

Would flatter his own wish in age for love,

And half believe her true for thus at times

He waver'd; but that other clung to him,

Fixt in her will, and so the seasons went.

Then fell upon him a great melancholy;

And leaving Arthur's court he gain'd the beach;

There found a little boat, and stept into it;

And Vivien follow'd, but he mark'd her not.

She took the helm and he the sail; the boat

Drave with a sudden wind across the deeps,

And touching Breton sands, they disem

bark'd.

And none could find that man for ever more,

Nor could he see but him who wrought the charm

Coming and going, and he lay as dead And lost to life and use and name and fame.

And Vivien ever sought to work the charın

Upon the great Enchanter of the Time, As fancying, that her glory would be great

According to his greatness whom she quench'd.

So dark a forethought roll'd about his brain,

As on a dull day in an Ocean cave The blind wave feeling round his long sea-hall

In silence wherefore, when she lifted up

A face of sad appeal, and spake and said,

"O Merlin, do ye love me?" and again,

"O Merlin, do ye love me?" and once more,

"Great Master, do ye love me?" he was mute.

And lissome Vivien, holding by his heel,

Writhed toward him, slided up his knee and sat,

Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet

Together, curved an arm about his neck,

Clung like a snake; and letting her left hand

Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a leaf.

Made with her right a comb of pearl to

part

The lists of such a beard as youth gone

dom," drew

The vast and shaggy mantle of his beard

Across her neck and bosom to her knee,

And call'd herself a gilded summer fly Caught in a great old tyrant spider's web,

Who meant to eat her up in that wild wood

Without one word. So Vivien call'd herself,

But rather seem'd a lovely baleful star Veil'd in gray vapor; till he sadly smiled:

"To what request for what strange boon," he said

"Are these your pretty tricks and foolcries,

O Vivien,the preamble ? yet my thanks, For these have broken up my melancholy."

And Vivien answer'd smiling saucily, "What, O my Master, have ye found your voice?

I bid the stranger welcome. Thanks at last!

But yesterday you never open'd lip, Except indeed to drink: no cup had

we:

In mine own lady palms I cull'd the spring

That gather'd trickling dropwise from the cleft,

And made a pretty cup of both my hands

And offer'd you it kneeling: then ye drank

And knew no more, nor gave me one poor word;

O no more thanks than might a goat have given

With no more sign of reverence than a beard.

And when we halted at that other well, And I was faint to swooning, and ye lay

Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of those

Deep meadows we had traversed, did you know

That Vivien bathed your feet before her own?

And yet no thanks: and all thro' this wild wood

And all this morning when I fondled

you:

to rest.

For, grant me some slight power upon your fate,

1, feeling that you feit me worthy trust,

Should rest and let you rest, knowing you mine.

And therefore be as great as you are named,

Not muffled round with selfish reticence.

How hard you look and how denyingly! O, if you think this wickedness in me, That I should prove it on you unawares, To make you lose your use and name and fame,

That makes me most indignant: then our bond

Had best be loosed for ever: but think

'Nay, master, be not wrathful with your maid;

Caress her: let her feel herself forgiven

Who feels no heart to ask another

And Vivien answer'd smiling mourn fully;

"O mine have ebb'd away for evermore,

And all thro' following you to this wild wood,

Because I saw you sad, to comfort you. Lo now, what hearts have men! they never mount

As high as woman in her selfless mood. And touching fame, howe'er ye scorn my song,

Take one verse more-the lady speaks it-this:

'My name, once mine, now thine, is closelier mine,

For fame, could fame be mine, that fame were thine,

And shame, could shame be thine, that shame were mine.

So trust me not at all or all in all.'