第70章 The Last Tournament(5)

So,plucked one way by hate and one by love,Drained of her force,again she sat,and spake To Tristram,as he knelt before her,saying,'O hunter,and O blower of the horn,Harper,and thou hast been a rover too,For,ere I mated with my shambling king,Ye twain had fallen out about the bride Of one--his name is out of me--the prize,If prize she were--(what marvel--she could see)--Thine,friend;and ever since my craven seeks To wreck thee villainously:but,O Sir Knight,What dame or damsel have ye kneeled to last?'

And Tristram,'Last to my Queen Paramount,Here now to my Queen Paramount of love And loveliness--ay,lovelier than when first Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonnesse,Sailing from Ireland.'

Softly laughed Isolt;

'Flatter me not,for hath not our great Queen My dole of beauty trebled?'and he said,'Her beauty is her beauty,and thine thine,And thine is more to me--soft,gracious,kind--Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips Most gracious;but she,haughty,even to him,Lancelot;for I have seen him wan enow To make one doubt if ever the great Queen Have yielded him her love.'

To whom Isolt,'Ah then,false hunter and false harper,thou Who brakest through the scruple of my bond,Calling me thy white hind,and saying to me That Guinevere had sinned against the highest,And I--misyoked with such a want of man--That I could hardly sin against the lowest.'

He answered,'O my soul,be comforted!

If this be sweet,to sin in leading-strings,If here be comfort,and if ours be sin,Crowned warrant had we for the crowning sin That made us happy:but how ye greet me--fear And fault and doubt--no word of that fond tale--Thy deep heart-yearnings,thy sweet memories Of Tristram in that year he was away.'

And,saddening on the sudden,spake Isolt,'I had forgotten all in my strong joy To see thee--yearnings?--ay!for,hour by hour,Here in the never-ended afternoon,O sweeter than all memories of thee,Deeper than any yearnings after thee Seemed those far-rolling,westward-smiling seas,Watched from this tower.Isolt of Britain dashed Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand,Would that have chilled her bride-kiss?Wedded her?

Fought in her father's battles?wounded there?

The King was all fulfilled with gratefulness,And she,my namesake of the hands,that healed Thy hurt and heart with unguent and caress--Well--can I wish her any huger wrong Than having known thee?her too hast thou left To pine and waste in those sweet memories.

O were I not my Mark's,by whom all men Are noble,I should hate thee more than love.'

And Tristram,fondling her light hands,replied,'Grace,Queen,for being loved:she loved me well.

Did I love her?the name at least I loved.

Isolt?--I fought his battles,for Isolt!

The night was dark;the true star set.Isolt!

The name was ruler of the dark--Isolt?

Care not for her!patient,and prayerful,meek,Pale-blooded,she will yield herself to God.'

And Isolt answered,'Yea,and why not I?

Mine is the larger need,who am not meek,Pale-blooded,prayerful.Let me tell thee now.

Here one black,mute midsummer night I sat,Lonely,but musing on thee,wondering where,Murmuring a light song I had heard thee sing,And once or twice I spake thy name aloud.

Then flashed a levin-brand;and near me stood,In fuming sulphur blue and green,a fiend--Mark's way to steal behind one in the dark--

For there was Mark:"He has wedded her,"he said,Not said,but hissed it:then this crown of towers So shook to such a roar of all the sky,That here in utter dark I swooned away,And woke again in utter dark,and cried,"I will flee hence and give myself to God"--And thou wert lying in thy new leman's arms.'

Then Tristram,ever dallying with her hand,'May God be with thee,sweet,when old and gray,And past desire!'a saying that angered her.

'"May God be with thee,sweet,when thou art old,And sweet no more to me!"I need Him now.

For when had Lancelot uttered aught so gross Even to the swineherd's malkin in the mast?

The greater man,the greater courtesy.

Far other was the Tristram,Arthur's knight!

But thou,through ever harrying thy wild beasts--Save that to touch a harp,tilt with a lance Becomes thee well--art grown wild beast thyself.

How darest thou,if lover,push me even In fancy from thy side,and set me far In the gray distance,half a life away,Her to be loved no more?Unsay it,unswear!

Flatter me rather,seeing me so weak,Broken with Mark and hate and solitude,Thy marriage and mine own,that I should suck Lies like sweet wines:lie to me:I believe.

Will ye not lie?not swear,as there ye kneel,And solemnly as when ye sware to him,The man of men,our King--My God,the power Was once in vows when men believed the King!