第71章 The Last Tournament(6)

They lied not then,who sware,and through their vows The King prevailing made his realm:--I say,Swear to me thou wilt love me even when old,Gray-haired,and past desire,and in despair.'

Then Tristram,pacing moodily up and down,'Vows!did you keep the vow you made to Mark More than I mine?Lied,say ye?Nay,but learnt,The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself--My knighthood taught me this--ay,being snapt--We run more counter to the soul thereof Than had we never sworn.I swear no more.

I swore to the great King,and am forsworn.

For once--even to the height--I honoured him.

"Man,is he man at all?"methought,when first I rode from our rough Lyonnesse,and beheld That victor of the Pagan throned in hall--His hair,a sun that rayed from off a brow Like hillsnow high in heaven,the steel-blue eyes,The golden beard that clothed his lips with light--Moreover,that weird legend of his birth,With Merlin's mystic babble about his end Amazed me;then,his foot was on a stool Shaped as a dragon;he seemed to me no man,But Michael trampling Satan;so I sware,Being amazed:but this went by--The vows!

O ay--the wholesome madness of an hour--

They served their use,their time;for every knight Believed himself a greater than himself,And every follower eyed him as a God;Till he,being lifted up beyond himself,Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done,And so the realm was made;but then their vows--First mainly through that sullying of our Queen--Began to gall the knighthood,asking whence Had Arthur right to bind them to himself?

Dropt down from heaven?washed up from out the deep?

They failed to trace him through the flesh and blood Of our old kings:whence then?a doubtful lord To bind them by inviolable vows,Which flesh and blood perforce would violate:

For feel this arm of mine--the tide within Red with free chase and heather-scented air,Pulsing full man;can Arthur make me pure As any maiden child?lock up my tongue From uttering freely what I freely hear?

Bind me to one?The wide world laughs at it.

And worldling of the world am I,and know The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour Woos his own end;we are not angels here Nor shall be:vows--I am woodman of the woods,And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale Mock them:my soul,we love but while we may;And therefore is my love so large for thee,Seeing it is not bounded save by love.'

Here ending,he moved toward her,and she said,'Good:an I turned away my love for thee To some one thrice as courteous as thyself--For courtesy wins woman all as well As valour may,but he that closes both Is perfect,he is Lancelot--taller indeed,Rosier and comelier,thou--but say I loved This knightliest of all knights,and cast thee back Thine own small saw,"We love but while we may,"Well then,what answer?'

He that while she spake,Mindful of what he brought to adorn her with,The jewels,had let one finger lightly touch The warm white apple of her throat,replied,'Press this a little closer,sweet,until--Come,I am hungered and half-angered--meat,Wine,wine--and I will love thee to the death,And out beyond into the dream to come.'

So then,when both were brought to full accord,She rose,and set before him all he willed;And after these had comforted the blood With meats and wines,and satiated their hearts--Now talking of their woodland paradise,The deer,the dews,the fern,the founts,the lawns;Now mocking at the much ungainliness,And craven shifts,and long crane legs of Mark--Then Tristram laughing caught the harp,and sang:

'Ay,ay,O ay--the winds that bend the brier!

A star in heaven,a star within the mere!

Ay,ay,O ay--a star was my desire,And one was far apart,and one was near:

Ay,ay,O ay--the winds that bow the grass!

And one was water and one star was fire,And one will ever shine and one will pass.

Ay,ay,O ay--the winds that move the mere.'

Then in the light's last glimmer Tristram showed And swung the ruby carcanet.She cried,'The collar of some Order,which our King Hath newly founded,all for thee,my soul,For thee,to yield thee grace beyond thy peers.'

'Not so,my Queen,'he said,'but the red fruit Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven,And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize,And hither brought by Tristram for his last Love-offering and peace-offering unto thee.'

He spoke,he turned,then,flinging round her neck,Claspt it,and cried,'Thine Order,O my Queen!'

But,while he bowed to kiss the jewelled throat,Out of the dark,just as the lips had touched,Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek--'Mark's way,'said Mark,and clove him through the brain.

That night came Arthur home,and while he climbed,All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping gloom,The stairway to the hall,and looked and saw The great Queen's bower was dark,--about his feet A voice clung sobbing till he questioned it,'What art thou?'and the voice about his feet Sent up an answer,sobbing,'I am thy fool,And I shall never make thee smile again.'