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The fourth, who alway rideth armed in black,

       A huge man-beast of boundless savagery.

       He names himself the Night and oftener Death,

       And wears a helmet mounted with a skull,

       And bears a skeleton figured on his arms,

       To show that who may slay or scape the three,

       Slain by himself, shall enter endless night.

       And all these four be fools, but mighty men,

       And therefore am I come for Lancelot.’

      Hereat Sir Gareth called from where he rose,

       A head with kindling eyes above the throng,

       ‘A boon, Sir King — this quest!’ then — for he marked

       Kay near him groaning like a wounded bull —

       ‘Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen-knave am I,

       And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I,

       And I can topple over a hundred such.

       Thy promise, King,’ and Arthur glancing at him,

       Brought down a momentary brow. ‘Rough, sudden,

       And pardonable, worthy to be knight —

       Go therefore,’ and all hearers were amazed.

      But on the damsel’s forehead shame, pride, wrath

       Slew the May-white: she lifted either arm,

       ‘Fie on thee, King! I asked for thy chief knight,

       And thou hast given me but a kitchen-knave.’

       Then ere a man in hall could stay her, turned,

       Fled down the lane of access to the King,

       Took horse, descended the slope street, and past

       The weird white gate, and paused without, beside

       The field of tourney, murmuring ‘kitchen-knave.’

      Now two great entries opened from the hall,

       At one end one, that gave upon a range

       Of level pavement where the King would pace

       At sunrise, gazing over plain and wood;

       And down from this a lordly stairway sloped

       Till lost in blowing trees and tops of towers;

       And out by this main doorway past the King.

       But one was counter to the hearth, and rose

       High that the highest-crested helm could ride

       Therethrough nor graze: and by this entry fled

       The damsel in her wrath, and on to this

       Sir Gareth strode, and saw without the door

       King Arthur’s gift, the worth of half a town,

       A warhorse of the best, and near it stood

       The two that out of north had followed him:

       This bare a maiden shield, a casque; that held

       The horse, the spear; whereat Sir Gareth loosed

       A cloak that dropt from collar-bone to heel,

       A cloth of roughest web, and cast it down,

       And from it like a fuel-smothered fire,

       That lookt half-dead, brake bright, and flashed as those

       Dull-coated things, that making slide apart

       Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath there burns

       A jewelled harness, ere they pass and fly.

       So Gareth ere he parted flashed in arms.

       Then as he donned the helm, and took the shield

       And mounted horse and graspt a spear, of grain

       Storm-strengthened on a windy site, and tipt

       With trenchant steel, around him slowly prest

       The people, while from out of kitchen came

       The thralls in throng, and seeing who had worked

       Lustier than any, and whom they could but love,

       Mounted in arms, threw up their caps and cried,

       ‘God bless the King, and all his fellowship!’

       And on through lanes of shouting Gareth rode

       Down the slope street, and past without the gate.

      So Gareth past with joy; but as the cur

       Pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere his cause

       Be cooled by fighting, follows, being named,

       His owner, but remembers all, and growls

       Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the door

       Muttered in scorn of Gareth whom he used

       To harry and hustle.

      ‘Bound upon a quest

       With horse and arms — the King hath past his time —

       My scullion knave! Thralls to your work again,

       For an your fire be low ye kindle mine!

       Will there be dawn in West and eve in East?

       Begone! — my knave! — belike and like enow

       Some old head-blow not heeded in his youth

       So shook his wits they wander in his prime —

       Crazed! How the villain lifted up his voice,

       Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen-knave.

       Tut: he was tame and meek enow with me,

       Till peacocked up with Lancelot’s noticing.

       Well — I will after my loud knave, and learn

       Whether he know me for his master yet.

       Out of the smoke he came, and so my lance

       Hold, by God’s grace, he shall into the mire —

       Thence, if the King awaken from his craze,

       Into the smoke again.’

      But Lancelot said,

       ‘Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against the King,

       For that did never he whereon ye rail,

       But ever meekly served the King in thee?

       Abide: take counsel; for this lad is great

       And lusty, and knowing both of lance and sword.’

       ‘Tut, tell not me,’ said Kay, ‘ye are overfine

       To mar stout knaves with foolish courtesies:’

       Then mounted, on through silent faces rode

       Down the slope city, and out beyond the gate.

      But by the field of tourney lingering yet

       Muttered the damsel, ‘Wherefore did the King

       Scorn me? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, at least

       He might have yielded to me one of those

       Who tilt for lady’s love and glory here,

       Rather than — O sweet heaven! O fie upon him —

       His kitchen-knave.’

      To whom Sir Gareth drew

       (And there were none but few goodlier than he)

       Shining in arms, ‘Damsel, the quest is mine.

       Lead, and I follow.’ She thereat, as one

       That smells a foul-fleshed agaric in the holt,

       And deems it carrion of some woodland thing,

       Or shrew,

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