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Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen-grease.

       And look who comes behind,’ for there was Kay.

       ‘Knowest thou not me? thy master? I am Kay.

       We lack thee by the hearth.’

      And Gareth to him,

       ‘Master no more! too well I know thee, ay —

       The most ungentle knight in Arthur’s hall.’

       ‘Have at thee then,’ said Kay: they shocked, and Kay

       Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again,

       ‘Lead, and I follow,’ and fast away she fled.

      But after sod and shingle ceased to fly

       Behind her, and the heart of her good horse

       Was nigh to burst with violence of the beat,

       Perforce she stayed, and overtaken spoke.

      ‘What doest thou, scullion, in my fellowship?

       Deem’st thou that I accept thee aught the more

       Or love thee better, that by some device

       Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness,

       Thou hast overthrown and slain thy master — thou! —

       Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon! — to me

       Thou smellest all of kitchen as before.’

      ‘Damsel,’ Sir Gareth answered gently, ‘say

       Whate’er ye will, but whatsoe’er ye say,

       I leave not till I finish this fair quest,

       Or die therefore.’

      ‘Ay, wilt thou finish it?

       Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks!

       The listening rogue hath caught the manner of it.

       But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, knave,

       And then by such a one that thou for all

       The kitchen brewis that was ever supt

       Shalt not once dare to look him in the face.’

      ‘I shall assay,’ said Gareth with a smile

       That maddened her, and away she flashed again

       Down the long avenues of a boundless wood,

       And Gareth following was again beknaved.

      ‘Sir Kitchen-knave, I have missed the only way

       Where Arthur’s men are set along the wood;

       The wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves:

       If both be slain, I am rid of thee; but yet,

       Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine?

       Fight, an thou canst: I have missed the only way.’

      So till the dusk that followed evensong

       Rode on the two, reviler and reviled;

       Then after one long slope was mounted, saw,

       Bowl-shaped, through tops of many thousand pines

       A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink

       To westward — in the deeps whereof a mere,

       Round as the red eye of an Eagle-owl,

       Under the half-dead sunset glared; and shouts

       Ascended, and there brake a servingman

       Flying from out of the black wood, and crying,

       ‘They have bound my lord to cast him in the mere.’

       Then Gareth, ‘Bound am I to right the wronged,

       But straitlier bound am I to bide with thee.’

       And when the damsel spake contemptuously,

       ‘Lead, and I follow,’ Gareth cried again,

       ‘Follow, I lead!’ so down among the pines

       He plunged; and there, blackshadowed nigh the mere,

       And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and reed,

       Saw six tall men haling a seventh along,

       A stone about his neck to drown him in it.

       Three with good blows he quieted, but three

       Fled through the pines; and Gareth loosed the stone

       From off his neck, then in the mere beside

       Tumbled it; oilily bubbled up the mere.

       Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on free feet

       Set him, a stalwart Baron, Arthur’s friend.

      ‘Well that ye came, or else these caitiff rogues

       Had wreaked themselves on me; good cause is theirs

       To hate me, for my wont hath ever been

       To catch my thief, and then like vermin here

       Drown him, and with a stone about his neck;

       And under this wan water many of them

       Lie rotting, but at night let go the stone,

       And rise, and flickering in a grimly light

       Dance on the mere. Good now, ye have saved a life

       Worth somewhat as the cleanser of this wood.

       And fain would I reward thee worshipfully.

       What guerdon will ye?’

       Gareth sharply spake,

       ‘None! for the deed’s sake have I done the deed,

       In uttermost obedience to the King.

       But wilt thou yield this damsel harbourage?’

      Whereat the Baron saying, ‘I well believe

       You be of Arthur’s Table,’ a light laugh

       Broke from Lynette, ‘Ay, truly of a truth,

       And in a sort, being Arthur’s kitchen-knave! —

       But deem not I accept thee aught the more,

       Scullion, for running sharply with thy spit

       Down on a rout of craven foresters.

       A thresher with his flail had scattered them.

       Nay — for thou smellest of the kitchen still.

       But an this lord will yield us harbourage,

       Well.’

      So she spake. A league beyond the wood,

       All in a full-fair manor and a rich,

       His towers where that day a feast had been

       Held in high hall, and many a viand left,

       And many a costly cate, received the three.

       And there they placed a peacock in his pride

       Before the damsel, and the Baron set

       Gareth beside her, but at once she rose.

      ‘Meseems, that here is much discourtesy,

       Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my side.

       Hear me — this morn I stood in Arthur’s hall,

       And prayed the King would grant me Lancelot

       To fight the brotherhood of Day and Night —

       The last a monster unsubduable

       Of any save of him for whom I called —

       Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen-knave,

       “The quest is mine; thy kitchen-knave am I,

       And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I.”

       Then Arthur all

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