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climbed,

       And handed down the golden treasure to him.’

      And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes,

       ‘Gold?’ said I gold? — ay then, why he, or she,

       Or whosoe’er it was, or half the world

       Had ventured — had the thing I spake of been

       Mere gold — but this was all of that true steel,

       Whereof they forged the brand Excalibur,

       And lightnings played about it in the storm,

       And all the little fowl were flurried at it,

       And there were cries and clashings in the nest,

       That sent him from his senses: let me go.’

      Then Bellicent bemoaned herself and said,

       ‘Hast thou no pity upon my loneliness?

       Lo, where thy father Lot beside the hearth

       Lies like a log, and all but smouldered out!

       For ever since when traitor to the King

       He fought against him in the Barons’ war,

       And Arthur gave him back his territory,

       His age hath slowly droopt, and now lies there

       A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburiable,

       No more; nor sees, nor hears, nor speaks, nor knows.

       And both thy brethren are in Arthur’s hall,

       Albeit neither loved with that full love

       I feel for thee, nor worthy such a love:

       Stay therefore thou; red berries charm the bird,

       And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the wars,

       Who never knewest finger-ache, nor pang

       Of wrenched or broken limb — an often chance

       In those brain-stunning shocks, and tourney-falls,

       Frights to my heart; but stay: follow the deer

       By these tall firs and our fast-falling burns;

       So make thy manhood mightier day by day;

       Sweet is the chase: and I will seek thee out

       Some comfortable bride and fair, to grace

       Thy climbing life, and cherish my prone year,

       Till falling into Lot’s forgetfulness

       I know not thee, myself, nor anything.

       Stay, my best son! ye are yet more boy than man.’

      Then Gareth, ‘An ye hold me yet for child,

       Hear yet once more the story of the child.

       For, mother, there was once a King, like ours.

       The prince his heir, when tall and marriageable,

       Asked for a bride; and thereupon the King

       Set two before him. One was fair, strong, armed —

       But to be won by force — and many men

       Desired her; one good lack, no man desired.

       And these were the conditions of the King:

       That save he won the first by force, he needs

       Must wed that other, whom no man desired,

       A red-faced bride who knew herself so vile,

       That evermore she longed to hide herself,

       Nor fronted man or woman, eye to eye —

       Yea — some she cleaved to, but they died of her.

       And one — they called her Fame; and one — O Mother,

       How can ye keep me tethered to you — Shame.

       Man am I grown, a man’s work must I do.

       Follow the deer? follow the Christ, the King,

       Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King —

       Else, wherefore born?’

      To whom the mother said

       ‘Sweet son, for there be many who deem him not,

       Or will not deem him, wholly proven King —

       Albeit in mine own heart I knew him King,

       When I was frequent with him in my youth,

       And heard him Kingly speak, and doubted him

       No more than he, himself; but felt him mine,

       Of closest kin to me: yet — wilt thou leave

       Thine easeful biding here, and risk thine all,

       Life, limbs, for one that is not proven King?

       Stay, till the cloud that settles round his birth

       Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet son.’

      And Gareth answered quickly, ‘Not an hour,

       So that ye yield me — I will walk through fire,

       Mother, to gain it — your full leave to go.

       Not proven, who swept the dust of ruined Rome

       From off the threshold of the realm, and crushed

       The Idolaters, and made the people free?

       Who should be King save him who makes us free?’

      So when the Queen, who long had sought in vain

       To break him from the intent to which he grew,

       Found her son’s will unwaveringly one,

       She answered craftily, ‘Will ye walk through fire?

       Who walks through fire will hardly heed the smoke.

       Ay, go then, an ye must: only one proof,

       Before thou ask the King to make thee knight,

       Of thine obedience and thy love to me,

       Thy mother — I demand.

      And Gareth cried,

       ‘A hard one, or a hundred, so I go.

       Nay — quick! the proof to prove me to the quick!’

      But slowly spake the mother looking at him,

       ‘Prince, thou shalt go disguised to Arthur’s hall,

       And hire thyself to serve for meats and drinks

       Among the scullions and the kitchen-knaves,

       And those that hand the dish across the bar.

       Nor shalt thou tell thy name to anyone.

       And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth and a day.’

      For so the Queen believed that when her son

       Beheld his only way to glory lead

       Low down through villain kitchen-vassalage,

       Her own true Gareth was too princely-proud

       To pass thereby; so should he rest with her,

       Closed in her castle from the sound of arms.

      Silent awhile was Gareth, then replied,

       ‘The thrall in person may be free in soul,

       And I shall see the jousts. Thy son am I,

       And since thou art my mother, must obey.

       I therefore yield me freely to thy will;

       For hence will I, disguised, and hire myself

       To serve with scullions and with kitchen-knaves;

       Nor tell my name to any — no, not the King.’

      Gareth awhile lingered. The mother’s eye

       Full of the wistful

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