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who

       Thou seemest, but I know thee who thou art.

       And now thou goest up to mock the King,

       Who cannot brook the shadow of any lie.’

      Unmockingly the mocker ending here

       Turned to the right, and past along the plain;

       Whom Gareth looking after said, ‘My men,

       Our one white lie sits like a little ghost

       Here on the threshold of our enterprise.

       Let love be blamed for it, not she, nor I:

       Well, we will make amends.’

      With all good cheer

       He spake and laughed, then entered with his twain

       Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces

       And stately, rich in emblem and the work

       Of ancient kings who did their days in stone;

       Which Merlin’s hand, the Mage at Arthur’s court,

       Knowing all arts, had touched, and everywhere

       At Arthur’s ordinance, tipt with lessening peak

       And pinnacle, and had made it spire to heaven.

       And ever and anon a knight would pass

       Outward, or inward to the hall: his arms

       Clashed; and the sound was good to Gareth’s ear.

       And out of bower and casement shyly glanced

       Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars of love;

       And all about a healthful people stept

       As in the presence of a gracious king.

      Then into hall Gareth ascending heard

       A voice, the voice of Arthur, and beheld

       Far over heads in that long-vaulted hall

       The splendour of the presence of the King

       Throned, and delivering doom — and looked no more —

       But felt his young heart hammering in his ears,

       And thought, ‘For this half-shadow of a lie

       The truthful King will doom me when I speak.’

       Yet pressing on, though all in fear to find

       Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor one

       Nor other, but in all the listening eyes

       Of those tall knights, that ranged about the throne,

       Clear honour shining like the dewy star

       Of dawn, and faith in their great King, with pure

       Affection, and the light of victory,

       And glory gained, and evermore to gain.

       Then came a widow crying to the King,

       ‘A boon, Sir King! Thy father, Uther, reft

       From my dead lord a field with violence:

       For howsoe’er at first he proffered gold,

       Yet, for the field was pleasant in our eyes,

       We yielded not; and then he reft us of it

       Perforce, and left us neither gold nor field.’

      Said Arthur, ‘Whether would ye? gold or field?’

       To whom the woman weeping, ‘Nay, my lord,

       The field was pleasant in my husband’s eye.’

      And Arthur, ‘Have thy pleasant field again,

       And thrice the gold for Uther’s use thereof,

       According to the years. No boon is here,

       But justice, so thy say be proven true.

       Accursed, who from the wrongs his father did

       Would shape himself a right!’

      And while she past,

       Came yet another widow crying to him,

       ‘A boon, Sir King! Thine enemy, King, am I.

       With thine own hand thou slewest my dear lord,

       A knight of Uther in the Barons’ war,

       When Lot and many another rose and fought

       Against thee, saying thou wert basely born.

       I held with these, and loathe to ask thee aught.

       Yet lo! my husband’s brother had my son

       Thralled in his castle, and hath starved him dead;

       And standeth seized of that inheritance

       Which thou that slewest the sire hast left the son.

       So though I scarce can ask it thee for hate,

       Grant me some knight to do the battle for me,

       Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for my son.’

      Then strode a good knight forward, crying to him,

       ‘A boon, Sir King! I am her kinsman, I.

       Give me to right her wrong, and slay the man.’

      Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, and cried,

       ‘A boon, Sir King! even that thou grant her none,

       This railer, that hath mocked thee in full hall —

       None; or the wholesome boon of gyve and gag.’

      But Arthur, ‘We sit King, to help the wronged

       Through all our realm. The woman loves her lord.

       Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves and hates!

       The kings of old had doomed thee to the flames,

       Aurelius Emrys would have scourged thee dead,

       And Uther slit thy tongue: but get thee hence —

       Lest that rough humour of the kings of old

       Return upon me! Thou that art her kin,

       Go likewise; lay him low and slay him not,

       But bring him here, that I may judge the right,

       According to the justice of the King:

       Then, be he guilty, by that deathless King

       Who lived and died for men, the man shall die.’

      Then came in hall the messenger of Mark,

       A name of evil savour in the land,

       The Cornish king. In either hand he bore

       What dazzled all, and shone far-off as shines

       A field of charlock in the sudden sun

       Between two showers, a cloth of palest gold,

       Which down he laid before the throne, and knelt,

       Delivering, that his lord, the vassal king,

       Was even upon his way to Camelot;

       For having heard that Arthur of his grace

       Had made his goodly cousin, Tristram, knight,

       And, for himself was of the greater state,

       Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord

       Would yield him this large honour all the more;

       So prayed him well to accept this cloth of gold,

       In token of true heart and fealty.

      Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, to rend

       In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth.

       An oak-tree smouldered there. ‘The goodly knight!

       What! shall the shield of Mark stand among these?’

       For, midway down the side of

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