第67章 The Last Tournament(2)

But when the morning of a tournament,By these in earnest those in mockery called The Tournament of the Dead Innocence,Brake with a wet wind blowing,Lancelot,Round whose sick head all night,like birds of prey,The words of Arthur flying shrieked,arose,And down a streetway hung with folds of pure White samite,and by fountains running wine,Where children sat in white with cups of gold,Moved to the lists,and there,with slow sad steps Ascending,filled his double-dragoned chair.

He glanced and saw the stately galleries,Dame,damsel,each through worship of their Queen White-robed in honour of the stainless child,And some with scattered jewels,like a bank Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire.

He looked but once,and vailed his eyes again.

The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream To ears but half-awaked,then one low roll Of Autumn thunder,and the jousts began:

And ever the wind blew,and yellowing leaf And gloom and gleam,and shower and shorn plume Went down it.Sighing weariedly,as one Who sits and gazes on a faded fire,When all the goodlier guests are past away,Sat their great umpire,looking o'er the lists.

He saw the laws that ruled the tournament Broken,but spake not;once,a knight cast down Before his throne of arbitration cursed The dead babe and the follies of the King;And once the laces of a helmet cracked,And showed him,like a vermin in its hole,Modred,a narrow face:anon he heard The voice that billowed round the barriers roar An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight,But newly-entered,taller than the rest,And armoured all in forest green,whereon There tript a hundred tiny silver deer,And wearing but a holly-spray for crest,With ever-scattering berries,and on shield A spear,a harp,a bugle--Tristram--late From overseas in Brittany returned,And marriage with a princess of that realm,Isolt the White--Sir Tristram of the Woods--Whom Lancelot knew,had held sometime with pain His own against him,and now yearned to shake The burthen off his heart in one full shock With Tristram even to death:his strong hands gript And dinted the gilt dragons right and left,Until he groaned for wrath--so many of those,That ware their ladies'colours on the casque,Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds,And there with gibes and flickering mockeries Stood,while he muttered,'Craven crests!O shame!

What faith have these in whom they sware to love?

The glory of our Round Table is no more.'

So Tristram won,and Lancelot gave,the gems,Not speaking other word than 'Hast thou won?

Art thou the purest,brother?See,the hand Wherewith thou takest this,is red!'to whom Tristram,half plagued by Lancelot's languorous mood,Made answer,'Ay,but wherefore toss me this Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound?

Lest be thy fair Queen's fantasy.Strength of heart And might of limb,but mainly use and skill,Are winners in this pastime of our King.

My hand--belike the lance hath dript upon it--No blood of mine,I trow;but O chief knight,Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield,Great brother,thou nor I have made the world;Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine.'

And Tristram round the gallery made his horse Caracole;then bowed his homage,bluntly saying,'Fair damsels,each to him who worships each Sole Queen of Beauty and of love,behold This day my Queen of Beauty is not here.'

And most of these were mute,some angered,one Murmuring,'All courtesy is dead,'and one,'The glory of our Round Table is no more.'

Then fell thick rain,plume droopt and mantle clung,And pettish cries awoke,and the wan day Went glooming down in wet and weariness:

But under her black brows a swarthy one Laughed shrilly,crying,'Praise the patient saints,Our one white day of Innocence hath past,Though somewhat draggled at the skirt.So be it.

The snowdrop only,flowering through the year,Would make the world as blank as Winter-tide.

Come--let us gladden their sad eyes,our Queen's And Lancelot's,at this night's solemnity With all the kindlier colours of the field.'

So dame and damsel glittered at the feast Variously gay:for he that tells the tale Likened them,saying,as when an hour of cold Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows,And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers Pass under white,till the warm hour returns With veer of wind,and all are flowers again;So dame and damsel cast the simple white,And glowing in all colours,the live grass,Rose-campion,bluebell,kingcup,poppy,glanced About the revels,and with mirth so loud Beyond all use,that,half-amazed,the Queen,And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts,Brake up their sports,then slowly to her bower Parted,and in her bosom pain was lord.

And little Dagonet on the morrow morn,High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide,Danced like a withered leaf before the hall.

Then Tristram saying,'Why skip ye so,Sir Fool?'

Wheeled round on either heel,Dagonet replied,'Belike for lack of wiser company;Or being fool,and seeing too much wit Makes the world rotten,why,belike I skip To know myself the wisest knight of all.'

'Ay,fool,'said Tristram,'but 'tis eating dry To dance without a catch,a roundelay To dance to.'Then he twangled on his harp,And while he twangled little Dagonet stood Quiet as any water-sodden log Stayed in the wandering warble of a brook;But when the twangling ended,skipt again;

And being asked,'Why skipt ye not,Sir Fool?'

Made answer,'I had liefer twenty years Skip to the broken music of my brains Than any broken music thou canst make.'

Then Tristram,waiting for the quip to come,'Good now,what music have I broken,fool?'

And little Dagonet,skipping,'Arthur,the King's;For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt,Thou makest broken music with thy bride,Her daintier namesake down in Brittany--And so thou breakest Arthur's music too.'

'Save for that broken music in thy brains,Sir Fool,'said Tristram,'I would break thy head.