| THE FLASH of oak leaves over Guinevere | 220 |
| That afternoon, with the sun going down, | |
| Made memories there for Lancelot, although | |
| The woman who in silence looked at him | |
| Now seemed his inventory of the world | |
| That he must lose, or suffer to be lost | 225 |
| For love of her who sat there in the shade, | |
| With oak leaves flashing in a golden light | |
| Over her face and over her golden hair. | |
| “Gawaine has all the graces, yet he knows; | |
| He knows enough to be the end of us, | 230 |
| If so he would,” she said. “He knows and laughs | |
| And we are at the mercy of a man | |
| Who, if the stars went out, would only laugh.” | |
| She looked away at a small swinging blossom, | |
| And then she looked intently at her fingers, | 235 |
| While a frown gathered slowly round her eyes, | |
| And wrinkled her white forehead. | |
| |
| Lancelot, | |
| Scarce knowing whether to himself he spoke | |
| Or to the Queen, said emptily: “As for Gawaine, | 240 |
| My question is, if any curious hind | |
| Or knight that is alive in Britain breathing, | |
| Or prince, or king, knows more of us, or less, | |
| Than Gawaine, in his gay complacency, | |
| Knows or believes he knows. There’s over much | 245 |
| Of knowing in this realm of many tongues, | |
| Where deeds are less to those who tell of them | |
| Than are the words they sow; and you and I | |
| Are like to yield a granary of such words, | |
| For God knows what next harvesting. Gawain | 250 |
| I fear no more than Gareth, or Colgrevance; | |
| So far as it is his to be the friend | |
| Of any man, so far is he may friend— | |
| Till I have crossed him in some enterprise | |
| Unlikely and unborn. So fear not Gawaine | 255 |
| But let your primal care be now for one | |
| Whose name is yours.” | |
| |
| The Queen, with her blue eyes | |
| Too bright for joy, still gazed on Lancelot, | |
| Who stared as if in angry malediction | 260 |
| Upon the shorn grass growing at his feet. | |
| “Why do you speak as if the grass had ears | |
| And I had none? What are you saying now, | |
| So darkly to the grass, of knights and hinds? | |
| Are you the Lancelot who rode, long since, | 265 |
| Away from me on that unearthly Quest, | |
| Which left no man the same who followed it— | |
| Or none save Gawaine, who came back so soon | |
| That we had hardly missed him?” Faintly then | |
| She smiled a little, more in her defence, | 270 |
| He knew, than for misprision of a man | |
| Whom yet she feared: “Why do you set this day— | |
| This golden day, when all are not so golden— | |
| To tell me, with your eyes upon the ground, | |
| That idle words have been for idle tongues | 275 |
| And ears a moment’s idle entertainment? | |
| Have I become, and all at once, a thing | |
| So new to courts, and to the buzz they make, | |
| That I should hear no murmur, see no sign? | |
| Where malice and ambition dwell with envy, | 280 |
| They go the farthest who believe the least; | |
| So let them,—while I ask of you again, | |
| Why this day for all this? Was yesterday | |
| A day of ouphes and omens? Was it Friday? | |
| I don’t remember. Days are all alike | 285 |
| When I have you to look on; when you go, | |
| There are no days but hours. You might say now | |
| What Gawaine said, and say it in our language.” | |
| The sharp light still was in her eyes, alive | |
| And anxious with a reminiscent fear. | 290 |
| |
| Lancelot, like a strong man stricken hard | |
| With pain, looked up at her unhappily; | |
| And slowly, on a low and final note, | |
| Said: “Gawaine laughs alike at what he knows, | |
| And at the loose convenience of his fancy; | 295 |
| He sees in others what his humor needs | |
| To nourish it, and lives a merry life. | |
| Sometimes a random shaft of his will hit | |
| Nearer the mark than one a wise man aims | |
| With infinite address and reservation; | 300 |
| So has it come to pass this afternoon.” | |
| |
| Blood left the quivering cheeks of Guinevere | |
| As color leaves a cloud; and where white was | |
| Before, there was a ghostliness not white, | |
| But gray; and over it her shining hair | 305 |
| Coiled heavily its mocking weight of gold. | |
| The pride of her forlorn light-heartedness | |
| Fled like a storm-blown feather; and her fear, | |
| Possessing her, was all that she possessed. | |
| She sought for Lancelot, but he seemed gone. | 310 |
| There was a strong man glowering in a chair | |
| Before her, but he was not Lancelot, | |
| Or he would look at her and say to her | |
| That Gawaine’s words were less than chaff in the wind— | |
| A nonsense about exile, birds, and bones, | 315 |
| Born of an indolence of empty breath. | |
| “Say what has come to pass this afternoon,” | |
| She said, “or I shall hear you all my life, | |
| Not hearing what it was you might have told.” | |
| |
| He felt the trembling of her slow last words, | 320 |
| And his were trembling as he answered them: | |
| “Why this day, why no other? So you ask, | |
| And so must I in honor tell you more— | |
| For what end, I have yet no braver guess | |
| Than Modred has of immortality, | 325 |
| Or you of Gawaine. Could I have him alone | |
| Between me and the peace I cannot know, | |
| My life were like the sound of golden bells | |
| Over still fields at sunset, where no storm | |
| Should ever blast the sky with fire again, | 330 |
| Or thunder follow ruin for you and me,— | |
| As like it will, if I for one more day, | |
| Assume that I see not what I have seen, | |
| See now, and shall see. There are no more lies | |
| Left anywhere now for me to tell myself | 335 |
| That I have not already told myself, | |
| And overtold, until today I seem | |
| To taste them as I might the poisoned fruit | |
| That Patrise had of Mador, and so died. | |
| And that same apple of death was to be food | 340 |
| For Gawaine; but he left it and lives on, | |
| To make his joy of living your confusion. | |
| His life is his religion; he loves life | |
| With such a manifold exuberance | |
| That poison shuns him and seeks out a way | 345 |
| To wreak its evil upon innocence. | |
| There may be chance in this, there may be | |
| Be what there be, I do not fear Gawaine.” | |
| |
| The Queen, with an indignant little foot, | |
| Struck viciously the unoffending grass | 350 |
| And said: “Why not let Gawaine go his way? | |
| I’ll think of him no more, fear him no more, | |
| And hear of him no more. I’ll hear no more | |
| Of any now save one who is, or was, | |
| All men to me. And he said once to me | 355 |
| That he would say why this day, of all days, | |
| Was more mysteriously felicitous | |
| For solemn commination than another.” | |
| Again she smiled, but her blue eyes were telling | |
| No more their story of old happiness. | 360 |
| |
| “For me today is not as other days,” | |
| He said, “because it is the first, I find, | |
| That has empowered my will to say to you | |
| What most it is that you must hear and heed. | |
| When Arthur, with a faith unfortified, | 365 |
| Sent me alone, of all he might have sent, | |
| That May-day to Leodogran your father, | |
| I went away from him with a sore heart; | |
| For in my heart I knew that I should fail | |
| My King, who trusted me too far beyond | 370 |
| The mortal outpost of experience. | |
| And this was after Merlin’s admonition, | |
| Which Arthur, in his passion, took for less | |
| Than his inviolable majesty. | |
| When I rode in between your father’s guards | 375 |
| And heard his trumpets blown for my loud honor, | |
| I sent my memory back to Camelot, | |
| And said once to myself, ‘God save the king!’ | |
| But the words tore my throat and were like blood | |
| Upon my tongue. Then a great shout went up | 380 |
| From shining men around me everywhere; | |
| And I remember more fair women’s eyes | |
| Than there are stars in autumn, all of them | |
| Thrown on me for a glimpse of that high knight | |
| Sir Lancelot—Sir Lancelot of the Lake. | 385 |
| I saw their faces and I saw not one | |
| To sever a tendril of my integrity; | |
| But I thought once again, to make myself | |
| Believe a silent lie, ‘God save the King’ … | |
| I saw your face, and there were no more kings.” | 390 |
| |
| The sharp light softened in the Queen’s blue eyes, | |
| And for a moment there was joy in them: | |
| “Was I so menacing to the peace, I wonder, | |
| Of anyone else alive? But why go back? | |
| I tell you that I fear Gawaine no more; | 395 |
| And if you fear him not, and I fear not | |
| What you fear not, what have we then to fear?” | |
| Fatigued a little with her reasoning, | |
| She waited longer than a woman waits, | |
| Without a cloudy sign, for Lancelot’s | 400 |
| Unhurried answer: “Whether or not you fear, | |
| Know always that I fear for me no stroke | |
| Maturing for the joy of any knave | |
| Who sees the world, with me alive in it, | |
| A place too crowded for the furtherance | 405 |
| Of his inflammatory preparations. | |
| But Lot of Orkney had a wife, a dark one; | |
| And rumor says no man who gazed at her, | |
| Attentively, might say his prayers again | |
| Without a penance or an absolution. | 410 |
| I know not about that; but the world knows | |
| That Arthur prayed in vain once, if he prayed, | |
| Or we should have no Modred watching us. | |
| Know then that what you fear to call my fear | |
| Is all for you; and what is all for you | 415 |
| Is all for love, which were the same to me | |
| As life—had I not seen what I have seen. | |
| But first I am to tell you what I see, | |
| And what I mean by fear. It is yourself | |
| That I see now; and if I saw you only, | 420 |
| I might forego again all other service, | |
| And leave to Time, who is Love’s almoner, | |
| The benefaction of what years or days | |
| Remaining might be found unchronicled | |
| For two that have not always watched or seen | 425 |
| The sands of gold that flow for golden hours. | |
| If I saw you alone! But I know now | |
| That you are never more to be alone. | |
| The shape of one infernal foul attendant | |
| Will be for ever prowling after you, | 430 |
| To leer at me like a damned thing whipped out | |
| Of the last cave in hell. You know his name. | |
| Over your shoulder I could see him now, | |
| Adventuring his misbegotten patience | |
| For one destroying word in the King’s ear— | 435 |
| The word he cannot whisper there quite yet, | |
| Not having it yet to say. If he should say it, | |
| Then all this would be over, and our days | |
| Of life, your days and mine, be over with it. | |
| No day of mine that were to be for you | 440 |
| Your last, would light for me a longer span | |
| Than for yourself; and there would be no twilight.” | |
| |
| The Queen’s implacable calm eyes betrayed | |
| The doubt that had as yet for what he said | |
| No healing answer: “If I fear no more | 445 |
| Gawaine, I fear your Modred even less. | |
| Your fear, you say, is for an end outside | |
| Your safety; and as much as that I grant you. | |
| And I believe in your belief, moreover, | |
| That some far-off unheard-of retribution | 450 |
| Hangs over Camelot, even as this oak-bough, | |
| That I may almost reach, hangs overhead, | |
| All dark now. Only a small time ago | |
| The light was falling through it, and on me. | |
| Another light, a longer time ago, | 455 |
| Was living in your eyes, and we were happy. | |
| Yet there was Modred then as he is now, | |
| As much a danger then as he is now, | |
| And quite as much a nuisance. Let his eyes | |
| Have all the darkness in them they may hold, | 460 |
| And there will be less left of it outside | |
| For fear to grope and thrive in. Lancelot, | |
| I say the dark is not what you fear most. | |
| There is a Light that you fear more today | |
| Than all the darkness that has ever been; | 465 |
| Yet I doubt not that your Light will burn on | |
| For some time yet without your ministration. | |
| I’m glad for Modred,—though I hate his eyes,— | |
| That he should hold me nearer to your thoughts | |
| Than I should hold myself, I fear, without him; | 470 |
| I’m glad for Gawaine, also,—who, you tell me, | |
| Misled my fancy with his joy of living.” | |
| |
| Incredulous of her voice and of her lightness, | |
| He saw now in the patience of her smile | |
| A shining quiet of expectancy | 475 |
| That made as much of his determination | |
| As he had made of giants and Sir Peris. | |
| “But I have more to say than you have heard,” | |
| He faltered—“though God knows what you have heard | |
| Should be enough.” | 480 |
| |
| “I see it now,” she said; | |
| “I see it now as always women must | |
| Who cannot hold what holds them any more. | |
| If Modred’s hate were now the only hazard— | |
| The only shadow between you and me— | 485 |
| How long should I be saying all this to you, | |
| Or you be listening? No, Lancelot,—no. | |
| I knew it coming for a longer time | |
| Than you fared for the Grail. You told yourself, | |
| When first that wild light came to make men mad | 490 |
| Round Arthur’s Table—as Gawaine told himself, | |
| And many another tired man told himself— | |
| That it was God, not something new, that called you. | |
| Well, God was something new to most of them, | |
| And so they went away. But you were changing | 495 |
| Long before you, or Bors, or Percival, | |
| Or Galahad rode away—or poor Gawaine, | |
| Who came back presently; and for a time | |
| Before you went—albeit for no long time— | |
| I may have made for your too loyal patience | 500 |
| A jealous exhibition of my folly— | |
| All for those two Elaines; and one of them | |
| Is dead, poor child, for you. How do you feel, | |
| You men, when women die for you? They do, | |
| Sometimes, you know. Not often, but sometimes.” | 505 |
| |
| Discomfiture, beginning with a scowl | |
| And ending in a melancholy smile, | |
| Crept over Lancelot’s face the while he stared, | |
| More like a child than like the man he was, | |
| At Guinevere’s demure serenity | 510 |
| Before him in the shadow, soon to change | |
| Into the darkness of a darker night | |
| Than yet had been since Arthur was a king. | |
| “What seizure of an unrelated rambling | |
| Do you suppose it was that had you then?” | 515 |
| He said; and with a frown that had no smile | |
| Behind it, he sat brooding. | |
| |
| The Queen laughed, | |
| And looked at him again with lucent eyes | |
| That had no sharpness in them; they were soft now, | 520 |
| And a blue light, made wet with happiness, | |
| Distilled from pain into abandonment, | |
| Shone out of them and held him while she smiled, | |
| Although they trembled with a questioning | |
| Of what his gloom foretold: “All that I saw | 525 |
| Was true, and I have paid for what I saw— | |
| More than a man may know. Hear me, and listen: | |
| You cannot put me or the truth aside, | |
| With half-told words that I could only wish | |
| No man had said to me; not you, of all men. | 530 |
| If there were only Modred in the way, | |
| Should I see now, from here and in this light, | |
| So many furrows over your changed eyes? | |
| Why do you fear for me when all my fears | |
| Are for the needless burden you take on? | 535 |
| To put me far away, and your fears with me, | |
| Were surely no long toil, had you the will | |
| To say what you have known and I have known | |
| Longer than I dare guess. Have little fear: | |
| Never shall I become for you a curse | 540 |
| Laid on your conscience to be borne for ever; | |
| Nor shall I be a weight for you to drag | |
| On always after you, as a poor slave | |
| Drags iron at his heels. Therefore, today, | |
| These ominous reassurances of mine | 545 |
| Would seem to me to be a waste of life, | |
| And more than life.” | |
| |
| Lancelot’s memory wandered | |
| Into the blue and wistful distances | |
| That her soft eyes unveiled. He knew their trick, | 550 |
| As he knew the great love that fostered it, | |
| And the wild passionate fate that hid itself | |
| In all the perilous calm of white and gold | |
| That was her face and hair, and might as well | |
| Have been of gold and marble for the world, | 555 |
| And for the King. Before he knew, she stood | |
| Behind him with her warm hands on his cheeks, | |
| And her lips on his lips; and though he heard | |
| Not half of what she told, he heard enough | |
| To make as much of it, or so it seemed, | 560 |
| As man was ever told, or should be told, | |
| Or need be, until everything was told, | |
| And all the mystic silence of the stars | |
| Had nothing more to keep or to reveal. | |
| “If there were only Modred in the way,” | 565 |
| She murmured, “would you come to me tonight? | |
| The King goes to Carleon or Carlisle, | |
| Or some place where there’s hunting. Would you come, | |
| If there were only Modred in the way?” | |
| She felt his hand on hers and laid her cheek | 570 |
| Upon his forehead, where the furrows were: | |
| “All these must go away, and so must I— | |
| Before there are more shadows. You will come, | |
| And you may tell me everything you must | |
| That I must hear you tell me—if I must— | 575 |
| Of bones and horrors and of horrid waves | |
| That break for ever on the world’s last edge.” | |
