But when the third day from the hunting-morn

Made a low splendour in the world, and wings

Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay
With her fair head in the dim-yellow

light,

Among the dancing shadows of the birds, Woke and bethought her of her promise

given

No later than last eve to Prince GeraintSo bent he seem'd on going the third day, He would not leave her, till her promise given

To ride with him this morning to the court,

And there be made known to the stately Queen,

And there be wedded with all ceremony.

At this she cast her eyes upon her dress.

And thought it never yet had look'd so

mean.

For as a leaf in mid-November is
To what it was in mid-October, seem'd
The dress that now she look'd on to the
dress

She look'd on ere the coming of Geraint.
And still she look'd, and still the terror

grew

Of that strange bright and dreadful thing,

a court,

All staring at her in her faded silk: And softly to her own sweet heart she said:

This noble prince who won our earldom back,

So splendid in his acts and his attire, Sweet heaven, how much I shall discredit him!

Would he could tarry with us here awhile,

But being so beholden to the Prince,
It were but little grace in any of us,
Bent as he seem'd on going this third
day,

To seek a second favour at his hands.
Yet if he could but tarry a day or two,
Myself would work eye dim, and finger
lame,

Far liefer than so much discredit him.'

And half asleep she made comparison
Of that and these to her own faded self
And the gay court, and fell asleep again;
And dreamt herself was such a faded
form

Among her burnish'd sisters of the pool;
But this was in the garden of a king;
And tho' she lay dark in the pool, she
knew

That all was bright; that all about were birds

Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work; That all the turf was rich in plots that look'd

Each like a garnet or a turkis in it;
And lords and ladies of the high court

went

And all the children in their cloth of gold

Ran to her, crying, 'If we have fish at all Let them be gold; and charge the gardeners now

To pick the faded creature from the pool,

And cast it on the mixen that it die.' And therewithal one came and seized on her,

And Enid started waking, with her heart All overshadow'd by the foolish dream, And lo! it was her mother grasping her To get her well awake; and in her hand A suit of bright apparel, which she laid Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly:

He found the sack and plunder of our house

All scatter'd thro' the houses of the town;

And gave command that all which once

was ours

Should now be ours again: and yester-eve, While ye were talking sweetly with your Prince,

Came one with this and laid it in my hand,

For love or fear, or seeking favour of us, Because we have our earldom back

again.

And yester-eve I would not tell you of it,
But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn.
Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise?
For I myself unwillingly have worn
My faded suit, as you, my child, have
yours,

And howsoever patient, Yniol his.
Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly
house,

With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare,

And page, and maid, and squire, and seneschal,

And pastime both of hawk and hound, and all

That appertains to noble maintenance. Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house;

But since our fortune swerved from sun to shade,

And all thro' that young traitor, cruel need

Constrain'd us, but a better time has

come;

So clothe yourself in this, that better fits Our mended fortunes and a Prince's

bride:

For tho' ye won the prize of fairest fair, And tho' I heard him call you fairest fair, Let never maiden think, however fair, She is not fairer in new clothes than old. And should some great court-lady say,

the Prince

Hath pick'd a ragged-robin from the hedge,

And like a madman brought her to the court,

Then were ye shamed, and, worse, might shame the Prince

His princess, or indeed the stately Queen, He answer'd: 'Earl, entreat her by my love,

Albeit I give no reason but my wish, That she ride with me in her faded silk.' Yniol with that hard message went; it fell

Like flaws in summer laying lusty corn: For Enid, all abash'd she knew not why, Dared not to glance at her good mother's face,

But silently, in all obedience,

Her mother silent too, nor helping her, Laid from her limbs the costly-broider'd gift,

And robed them in her ancient suit again,

And so descended. Never man rejoiced More than Geraint to greet her thus attired;

And glancing all at once as keenly at her As careful robins eye the delver's toil, Made her cheek burn and either eyelid

fall,

But rested with her sweet face satisfied; Then seeing cloud upon the mother's brow,

Her by both hands he caught, and sweetly said,

'O my new mother, be not wroth or

grieved

At thy new son, for my petition to her. When late I left Caerleon, our great Queen,

In words whose echo lasts, they were so sweet,

Made promise, that whatever bride I brought,

Herself would clothe her like the sun in Heaven.

Thereafter, when I reach'd this ruin'd hall,

Beholding one so bright in dark estate,
I vow'd that could I gain her, our fair
Queen,

No hand but hers, should make your
Enid burst

Sunlike from cloud and likewise thought perhaps,

That service done so graciously would bind

The two together; fain I would the two

Should love each other: how can Enid find A nobler friend? Another thought was mine;

I came among you here so suddenly,
That tho' her gentle presence at the lists
Might well have served for proof that I
was loved,

I doubted whether daughter's tenderness,
Or easy nature, might not let itself
Be moulded by your wishes for her weal;
Or whether some false sense in her own
self

Of my contrasting brightness, overbore
Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall;
And such a sense might make her long
for court

And all its perilous glories: and I thought,

That could I someway prove such force in her

Link'd with such love for me, that at a word

(No reason given her) she could cast

aside

A splendour dear to women, new to her, And therefore dearer; or if not so new, Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power Of intermitted usage; then I felt

That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows,

Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I do rest,

A prophet certain of my prophecy,
That never shadow of mistrust can cross
Between us. Grant me pardon for my
thoughts:

And for my strange petition I will make
Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day,
When your fair child shall wear your
costly gift

Beside your own warm hearth, with, on

her knees,

Who knows? another gift of the high God,

Which, maybe, shall have learn'd to lisp you thanks.'

He spoke the mother smiled, but half in tears,

Then brought a mantle down and wrapt her in it,

And claspt and kiss'd her, and they rode away.

Now thrice that morning Guinevere had climb'd

The giant tower, from whose high crest, they say,

Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, And white sails flying on the yellow sea; But not to goodly hill or yellow sea Look'd the fair Queen, but up the vale of Usk,

By the flat meadow, till she saw them

come;

And then descending met them at the gates,

Embraced her with all welcome as a

friend,

And did her honour as the Prince's bride, And clothed her for her bridals like the

sun;

And all that week was old Caerleon gay, For by the hands of Dubric, the high saint,

They twain were wedded with all ceremony.

And this was on the last year's Whitsuntide.

But Enid ever kept the faded silk, Remembering how first he came on her, Drest in that dress, and how he loved

her in it,

And all her foolish fears about the dress, And all his journey toward her, as himself

Had told her, and their coming to the

court.

And now this morning when he said

to her,

'Put on your worst and meanest dress,' she found

And took it, and array'd herself therein.

GERAINT AND ENID.

O PURBLIND race of miserable men,
How many among us at this very hour
Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves,
By taking true for false, or false for true;
Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this
world

Groping, how many, until we pass and reach

That other, where we see as we are seen!

So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth

That morning, when they both had got to horse,

Perhaps because he loved her passionately,

And felt that tempest brooding round his heart,

Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce

Upon a head so dear in thunder, said:
"Not at my side. I charge thee ride
before,

Ever a good way on before; and this
I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife,
Whatever happens, not to speak to me,
No, not a word!' and Enid was aghast;
And forth they rode, but scarce three
paces on,

When crying out, 'Effeminate as I am,
I will not fight my way with gilded arms,
All shall be iron;' he loosed a mighty
purse,

Hung at his belt, and hurl'd it toward

To dress her beautifully and keep her true'

And there he broke the sentence in his heart

Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue May break it, when his passion masters him.

And she was ever praying the sweet heavens

To save her dear lord whole from any wound.

And ever in her mind she cast about
For that unnoticed failing in herself,
Which made him look so cloudy and so
cold;

Till the great plover's human whistle amazed

Her heart, and glancing round the waste she fear'd

In every wavering brake an ambuscade.

Then thought again, 'If there be such in