'Sir King,' they brought report, we hardly found,

So bush'd about it is with gloom, the hall Of him to whom ye sent us, Pellam, once A Christless foe of thine as ever dash'd Horse against horse; but seeing that thy realm

Hath prosper'd in the name of Christ, the King

Took, as in rival heat, to holy things; And finds himself descended from the Saint

Arimathæan Joseph; him who first Brought the great faith to Britain over seas;

He boasts his life as purer than thine

own;

Eats scarce enow to keep his pulse abeat; Hath push'd aside his faithful wife, nor lets Or dame or damsel enter at his gates Lest he should be polluted. This gray King

Show'd us a shrine wherein were wonders yea

Rich arks with priceless bones of martyrdom,

Thorns of the crown and shivers of the cross,

And therewithal (for thus he told us)

brought

By Holy Joseph hither, that same spear Wherewith the Roman pierced the side of Christ.

He much amazed us; after, when we sought

The tribute, answer'd "I have quite fore

gone

All matters of this world: Garlon, mine

heir,

Of him demand it," which this Garlon gave With much ado, railing at thine and thee.

'But when we left, in those deep woods we found

A knight of thine spear-stricken from behind,

Dead, whom we buried; more than one

of us

Cried out on Garlon, but a woodman there Reported of some demon in the woods Was once a man, who driven by evil tongues

From all his fellows, lived alone, and came

'Queen? subject? but I see not what I see.

Damsel and lover? hear not what I hear.

My father hath begotten me in his wrath. I suffer from the things before me, know,

Learn nothing; am not worthy to be knight;

A churl, a clown!' and in him gloom on gloom

Deepen'd: he sharply caught his lance and shield,

Nor stay'd to crave permission of the King,

But, mad for strange adventure, dash'd away.

He took the selfsame track as Balan,

saw

The fountain where they sat together, sigh'd,

"Was I not better there with him?' and rode

The skyless woods, but under open blue Came on the hoarhead woodman at a bough

Wearily hewing. Churl, thine axe!' he cried,

Descended, and disjointed it at a blow: To whom the woodman utter'd wonderingly,

'Lord, thou couldst lay the Devil of these woods

If arm of flesh could lay him.' Balin cried,

Him, or the viler devil who plays his part,

To lay that devil would lay the Devil in me.'

Nay,' said the churl, 'our devil is a truth,

I saw the flash of him but yestereven. And some do say that our Sir Garlon too Hath learn'd black magic, and to ride

unseen.

Look to the cave.' But Balin answer'd him,

Old fabler, these be fancies of the churl, Look to thy woodcraft,' and so leaving him,

Now with slack rein and careless of him

self,

With pointed lance as if to pierce, a shape,

A light of armour by him flash, and pass And vanish in the woods; and follow'd this,

But all so blind in rage that unawares
He burst his lance against a forest bough
Dishorsed himself, and rose again, and
fled

Far, till the castle of a King, the hall
Of Pellam, lichen-bearded, grayly draped
With streaming grass, appear'd, low-built
but strong;

The ruinous donjon as a knoll of moss,
The battlement overtopt with ivytods,
A home of bats, in every tower an owl.

Then spake the men of Pellam crying,

'Lord,

Why wear ye this crown-royal upon shield?'

Said Balin, For the fairest and the best
Of ladies living gave me this to bear.'
So stall'd his horse, and strode across the

court,

Relax'd his hold: 'I will be gentle,' he thought,

'And passing gentle,' caught his hand

away.

Then fiercely to Sir Garlon, Eyes have I That saw to-day the shadow of a spear, Shot from behind me, run along the ground;

Eyes too that long have watch'd how Lancelot draws

From homage to the best and purest, might,

Name, manhood, and a grace, but scantly thine,

Who, sitting in thine own hall, canst endure

To mouth so huge a foulness—to thy guest,

Me, me of Arthur's Table. Felon talk ! Let be no more!'

But not the less by night The scorn of Garlon, poisoning all his rest,

Stung him in dreams. At length, and dim thro' leaves

Blinkt the white morn, sprays grated, and old boughs

Whined in the wood. He rose, descended, met

The scorner in the castle court, and fain, For hate and loathing, would have past him by;

But when Sir Garlon utter'd mockingwise,

What, wear ye still that same crownscandalous?'

His countenance blacken'd, and his forehead veins

Bloated, and branch'd; and tearing out

of sheath

The brand, Sir Balin with a fiery Ha! So thou be shadow, here I make thee

ghost,'

Hard upon helm smote him, and the blade flew

Splintering in six, and clinkt upon the

stones.

Then Garlon, reeling slowly backward,

fell,

And Balin by the banneret of his helm Dragg'd him, and struck, but from the castle a cry