This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake:

"O me, my King, let pass whatever will, Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field;

But in their stead thy name and glory cling

To all high places like a golden cloud For ever: but as yet thou shalt not pass. Light was Gawain in life, and light in death

Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man; And care not thou for dreams from him, but rise

I hear the steps of Modred in the west, And with him many of thy people, and knights

Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown

Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee.

Right well in heart they know thee for

the King.

Arise, go forth and conquer as of old.'

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi

vere:

Far other is this battle in the west Whereto we move, than when we strove in youth,

And brake the petty kings, and fought with Rome,

Or thrust the heathen from the Roman wall,

And shook him thro' the north. Ill doom is mine

To war against my people and my knights. The king who fights his people fights himself.

And they my knights, who loved me once,

the stroke

That strikes them dead is as my death to

me.

Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way Thro' this blind haze, which ever since I

saw

One lying in the dust at Almesbury, Hath folded in the passes of the world.'

Then rose the King and moved his host by night,

And ever push'd Sir Modred, league by league,

Back to the sunset bound of Lyonesse -
A land of old upheaven from the abyss
By fire, to sink into the abyss again;
Where fragments of forgotten peoples
dwelt,

And the long mountains ended in a coast
Of ever-shifting sand, and far away
The phantom circle of a moaning sea.
There the pursuer could pursue no more,
And he that fled no further fly the King;
And there, that day when the great light
of heaven

Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling year, On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed.

Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight Like this last, dim, weird battle of the

west.

A deathwhite mist slept over sand and

sea:

Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew

Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold

With formless fear; and ev'n on Arthur fell

Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought.

For friend and foe were shadows in the mist,

And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew;

And some had visions out of golden youth, And some beheld the faces of old ghosts Look in upon the battle; and in the mist Was many a noble deed, many a base, And chance and craft and strength in

single fights,

And ever and anon with host to host Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn,

Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash

Of battleaxes on shatter'd helms, and shrieks

After the Christ, of those who falling down

Look'd up for heaven, and only saw the mist;

And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights,

Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous blasphemies,

Sweat, writhings, anguish, labouring of the lungs

In that close mist, and cryings for the light,

Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead.

Last, as by some one deathbed after wail

Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' death Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore,

Save for some whisper of the seething

seas,

A dead hush fell; but when the dolorous day

Grew drearier toward twilight falling,

came

A bitter wind, clear from the North, and blew

The mist aside, and with that wind the tide

Rose, and the pale King glanced across

the field

Of battle but no man was moving there; Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon, Nor yet of heathen; only the wan wave Brake in among dead faces, to and fro Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down

Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen,

And shiver'd brands that once had fought with Rome,

And rolling far along the gloomy shores The voice of days of old and days to be.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi

vere,

And whiter than the mist that all day long

Had held the field of battle was the King:

'Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world,

And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move,

And beats upon the faces of the dead, My dead, as tho' they had not died for me?

O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fall'n Confusion, till I know not what I am, Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King,

Behold, I seem but King among the dead.'

Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere: 'My King,

King everywhere! and so the dead have kings,

There also will I worship thee as King. Yet still thy life is whole, and still I live Who love thee; but who hates thee, he that brought

The heathen back among us, yonder stands,

Modred unharm'd, the traitor of thine house.'

Then spake the King: 'My house hath

been my doom.

But call not thou this traitor of my house Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof

with me.

My house are rather they who sware my

Vows,

Yea, even while they brake them, own'd me King.

And well for thee, saying in my dark hour,

When all the purport of my throne hath fail'd,

That quick or dead thou holdest me for King.

King am I, whatsoever be their cry;
And one last act of kinghood shalt thou

see

Yet, ere I pass.' And uttering this the King

Made at the man: then Modred smote his liege

Hard on that helm which many a heathen sword

Had beaten thin; while Arthur at one blow,

Striking the last stroke with Excalibur, Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell.

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd

Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur's Table, man by man,
Had fall'n in Lyonesse about their lord,
King Arthur. Then, because his wound
was deep,

The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren
land:

On one side lay the Ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

In those old days, one summer noon, an

arm

Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

Holding the sword- and how I row'd

across

And took it, and have worn it, like a king;

And, wheresoever I am sung or told
In aftertime, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur,
And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what thou seëst, and lightly bring
me word.'

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: 'It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,

Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm

A little thing may harm a wounded man; Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.'

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he

stept,

And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,

Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,

Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang

Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He,

stepping down

By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake.

There drew he forth the brand Excali

bur,

And o'er him, drawing it, the winter

moon,

Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth

And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:

For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,

Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled as he

stood,

What good should follow this, if this were done?

What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey,

Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Were it well to obey then, if a king demand

An act unprofitable, against himself? The King is sick, and knows not what he does.

What record, or what relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty breath And rumours of a doubt? But were this kept,

Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,

Some one might show it at a joust of

arms,

Saying, "King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,

Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.

Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps

Upon the hidden bases of the hills." So might some old man speak in the aftertime

To all the people, winning reverence. But now much honour and much fame were lost.'

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,

And hid Excalibur the second time,
And so strode back slow to the wounded
King.

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing

heavily:

'What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?'

And answer made the bold Sir Bedi

vere:

'I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds."

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:

Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! Authority forgets a dying king,

Laid widow'd of the power in his eye

That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art,

For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, In whom should meet the offices of all, Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;

Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get thee
hence:

But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands.'

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and

ran,

And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged

Among the bulrush beds, and clutch'd the sword,

And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand

Made lightnings in the splendour of the

moon,

And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch,

Shot like a streamer of the northern

morn,

Seen where the moving isles of winter

shock

By night, with noises of the Northern Sea.

So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him

Three times, and drew him under in the mere.

And lightly went the other to the King.

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:

Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.

Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?'

And answer made the bold Sir Bedi

vere:

'Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems

Should blind my purpose, for I never

saw,

Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men,
So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
Then with both hands I flung him, wheel-
ing him;

But when I look'd again, behold an arm, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him

Three times, and drew him under in the mere.'

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:

'My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I

were gone.

Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,

And bear me to the margin; yet I fear My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.'

So saying, from the pavement he half

rose,

Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, And would have spoken, but he found not words;

Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,

O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,

And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.

But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted

hard,

Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed

When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King,

Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quick!

I fear it is too late, and I shall die.' But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,

Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd,