And arms on which the standing muscle sloped,
As slopes a wild brook o’er a little stone,
Running too vehemently to break upon it.
And Enid woke and sat beside the couch,
Admiring him, and thought within herself,
Was ever man so grandly made as he?
Then, like a shadow, past the people’s talk
And accusation of uxoriousness
Across her mind, and bowing over him,
Low to her own heart piteously she said:
“O noble breast and
all-puissant arms,
Am I the cause, I the poor cause that
men
Reproach you, saying all your force is
gone?
I am the cause, because I dare
not speak
And tell him what I think and what they
say.
And yet I hate that he should linger here;
I cannot love my lord and not his name.
Far liefer had I gird his harness on him,
And ride with him to battle and stand
by,
And watch his mightful hand striking great
blows
At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world.
Far better were I laid in the dark earth,
Not hearing any more his noble voice,
Not to be folded more in these dear arms,
And darken’d from the high light
in his eyes,
Than that my lord thro’ me should
suffer shame.
Am I so bold, and could I so stand by,
And see my dear lord wounded in the strife,
Or maybe pierced to death before mine
eyes,
And yet not dare to tell him what I think,
And how men slur him, saying all his force
Is melted into mere effeminacy?
O me, I fear that I am no true wife.”
Half inwardly, half audibly
she spoke,
And the strong passion in her made her
weep
True tears upon his broad and naked breast,
And these awoke him, and by great mischance
He heard but fragments of her later words,
And that she fear’d she was not
a true wife.
And then he thought, “In spite of
all my care,
For all my pains, poor man, for all my
pains,
She is not faithful to me, and I see her
Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur’s
hall.”
Right thro’ his manful breast darted
the pang
That makes a man, in the sweet face of
her
Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable.
At this he hurl’d his huge limbs
out of bed,
And shook his drowsy squire awake and
cried,
“My charger and her palfrey;”
then to her
“I will ride forth into the wilderness,
For tho’ it seems my spurs are yet
to win,
I have not fall’n so low as some
would wish.
And thou, put on thy worst and meanest
dress
And ride with me.” And Enid
ask’d, amazed,
“If Enid errs, let Enid learn her
fault.”
But he, “I charge thee, ask not,
but obey.”