He, when the fair-hair’d youth came by him, said,
  “Friend, let her eat; the damsel is so faint.” 
  “Yea, willingly,” replied the youth; “and thou,
  My lord, eat also, tho’ the fare is coarse,
  And only meet for mowers;” then set down
  His basket, and dismounting on the sward
  They let the horses graze, and ate themselves. 
  And Enid took a little delicately,
  Less having stomach for it than desire
  To close with her lord’s pleasure; but Geraint
  Ate all the mowers’ victuals unawares,
  And when he found all empty, was amazed;
  And, “Boy,” said he, “I have eaten all, but take
  A horse and arms for guerdon; choose the best.” 
  He, reddening in extremity of delight,
  “My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold.” 
  “Ye will be all the wealthier,” cried the Prince. 
  “I take it as free gift, then,” said the boy,
  “Not guerdon; for myself can easily,
  While your good damsel rests, return, and fetch
  Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl;
  For these are his, and all the field is his,
  And I myself am his; and I will tell him
  How great a man thou art:  he loves to know
  When men of mark are in his territory: 
  And he will have thee to his palace here,
  And serve thee costlier than with mowers’ fare.”

    Then said Geraint, “I wish no better fare: 
  I never ate with angrier appetite
  Than-when I left your mowers dinnerless. 
  And into no Earl’s palace will I go. 
  I know, God knows, too much of palaces! 
  And if he want me, let him come to me. 
  But hire us some fair chamber for the night,
  And stalling for the horses, and return
  With victual for these men, and let us know.”

    “Yea, my kind lord,” said the glad youth, and went,
  Held his head high, and thought himself a knight,
  And up the rocky pathway disappear’d,
  Leading the horse, and they were left alone.

    But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes
  Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance
  At Enid, where she droopt:  his own false doom,
  That shadow of mistrust should never cross
  Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sigh’d;
  Then with another humorous ruth remark’d
  The lusty mowers laboring dinnerless,
  And watched the sun blaze on the turning scythe,

    And after nodded sleepily in the heat. 
  But she, remembering her old ruin’d hall,
  And all the windy clamor of the daws
  About her hollow turret, pluck’d the grass
  There growing longest by the meadow’s edge,
  And into many a listless annulet,
  Now over, now beneath her marriage ring,
  Wove and unwove it, till the boy return’d
  And told them of a chamber, and they went;
  Where, after saying to her, “if ye will,
  Call for the woman of the house,” to which
  She answer’d, “Thanks, my lord;” the two remain’d
  Apart by all the chamber’s width, and mute
  As creatures voiceless thro’ the fault of birth,
  Or two wild men supporters of a shield,
  Painted, who stare at open space, nor glance
  The one at other, parted by the shield.