Her finger up, and pointed to the dust. 
  At which the warrior in his obstinacy,
  Because she kept the letter of his word,
  Was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood. 
  And in the moment after, wild Limours,
  Borne on a black horse, like a thunder-cloud
  Whose skirts are loosen’d by the breaking storm,
  Half ridden off with by the thing he rode,
  And all in passion uttering a dry shriek,
  Dash’d on Geraint, who closed with him, and bore
  Down by the length of lance and arm beyond
  The crupper, and so left him stunn’d or dead,
  And overthrew the next that follow’d him,
  And blindly rush’d on all the rout behind. 
  But at the flash and motion of the man
  They vanish’d panic-stricken, like a shoal
  Of darting fish, that on a summer morn
  Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot
  Come slipping o’er their shadows on the sand,
  But if a man who stands upon the brink
  But lift a shining hand against the sun,
  There is not left the twinkle of a fin
  Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower;
  So, scared but at the motion of the man,
  Fled all the boon companions of the Earl,
  And left him lying in the public way;
  So vanish friendships only made in wine.

    Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint,
  Who saw the chargers of the two that fell
  Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly,
  Mixt with the flyers.  “Horse and man,” he said,
  “All of one mind and all right-honest friends! 
  Not a hoof left:  and I methinks till now
  Was honest—­paid with horses and with arms;
  I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg: 
  And so what say ye, shall we strip him there
  Your lover? has your palfrey heart enough
  To bear his armor? shall we fast, or dine? 
  No?—­then do thou, being right honest, pray
  That we may meet the horsemen of Earl Doorm. 
  I too would still be honest.”  Thus he said: 
  And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins,
  And answering not a word, she led the way.

    But as a man to whom a dreadful loss
  Falls in a far land and he knows it not,
  But coming back he learns it, and the loss
  So pains him that he sickens nigh to death;
  So fared it with Geraint, who being prick’d
  In combat with the follower of Limours,
  Bled underneath his armor secretly,
  And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife
  What ail’d him, hardly knowing it himself,
  Till his eye darken’d and his helmet wagg’d;
  And at a sudden swerving of the road,
  Tho’ happily down on a bank of grass,
  The Prince, without a word, from his horse fell.

    And Enid heard the clashing of his fall,
  Suddenly came, and at his side all pale
  Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms,
  Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye
  Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound,
  And tearing off her veil of faded silk
  Had bared her forehead to the blistering sun,
  And swathed the hurt that drain’d her dear lord’s life. 
  Then after all was done that hand could do,
  She rested, and her desolation came
  Upon her, and she wept beside the way.