By noon the next day, Gawayne and his host Rode side by side along the perilous coast Of the gray Mere, from whose unquiet sleep Reverberating murmurs of the deep Startled the still December's listening air. The baron, shuddering, pointed seaward. "There," He said, "year in, year out, these voices haunt That fearful water; heaven knows what they want! Men tell me--and I have no doubt it's true-- They are knights-errant whom the Green Knight slew! Woe unto him, the over-bold, who dares Adventure near that uncouth monster's snares!" Quoth Gawayne: "How have _you_ escaped the net?" The baron answered: "I? We never met! When I'm about, he seems to shun the place, And where he is, I never show my face; But if we did meet, 't would be safe to say Not more than one of us would get away!" And then the baron told tales by the score About the Green Knight's quenchless thirst for gore, And kept repeating that no magic charm Was proof against the prowess of his arm; At his first blow each vain defense must fall, For he was arch-magician over all. And as from tale to tale the baron ran, Sir Gawayne, had he been another man, Would certainly have felt his heart's blood curdle, Despite his secret wearing of the girdle; But when the baron finally suggested Abandoning the venture, and protested That the whole monstrous business was absurd, Sir Gawayne simply said: "I gave my word." And when the baron saw he would not bend, He seemed to lose all patience. "Well, my friend, I'll go no further with you. On your head Shall be your own mad blood when you are dead. Yonder your two roads fork; pause there, I pray, And ponder well before you choose your way. One takes the hills, one winds along the wave; To Camelot this,--the other to your grave! Choose the high road, Sir Gawayne; shun the danger! Say you were misdirected by a stranger;-- I swear by all that's sacred, I'll not tell One syllable to a soul:--and so farewell!" He galloped off without another word, And vanished where the road turned. Gawayne heard, Long after he had disappeared, the sound Of iron hoof-beats on the frozen ground, Till all died into silence, save those drear And hollow voices from the Murmuring Mere. But Gawayne chose the lower road, and passed Along the desolate shore. The die was cast. The western skies, as the red sun sank low, Cast purple shades across the drifted snow, And Gawayne knew that the dread hour was come For the fulfillment of his martyrdom.