Lightly, her suit allowed, she slipt away, And while she made her ready for her ride, Her father’s latest word hummed in her ear, “Being so very wilful you must go,” And changed itself and echoed in her heart, “Being so very wilful you must die.” But she was happy enough and shook it off, As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us; And in her heart she answered it and said, “What matter, so I help him back to life?” Then far away with good Sir Torre for guide Rode o’er the long backs of the bushless downs To Camelot, and before the city-gates Came on her brother with a happy face Making a roan horse caper and curvet For pleasure all about a field of flowers: Whom when she saw, “Lavaine,” she cried, “Lavaine, How fares my lord Sir Lancelot?” He amazed, “Torre and Elaine! why here? Sir Lancelot! How know ye my lord’s name is Lancelot?” But when the maid had told him all her tale, Then turned Sir Torre, and being in his moods Left them, and under the strange-statued gate, Where Arthur’s wars were rendered mystically, Past up the still rich city to his kin, His own far blood, which dwelt at Camelot; And her, Lavaine across the poplar grove Led to the caves: there first she saw the casque Of Lancelot on the wall: her scarlet sleeve, Though carved and cut, and half the pearls away, Streamed from it still; and in her heart she laughed, Because he had not loosed it from his helm, But meant once more perchance to tourney in it. And when they gained the cell wherein he slept, His battle-writhen arms and mighty hands Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a dream Of dragging down his enemy made them move. Then she that saw him lying unsleek, unshorn, Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, Uttered a little tender dolorous cry. The sound not wonted in a place so still Woke the sick knight, and while he rolled his eyes Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying, “Your prize the diamond sent you by the King:” His eyes glistened: she fancied “Is it for me?” And when the maid had told him all the tale Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, the quest Assigned to her not worthy of it, she knelt Full lowly by the corners of his bed, And laid the diamond in his open hand. Her face was near, and as we kiss the child That does the task assigned, he kissed her face. At once she slipt like water to the floor. “Alas,” he said, “your ride hath wearied you. Rest must you have.” “No rest for me,” she said; “Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest.” What might she mean by that? his large black eyes, Yet larger through his leanness, dwelt upon her, Till all her heart’s sad secret blazed itself In the heart’s colours on her simple face; And Lancelot looked and was perplext in mind, And being weak in body said no more; But did not love the colour; woman’s love, Save one, he not regarded, and so turned