But when Sir Lancelot’s deadly hurt was whole, To Astolat returning rode the three. There morn by morn, arraying her sweet self In that wherein she deemed she looked her best, She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought “If I be loved, these are my festal robes, If not, the victim’s flowers before he fall.” And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid That she should ask some goodly gift of him For her own self or hers; “and do not shun To speak the wish most near to your true heart; Such service have ye done me, that I make My will of yours, and Prince and Lord am I In mine own land, and what I will I can.” Then like a ghost she lifted up her face, But like a ghost without the power to speak. And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish, And bode among them yet a little space Till he should learn it; and one morn it chanced He found her in among the garden yews, And said, “Delay no longer, speak your wish, Seeing I go today:” then out she brake: “Going? and we shall never see you more. And I must die for want of one bold word.” “Speak: that I live to hear,” he said, “is yours.” Then suddenly and passionately she spoke: “I have gone mad. I love you: let me die.” “Ah, sister,” answered Lancelot, “what is this?” And innocently extending her white arms, “Your love,” she said, “your love—to be your wife.” And Lancelot answered, “Had I chosen to wed, I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine: But now there never will be wife of mine.” “No, no,” she cried, “I care not to be wife, But to be with you still, to see your face, To serve you, and to follow you through the world.” And Lancelot answered, “Nay, the world, the world, All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue To blare its own interpretation—nay, Full ill then should I quit your brother’s love, And your good father’s kindness.” And she said, “Not to be with you, not to see your face— Alas for me then, my good days are done.” “Nay, noble maid,” he answered, “ten times nay! This is not love: but love’s first flash in youth, Most common: yea, I know it of mine own self: And you yourself will smile at your own self Hereafter, when you yield your flower of life To one more fitly yours, not thrice your age: And then will I, for true you are and sweet Beyond mine old belief in womanhood, More specially should your good knight be poor, Endow you with broad land and territory Even to the half my realm beyond the seas, So that would make you happy: furthermore, Even to the death, as though ye were my blood, In all your quarrels will I be your knight. This I will do, dear damsel, for your sake, And more than this I cannot.”