But Pelleas, leaping up, Ran through the doors and vaulted on his horse And fled: small pity upon his horse had he, Or on himself, or any, and when he met A cripple, one that held a hand for alms— Hunched as he was, and like an old dwarf-elm That turns its back upon the salt blast, the boy Paused not, but overrode him, shouting, “False, And false with Gawain!” and so left him bruised And battered, and fled on, and hill and wood Went ever streaming by him till the gloom, That follows on the turning of the world, Darkened the common path: he twitched the reins, And made his beast that better knew it, swerve Now off it and now on; but when he saw High up in heaven the hall that Merlin built, Blackening against the dead-green stripes of even, “Black nest of rats,” he groaned, “ye build too high.” Not long thereafter from the city gates Issued Sir Lancelot riding airily, Warm with a gracious parting from the Queen, Peace at his heart, and gazing at a star And marvelling what it was: on whom the boy, Across the silent seeded meadow-grass Borne, clashed: and Lancelot, saying, “What name hast thou That ridest here so blindly and so hard?” “No name, no name,” he shouted, “a scourge am I To lash the treasons of the Table Round.” “Yea, but thy name?” “I have many names,” he cried: “I am wrath and shame and hate and evil fame, And like a poisonous wind I pass to blast And blaze the crime of Lancelot and the Queen.” “First over me,” said Lancelot, “shalt thou pass.” “Fight therefore,” yelled the youth, and either knight Drew back a space, and when they closed, at once The weary steed of Pelleas floundering flung His rider, who called out from the dark field, “Thou art as false as Hell: slay me: I have no sword.” Then Lancelot, “Yea, between thy lips—and sharp; But here I will disedge it by thy death.” “Slay then,” he shrieked, “my will is to be slain,” And Lancelot, with his heel upon the fallen, Rolling his eyes, a moment stood, then spake: “Rise, weakling; I am Lancelot; say thy say.”