“Ay, ay,” she said, “but thou shalt meet thy match.” So when they touched the second river-loop, Huge on a huge red horse, and all in mail Burnished to blinding, shone the Noonday Sun Beyond a raging shallow. As if the flower, That blows a globe of after arrowlets, Ten thousand-fold had grown, flashed the fierce shield, All sun; and Gareth’s eyes had flying blots Before them when he turned from watching him. He from beyond the roaring shallow roared, “What doest thou, brother, in my marches here?” And she athwart the shallow shrilled again, “Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur’s hall Hath overthrown thy brother, and hath his arms.” “Ugh!” cried the Sun, and vizoring up a red And cipher face of rounded foolishness, Pushed horse across the foamings of the ford, Whom Gareth met midstream: no room was there For lance or tourney-skill: four strokes they struck With sword, and these were mighty; the new knight Had fear he might be shamed; but as the Sun Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike the fifth, The hoof of his horse slipt in the stream, the stream Descended, and the Sun was washed away. Then Gareth laid his lance athwart the ford; So drew him home; but he that fought no more, As being all bone-battered on the rock, Yielded; and Gareth sent him to the King, “Myself when I return will plead for thee.” “Lead, and I follow.” Quietly she led. “Hath not the good wind, damsel, changed again?” “Nay, not a point: nor art thou victor here. There lies a ridge of slate across the ford; His horse thereon stumbled—ay, for I saw it. “‘O Sun’ (not this strong fool whom thou, Sir Knave, Hast overthrown through mere unhappiness), ‘O Sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain, O moon, that layest all to sleep again, Shine sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me.’ What knowest thou of lovesong or of love? Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly born, Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, perchance,— “‘O dewy flowers that open to the sun, O dewy flowers that close when day is done, Blow sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me.’ “What knowest thou of flowers, except, belike, To garnish meats with? hath not our good King Who lent me thee, the flower of kitchendom, A foolish love for flowers? what stick ye round The pasty? wherewithal deck the boar’s head? Flowers? nay, the boar hath rosemaries and bay. “‘O birds, that warble to the morning sky, O birds that warble as the day goes by, Sing sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me.’ “What knowest thou of birds, lark, mavis, merle, Linnet? what dream ye when they utter forth May-music growing with the growing light, Their sweet sun-worship? these be for the snare (So runs thy fancy) these be for the spit, Larding and basting. See thou have not now Larded thy last, except thou turn and fly. There stands the third fool of their allegory.”