For there beyond a bridge of treble bow, All in a rose-red from the west, and all Naked it seemed, and glowing in the broad Deep-dimpled current underneath, the knight, That named himself the Star of Evening, stood. And Gareth, “Wherefore waits the madman there Naked in open dayshine?” “Nay,” she cried, “Not naked, only wrapt in hardened skins That fit him like his own; and so ye cleave His armour off him, these will turn the blade.” Then the third brother shouted o’er the bridge, “O brother-star, why shine ye here so low? Thy ward is higher up: but have ye slain The damsel’s champion?” and the damsel cried, “No star of thine, but shot from Arthur’s heaven With all disaster unto thine and thee! For both thy younger brethren have gone down Before this youth; and so wilt thou, Sir Star; Art thou not old?” “Old, damsel, old and hard, Old, with the might and breath of twenty boys.” Said Gareth, “Old, and over-bold in brag! But that same strength which threw the Morning Star Can throw the Evening.” Then that other blew A hard and deadly note upon the horn. “Approach and arm me!” With slow steps from out An old storm-beaten, russet, many-stained Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came, And armed him in old arms, and brought a helm With but a drying evergreen for crest, And gave a shield whereon the Star of Even Half-tarnished and half-bright, his emblem, shone. But when it glittered o’er the saddle-bow, They madly hurled together on the bridge; And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, drew, There met him drawn, and overthrew him again, But up like fire he started: and as oft As Gareth brought him grovelling on his knees, So many a time he vaulted up again; Till Gareth panted hard, and his great heart, Foredooming all his trouble was in vain, Laboured within him, for he seemed as one That all in later, sadder age begins To war against ill uses of a life, But these from all his life arise, and cry, “Thou hast made us lords, and canst not put us down!” He half despairs; so Gareth seemed to strike Vainly, the damsel clamouring all the while, “Well done, knave-knight, well-stricken, O good knight-knave— O knave, as noble as any of all the knights— Shame me not, shame me not. I have prophesied— Strike, thou art worthy of the Table Round— His arms are old, he trusts the hardened skin— Strike—strike—the wind will never change again.” And Gareth hearing ever stronglier smote, And hewed great pieces of his armour off him, But lashed in vain against the hardened skin, And could not wholly bring him under, more Than loud Southwesterns, rolling ridge on ridge, The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and springs For ever; till at length Sir Gareth’s brand Clashed his, and brake it utterly to the hilt. “I have thee now;” but forth that other sprang,