And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he heard The noble hart at bay, now the far horn, A little vext at losing of the hunt, A little at the vile occasion, rode, By ups and downs, through many a grassy glade And valley, with fixt eye following the three. At last they issued from the world of wood, And climbed upon a fair and even ridge, And showed themselves against the sky, and sank. And thither there came Geraint, and underneath Beheld the long street of a little town In a long valley, on one side whereof, White from the mason’s hand, a fortress rose; And on one side a castle in decay, Beyond a bridge that spanned a dry ravine: And out of town and valley came a noise As of a broad brook o’er a shingly bed Brawling, or like a clamour of the rooks At distance, ere they settle for the night. And onward to the fortress rode the three, And entered, and were lost behind the walls. “So,” thought Geraint, “I have tracked him to his earth.” And down the long street riding wearily, Found every hostel full, and everywhere Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss And bustling whistle of the youth who scoured His master’s armour; and of such a one He asked, “What means the tumult in the town?” Who told him, scouring still, “The sparrow-hawk!” Then riding close behind an ancient churl, Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam, Went sweating underneath a sack of corn, Asked yet once more what meant the hubbub here? Who answered gruffly, “Ugh! the sparrow-hawk.” Then riding further past an armourer’s, Who, with back turned, and bowed above his work, Sat riveting a helmet on his knee, He put the self-same query, but the man Not turning round, nor looking at him, said: “Friend, he that labours for the sparrow-hawk Has little time for idle questioners.” Whereat Geraint flashed into sudden spleen: “A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk! Tits, wrens, and all winged nothings peck him dead! Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg The murmur of the world! What is it to me? O wretched set of sparrows, one and all, Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks! Speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk-mad, Where can I get me harbourage for the night? And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy? Speak!” Whereat the armourer turning all amazed And seeing one so gay in purple silks, Came forward with the helmet yet in hand And answered, “Pardon me, O stranger knight; We hold a tourney here tomorrow morn, And there is scantly time for half the work. Arms? truth! I know not: all are wanted here. Harbourage? truth, good truth, I know not, save, It may be, at Earl Yniol’s, o’er the bridge Yonder.” He spoke and fell to work again.