To whom Geraint with eyes all bright replied, Leaning a little toward him, "Thy leave! Let _me_ lay lance in rest, O noble host, For this dear child, because I never saw, Tho' having seen all beauties of our time, Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair. And if I fall her name will yet remain Untarnish'd as before; but if I live, So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost, As I will make her truly my true wife." Then, howsoever patient, Yniol's heart Danced in his bosom, seeing better days, And looking round he saw not Enid there, (Who hearing her own name had stol'n away) But that old dame, to whom full tenderly And fondling all her hand in his he said, "Mother, a maiden is a tender thing, And best by her that bore her understood. Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest Tell her, and prove her heart toward the Prince." So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she With frequent smile and nod departing found, Half disarray'd as to her rest, the girl; Whom first she kiss'd on either cheek, and then On either shining shoulder laid a hand, And kept her off and gazed upon her face, And told her all their converse in the hall, Proving her heart: but never light and shade Coursed one another more on open ground Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale Across the face of Enid hearing her; While slowly falling as a scale that falls, When weight is added only grain by grain, Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast; Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word, Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of it; So moving without answer to her rest She found no rest, and ever fail'd to draw The quiet night into her blood, but lay Contemplating her own unworthiness; And when the pale and bloodless east began To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised Her mother too, and hand in hand they moved Down to the meadow where the; ousts were held, And waited there for Yniol and Geraint.