Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke, And the strong passion in her made her weep 110 True tears upon his broad and naked breast, And these awoke him, and by great mischance He heard but fragments of her later words, And that she fear’d she was not a true wife. And then he thought, “In spite of all my care, 115 For all my pains, poor man, for all my pains, She is not faithful to me, and I see her Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur’s hall.” Then, though he lov’d and reverenc’d her too much To dream she could be guilty of foul act, 120 Right through his manful breast darted the pang That makes a man, in the sweet face of her Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable. At this he hurl’d his huge limbs out of bed, And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried, 125 “My charger and her palfrey;” then to her, “I will ride forth into the wilderness; For though it seems my spurs are yet to win, I have not fall’n so low as some would wish. And you put on your worst and meanest dress 130 And ride with me.” And Enid ask’d, amaz’d, “If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault.” But he, “I charge you, ask not, but obey.” Then she bethought her of a faded silk, A faded mantle and a faded veil, 135 And moving toward a cedarn cabinet, Wherein she kept them folded reverently With sprigs of summer laid between the folds, She took them, and array’d herself therein, Remembering when first he came on her 140 Drest in that dress, and how he lov’d her in it, And all her foolish fears about the dress, And all his journey to her, as himself Had told her, and their coming to the court.