And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he heard The noble hart at bay, now the far horn, A little vex’d at losing of the hunt, A little at the vile occasion, rode, 235 By ups and downs, through many a grassy glade And valley, with fix’d eye following the three. At last they issued from the world of wood, And climb’d upon a fair and even ridge, And show’d themselves against the sky, and sank. 240 And thither came Geraint, and underneath Beheld the long street of a little town In a long valley, on one side of which, White from the mason’s hand, a fortress rose; And on one side a castle in decay, 245 Beyond a bridge that spann’d 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. 250 And onward to the fortress rode the three And enter’d, and were lost behind the walls. “So,” thought Geraint, “I have track’d him to his earth.” And down the long street riding wearily, Found every hostel full, and everywhere 255 Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss And bustling whistle of the youth who scour’d His master’s armour; and of such a one He ask’d, “What means the tumult in the town?” Who told him, scouring still, “The sparrow-hawk!” 260 Then riding close behind an ancient churl, Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam, Went sweating underneath a sack of corn, Ask’d yet once more what meant the hubbub here? Who answer’d gruffly, “Ugh! the sparrow-hawk,” 265 Then riding farther past an armourer’s, Who, with back turn’d, and bow’d 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: 270 “Friend, he that labours for the sparrow-hawk Has little time for idle questioners.” Whereat Geraint flash’d into sudden spleen: “A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk! Tits, wrens, and all wing’d nothings peck him dead! 275 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 you be not like the rest, hawk-mad, 280 Where can I get me harbourage for the night? And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy? Speak!” At this the armourer, turning all amazed And seeing one so gay in purple silks, Came forward with the helmet yet in hand, 285 And answer’d, “Pardon me, O stranger knight; We hold a tourney here to-morrow 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, 290 It may be, at Earl Yniol’s, o’er the bridge Yonder.” He spoke and fell to work again.