To whom the herald-knight did make reply: "Thou knowest all of this dread secret wound,-- The shame, the sorrow, and the depth of it, Its evil cause and the dark curse upon it,-- And yet forsooth thou seemest still to hope?... The healing herb no soothing brought, nor peace. All night the sleepless King has tossed in pain, Longing for morning and the cooling bath." Then Gurnemanz, downcast and saddened, said: "Yea, it is useless, hoping thus to ease The pain unless we use the one sure cure,-- Naught else avails although we search the world. Only one healer and one healing thing Can staunch the gaping wound and save the King." And eagerly the herald asked: "What cure is this, And who the healer that can save the King?" But Gurnemanz quick answered: "See the bath Is needing thee, for here doth come the King!" But as he spake, e'er yet the King appeared, Another herald, looking far away, Beheld a woman coming, riding wild, And quick exclaimed: "See there, a flying witch! Ha! how the devil's mare is racing fast With madly flying mane! Nearer she comes!... 'Tis Kundry, wretched Kundry, mad old Kundry-- Perhaps she brings us urgent news? Who knows? The mare is staggering with weariness,-- No wonder, for its flight was through the air,-- But now it nears the ground, and seems to brush The moss with sweeping mane. And now, look ye! The wild witch flings herself from off the mare And rushes toward us!" And Kundry came, Her dark eyes flashing wildly, piercing bright; Her black hair loose; her rude garb looser still, Yet partly bound with glittering skins of snakes; And panting, staggering ran to Gurnemanz, And thrust into his hands a crystal flask With the scant whisper, "Balsam--for the King!" And on his asking, "Whence this healing balm?" She answered: "Farther than thy thought can guess. For if this balsam fail, then Araby Hath nothing further for the King's relief. Ask me no further. I am weak and worn." And now the litter of the King drew near, Attended by a retinue of knights. High on the couch the King Amfortas lay, His pale face lined with suffering and care; And looking toward the King, then Gurnemanz Spake with his own sad heart: "He comes, my King,-- A helpless burden to his servitors. Alas, alas! That these mine eyes should see The sovereign of a strong and noble race, Now in the very flower and prime of life, Brought low, and made a bounden slave Unto a shameful and a stubborn sickness!... Ye servitors, be careful of this couch! Careful! Set down the litter tenderly! I hear the King, our Master, groan in pain." Then they set down the couch, and soon the King, Raising himself a little, spake to them: "My loving thanks, sir knights. Rest here awhile. How sweet this morning and these fragrant woods To one who tossed the weary night in pain. And this pure lake with all its freshening waves Will lighten pain and brighten my dark woe. Where is my dear Gawain?"