Then, shouting, he turned, the young knight, once more to his charger good, And with bitter words he mounted--Wide open the gateway stood, And the track led across the threshold; nor longer he thought to stay But he turned his rein, and swiftly to the drawbridge he made his way, 370 But a hidden hand drew the rope taut, and the forepart it rose on high And well-nigh had his charger fallen, then he turned him right speedily For fain would he ask the meaning, but the squire cried aloud in scorn, 'Goose that thou art, ride onward, to the sun's hate hast thou been born! Thy mouth hadst thou thought to open, of these wonders hadst asked thine host, 375 Great fame had been thine--But I tell thee now hast thou this fair chance lost!' Then the guest cried aloud for his meaning, but answer he ne'er might win, For the squire made as if he slumbered, and the portal he barred within. Too early for peace his parting, and the hour it hath brought him woe, And he payeth in joy the tribute, nor longer may gladness know; 380 And doubled the throw of sorrow since here he had found the Grail, With his eyes, not his hand, had he cast it, and dice to the throw should fail. If by grief he be now awakened such was never his wont of yore, For naught had he known but gladness, nor sorrow of heart he bore. On the track that he saw before him would Parzival ride apace, 385 And he thought, 'They who go before me to-day will a foeman face And fight for their master's honour; an they knew it, their ring of might Methinks would be little weakened if I in their ranks should fight! I would waver not, but would aid them whate'er be their need to-day, Thus my bread would I earn, and this fair sword, the gift of my host, repay, 390 Undeserved as yet do I bear it--Sure they hold me for coward knight!' Then he turned him, the free from falsehood, where the hoof-tracks still met his sight, (And sorely I rue his parting--Now the venture doth grow apace,) They had parted who rode before him, and their track he might scarcely trace, What aforetime was broad waxed narrow till he lost it nor found it more 395 And tidings he heard, the hero, that wrought to him sorrow sore.