Through her fair favor is this weapon sent, Who begged it of the King with this intent: That, for her honor, soon would be begun A desperate battle with a champion, Of wondrous prowess, by Sir Accolon: And with the sword, Excalibur, more sure Were she that he against him would endure. Magic the blade, and magic, too, the sheath, Which, while 'tis worn, wards from the wearer death." He ceased: and Accolon held up the sword Excalibur and said, "It shall go hard With him through thee, unconquerable blade, Whoe'er he be, who on my Queen hath laid Insult or injury! And hours as slow As palsied hours in Purgatory go For those unmassed, till I have slain this foe!-- Here, page, my purse.--And now, to her who gave, Despatch! and say: To all commands, her slave, To death obedient, I!--In love or war Her love to make me all the warrior.-- Bid her have mercy, nor too long delay From him, who dies an hourly death each day Till, her white hands kissed, he shall kiss her face, Through which his life lives on, and still finds grace." Thus he commanded. And, incontinent, The dwarf departed, like a red shaft sent Into the sunset's sea of scarlet light Burning through wildwood glooms. And as the night With votaress cypress veiled the dying strife Sadly of day, and closed his book of life And clasped with golden stars, in dreamy thought Of what this fight was that must soon be fought, Belting the blade about him, Accolon, Through the dark woods tow'rds Chariot passed on. * * * * *