And clasping in both arms of wiry war His foe, Sir Accolon,--as one hath seen A strong wind take an ash tree, rocking green, And swing its sappy bulk, then, trunk and boughs, Crash down its thundering height in wild carouse And wrath of tempest,--so King Arthur shook And headlong flung Sir Accolon. Then took, Tearing away, that scabbard from his side And hurled it through the lists, that far and wide Gulped in the battle breathless. Then, still wroth, He seized Excalibur; and grasped of both Wild hands, swung trenchant, and brought glittering down On rising Accolon. Steel, bone and brawn That blow hewed through. Unsettled every sense. Bathed in a world of blood, his limbs lay tense A moment, then grew limp, relaxed in death. And bending o'er him, from the brow beneath, The King unlaced the helm. When dark, uncasqued, The knight's slow eyelids opened, Arthur asked: "Say, ere thou diest, whence and who thou art! What king, what court is thine? And from what part Of Britain dost thou come? Speak!--for, methinks, I have beheld thee--where? Some memory links Me strangely with thy face, thy eyes ... thou art-- Who art thou?--speak!"-- He answered, slow, then short, With labored breathing: "I?--one, Accolon,-- Of Gaul--a knight of Arthur's court--anon-- But to what end--yea, tell me--am I slain?"-- Then bent King Arthur nearer and again Drew back: then, anguish in his utterance, sighed: "One of my Table!"--Then asked softly, "Say, Whence hadst thou this, my sword? say, in what way Thou cam'st by it?"--But, wandering, that knight Heard with dull ears, divining but by sight The question asked; and answered, "Woe!--the sword!-- Woe worth the sword!--Lean down!--Canst hear my word?-- From Morgane! Arthur's sister, who had made Me king of all this kingdom, so she said-- Hadst thou not 'risen, accurséd, like a fate, To make our schemes miscarry!--Wait! nay, wait!-- A king! dost hear?--a gold and blood-crowned king, I!--Arthur's sister, queen!--No bird can wing Higher than her ambition! that resolved Her brother's death was needed, and evolved Plots that should ripen with the ripening year, And here be reaped, perhaps--nay, nay! not here!-- Farewell, my Morgane!--Yea, 'twas she who schemed While there at Chariot we loved and dreamed Gone some six months.--There nothing gave us care. Each morning was a liberal almoner Prodigal of silver to the earth and air: Each eve, a fiery dragon, cloud-enrolled, Convulsive, dying overwhelmed with gold; On such an eve it was, that, redolent, She sat by me and said,--'My message sent, Some night--within the forest--thou, my knight! Thou and the king!--my men--the forest fight!-- Murder perhaps.--But, well?--who is to blame?'... So with her blood-red thoughts to me she came.