And Peredur replied, "First let me in. I am of Arthur's Court. Long have I ridd'n Through miles and miles of melancholy woods. The night begins to storm. And I would rest." Then said the youth, sad mirth about his mouth, "Rest shalt thou; yea: and since thou, haply, hast Fasted all day, thou shalt break bread with us."-- Then he retired from the grated slide: Undid harsh chains and shot back stubborn bolts; And, stiff with rust, the snarling hinges swung. And Peredur rode armed into a court, Neglected, and pathetic with strewn leaves And offal, where the weed and wire-grass Creviced with wisps the loose and broken stones: And overhead, around the mournful walls, Huge oaks thrust ancient boughs of mistletoe And withered leaves, whose twisted wildness seemed The beckoning arms of hunger, and the hands, Hooked and distorted, darkly threatening, Of murder; enemies that, pitiless, Had laid long siege to that old forest hold. And he dismounted. And in clanking mail Strode down the hall. And in the hall beheld Youths, lean and auburn-haired, around the hearth; Some eighteen of an equal height, and clad Alike in dingy garments that looked worn And old. And these were like to him who first Had bid him welcome. And they greeted him And took his arms; and bade him to a seat. And then an inner door flung wide; and, lo, Five maidens, like five forest flowers, came; Dark-eyed, dark-haired. Behold, the queen of these Was Angharad. Clad in a ragged robe Of faded satin that had once been rich. She looked at Peredur, and he at her: And with glad eyes once more his soul beheld The hair far blacker than the bird that wings Athwart the milk-white moon: the matchless skin, Inviolably white as wind-flowers blown Among the mighty gospels of the trees: And in her cheeks, the rose of maidenhood Red as round berries winter bushes dot The dimpled drift with under loaded boughs. She knew him not, or seemed to; or forgot To speak his name whenas she looked at him And, blushing, welcomed. And they sat and talked Until the night waxed late. And as they talked He marked that hunger had made hollow haunts Of all their eyes; and so he longed to ask, But courtesy forbade him. Late it grew, And late and later; and at last there came A knocking, and, as shadowy as two ghosts, Two nuns came gliding; sandalled silence in Frail footsteps, and pale caution on pale lips. One brought a jar of wine, and one brought bread, Six loaves of wheaten flour. And these said, "God bear us witness, Lady, this is all! Now is our Convent barren as thy board;" And so departed. And they sat and ate. * * * * *