“Not with mine honour this may be; Ask all save this thou wilt,” quoth he, “And have thy full desire.” But she Made answer: “Nought will I of thee, Nought if not this.” Then Balen turned, And saw the sorceress hard beside By whose fell craft his mother died: Three years he had sought her, and here espied His heart against her yearned. “Ill be thou met,” he said, “whose ire Would slake with blood thy soul’s desire: By thee my mother died in fire; Die thou by me a death less dire.” Sharp flashed his sword forth, fleet as flame, And shore away her sorcerous head. “Alas for shame,” the high king said, “That one found once my friend lies dead; Alas for all our shame! “Thou shouldst have here forborne her; yea, Were all the wrongs that bid men slay Thine, heaped too high for wrath to weigh, Not here before my face today Was thine the right to wreak thy wrong.” Still stood he then as one that found His rose of hope by storm discrowned, And all the joy that girt him round Brief as a broken song. Yet ere he passed he turned and spake: “King, only for thy nobler sake Than aught of power man’s power may take Or pride of place that pride may break I bid the lordlier man in thee, That lives within the king, give ear. This justice done before thee here On one that hell’s own heart holds dear, Needs might not this but be. “Albeit, for all that pride would prove, My heart be wrung to lose thy love, It yet repents me not hereof: So many an eagle and many a dove, So many a knight, so many a may, This water-snake of poisonous tongue To death by words and wiles hath stung, That her their slayer, from hell’s lake sprung, I did not ill to slay.” “Yea,” said the king, “too high of heart To stand before a king thou art; Yet irks it me to bid thee part And take thy penance for thy part, That God may put upon thy pride.” Then Balen took the severed head And toward his hostry turned and sped As one that knew not quick from dead Nor good from evil tide. He bade his squire before him stand And take that sanguine spoil in hand And bear it far by shore and strand Till all in glad Northumberland That loved him, seeing it, all might know His deadliest foe was dead, and hear How free from prison as from fear He dwelt in trust of the answering year To bring him weal for woe. “And tell them, now I take my way To meet in battle, if I may, King Ryons of North Wales, and slay That king of kernes whose fiery sway Doth all the marches dire despite That serve King Arthur: so shall he Again be gracious lord to me, And I that leave thee meet with thee Once more in Arthur’s sight.” So spake he ere they parted, nor Took shame or fear to counsellor, As one whom none laid ambush for; And wist not how Sir Launceor, The wild king’s son of Ireland, hot And high in wrath to know that one Stood higher in fame before the sun, Even Balen, since the sword was won, Drew nigh from Camelot.