 Canto I of Gawain and the Green Night. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jerome Lawson, March 2008. Gawain and the Green Night, A Fairy Tale, by Charlton Miner Lewis. Preface. Arms in the man I sing, not as of old. The montan barred his mighty verse unrolled. But in such humbler strains as may be seen, light changes wrong on a fantastic theme. My tale is ancient, but the sense is new, replete with monstrous fiction, yet half true. And if you'll follow till the story's done, I promise much instruction, and some fun. Canto I, The Green Night. King Arthur and his court were blithe and gay, in high-towered Camelot on Christmas day. Where all the table-round were back again, at peace with God and with their fellow men. Their shields hung idly on the pictured wall. Their blood-stained banners decked the festival hall. Light footsteps rustling on the rushed strewn floors, and laughter rippling down long corridors. Attested minds at ease and hearts at play, rude Mars unharnessed for love's holiday. In the great hall the Christmas feast was done. The level sunbeams from the setting sun stretched through the mullioned casements to the wall and wove fantastic shadows over all. Though revelry was hushed, in tranquil ease the warriors grouped themselves by twos and threes about the dames and damsels of the court, and chattered careless words of small import. But in an alcove unobserved, apart, young Gawain sat with Lady Elfenhardt. In Arthur's court no goodly are night than he, or shirt of mail, or cupids panoply, and Elfenhardt, to Gawain's ear eyes, of all heaven's treasures seemed the goodliest prize. Now daylight faded, and the twilight gloom deepened the stillness in the vaulted room, save whereupon the hearth a fitful glow blushed from the embers as the fire burned low. There is a certain subtle twilight mood, when two hearts meet in a dim solitude that thrills the soul even to the fingertips, and brings the heart-steer secrets to the lips. In Gawain's corner, as the shades grew thicker, four eyes waxed brighter, and two pulses quicker, ten minutes more of quiet talk unbroken, and heaven alone can tell what might be spoken. But it was not to be, for fates unequal compelled. But this anticipates the sequel. Just in the nick of time King Arthur rose from his sedate post-prandial repose, and called for lights. Along the shadowy aisles, his pages' footsteps padded over the tiles, speeding to do his errand, and at once, four tapers flickered from each silver sconce. The scene was changed, the dreamer's dream dispelled, and what might else have been his fate withheld from Gawain's grasp? So may one touch of chance shatter the fragile fabric of romance, and all the heart's desire, the joy, the trouble, flash to oblivion with the bursting bubble. But Arthur, on his kingly day's seat, felt nothing of the passion and the heat that fire young blood. He raised his warlike head, and glancing moodily around him said, So have you feasted well my nights this day, and filled your hearts with revel and with play. But to my mind that day is basely spent, which passes by without accomplishment. Of some bright deed of arms or chivalry, we rust in indolence, as will not be, as be the minions of an idle court, where all is gallantry and girlish sport. Some bold adventure let our thoughts devise, to stir our courage and to cheer our eyes. And lo, while he yet spoke, from far away, in the thick shroud of the departed day, upon the frosty air of evening-born came the faint challenge of a fairy-horn. Being Arthur started up in mild surprise, while knights and dames looked round with questioning eyes, and each to other spoke some hurried word as, Did you hear it? What was that I heard? But well they knew, for you must understand, that Camelot lay close to Fairyland. And the wild blast of fairy horns, once known, is straightway recognized as soon as blown, being a sound unique, unearthly, shrill, between a screech owl and a whooper will. The mischief is, that no one air can tell, whether such heralding bodes ill, or well. The ladies of the palace looked faint fear, dreading some perilous adventure near, for peril can the bravest spirits move, when threatening not ourselves, but those we love. But Lady Elfenhard clapped hands in glee, and soothed no sentimentalist seemed she, and cried, Now brave sir Gawain, oh what fun, succour us, save us, else we are undone. Show us the power of your arm this night. I never saw a tilth by candlelight. Gaeli she spoke, and seemed all unconcerned, and yet a curious watcher might have learned, from a slight quaver in her laughter free, to doubt the frankness of her flippancy. Gawain bewildered, looked the other way, and wondered what she meant, for in that day, the ready wit of man was under muzzle, and woman's heart was still an unsolved puzzle. And Gawain, though in valor next to none, wished that her heart had been a tenderer one. His sword was out for any foe on earth, and yet to face death for a lady's mirth, seemed scarce worthwhile, what honor bade he'd do, but would have liked to see a tear or two. While thus he pondered came a sudden burst of high-pitched, fairy-horn calls, like the first, but nearer, clearer, deadlier than before. And seemingly from just outside the door. The casement shook, the taper lights all trembled, the bravest night's dismay was ill-dissembled, and as all sprang with one accord to win, their swords and shields stern combat to begin, the great doors shot their bolts, and opened slowly in. And now my laboring news is hard beset, for something followed, such as never yet, was writ or sung by human voice or hand, save those that tell old tales from fairy-land. Those do not happen, tis plain sense, if you italicize the present tense, but in those days, as rarer old Chaucer tells, all Britain was fulfilled of miracles. So as I said, the great doors opened wide, in rushed a blast of winter from outside, and with it galloping on the empty air, a great green giant on a great green mare, plunged like a tempest-cleaving thunderbolt, and struck forefooted with a earthquake's jolt, thump on the hearth-stone. There the uncouth white sat greenly laughing at the strange affright, that paled all cheeks and opened wide all eyes, till after the first shock of quick surprise, the people circled round him, still in awe, and circling stared, and this is what they saw. Cossack and hood and hose, a plushy sheen, like close-cut grass upon a bowling-green, bearded stature, from his verdant toes, to his green brows that topped his emerald nose. His beard was glossy, like unripened corn, his eyes shot sparklets, like the polar morn. But like in hue unto that deep-sea green, wherewith must shine those gems of grey serene, the dark unfathomed caves of ocean-bear, green was his raiment, green his monstrous mare. He rode unarmed, uncorseleted, unshielded. Except that in his huge right hand he wielded, a frightful battle-axe, with blade as green as coppery rust, but the long edge shone keen. Such was the stranger, and he turned his head, from one side to the other, and then said, with gentle voice, most like a summer breeze, that whistles through the leaves of the green trees. So this is Arthur's court, my noble lord. You said just now you felt a trifle-board, and wished, instead of dancing, feasting, flirting, your gallant warriors might be exerting, that Pouisson supons some worthy a thing. The wish, my lord, was worthy of a king. It pleased me, here I am, and I intend, to bring your fancy as a faithful friend. I bring adventure, no hard tedious quest, but merely what I call a merry jest. Let some good night, the doughtiest of you all, swing this my battle-axe, and let it fall, on whatsoever part of me he will. I will abide the blow, and hold me still. But let him, just a twelve-month from this day, come to me, if by any means he may, and let me, if I live, pay back my best, as he pays me. What think you of the jest? He said, and made a courteous bow, the while lighting his features with a bright green smile, as when June breezes after rain clouds pass, ripple in sunlight over the unmoan grass. The jest seemed fair indeed, but nonetheless no night showed any undue forwardness to seize the offer. Some with laughter free dafted aside, while others carelessly strolled to the farthest corners of the hall, as if they had not heard his words at all, and whistled with an air of idle ease, or studied figures in the tapestries. Not so, Sir Gawain. Vext in mind he stood, with downcast eyes, and knew not what he would. Trained in the school of chivalry to prize, his honor is the life of his dear eyes. He held his life, his fortunes, everything, in sacred trust for knighthood and his king. And in the battlefield or tilting yard, he met his foe full-fronted and struck hard. But now it seemed a foolish thing to throw, once whole life to the fortune of a blow. True valor breathes not in the braggart vaunt. True honor takes no shame from idle taunt. So let this wizard, if he wants to, scoff. Why should our hero have his head cut off? While thus Sir Gawain, wrapped in thought-intents, debated honor versus common sense, the stranger knight was casting his green glance around the circling throng, until by chance he met the eyes of Lady Elfenhard. And did she flush, and did the green knight start? Only a quiver twinkle in each eye. But what of that? It need not signify. Beneath his glance a brave man well might flush. What wonder, then, that a fair maid should blush? And as for him, no man that ever loved could look upon her loveliness unmoved. Could I but picture her? Ah, you would deem, my tale the figment of a poet's dream. And if you saw her, could such bliss be given, you'd think yourself in dreamland, or in heaven. Not the red rapture of new-wakened roses, when mourning do their soul of love uncloses, roses that must be wooed, nor may be won, saved by the prince of lovers, the warm sun. Not the fair lily, nor the violet shy, whose heart's love lurks deep in her still-blue eye, nor any flower, the loveliest and the best, can image to you half the charm compressed in those dear eyes, those lips, nay, every part, that made the sum of witcheries Elfenhardt. Her face was a dim dream of shadowy light, like misty moonbeams on the fields of night, an inner-voice sweet-nature's sweetest tunes, sang the glad song of twenty cloudless tunes. Her raiment, nay, go, reader, if you please, to some sage-treatise unantiquities, went's writers of historical romances, co-old embroideries for their new-spun fancies. I care not for the trivial, nor for the fleeting. Beneath her dress a woman's heart was beating. The rhythm of love's eternal eloquence, and I confess to you in confidence, the flowers have grown a thousand years above her, unseen, unknown, with all my soul I love her. From these digressions upon love and glory, this time we were returning to our story. I only meant, in a few words, to tell you, for fear in my heroine's conduct should repel you, that if she jests, for instance, out of season, perhaps there is a good substantial reason. Serguéne had he seen the stranger wink, and seen the lady blushing, you may think, might have been spared a most unhappy lot. Perhaps you're right, but pair adventure not. I'll give you but a hint, for half the art of narrative is holding back apart, and if without reserve I gave my best in the first canto, who would read the rest? But now Serguéne, with a troubled eye, looked up and saw his lady standing by, quathi, and if this conjurer unblessed, when no acceptance of this bitter jest, how then in after-day shall Arthur's court confront the calumny and foul report of idle tongues. The wrath in Guéne's eyes hashed for an instant, then in humble wise he spoke on. Yet God grant I be not blind where honour lights the way, for to my mind shrew honour bids a shun the devil's den, to fight God's battles in a world of men. Who takes this challenge up I doubt will rue it. Quath Elfenhardt, I'd like to see you do it. She laughed a gay laugh, but by hard constraint, then turned and hid her face all pale and faint, as might one be who stabs and turns the knife, in the warm heart of one more dear than life. She turned and Guéne saw not, but he heard, and felt his heart strings tighten at her word. Nay, lady, if you wish it I will try. Be or least wish my will, although I die. Yet one thing if I may, a feign would ask. Before I make the venture, if this task, prove fateful as it threatens, do you care? Perhaps, said Elfenhardt, you do not dare. Lightly she laughed, and scoffing tossed her head, yet spoke as one who knew not what she said. With random words, and with quick-taken breath, she turned again, ere that same look of death, she'd steal upon her and betray her heart, despite all stratagems of women's art. And Guéne heard but saw not, and the night descended on him, and his face grew white with grief and passion. When all else is lost, the brave man gives life too, nor counts the cost. I dreamt, he murmured to himself, and dreaming I took for truth what was but sweet as seeming. My waking eyes find not in life to keep. I take the venture, and so back to sleep. By this the stranger had at last become, tired of long waiting, and of sitting dumb. Upon his charger, so with greenest leer, he vented his impatience in a sneer. Is this, he said, the glorious table round, and is its glory not but empty sound? Pragots, I put your blaster to the test, and find you quail before a merry jest. Then the great king himself stood up in ire, with clenched hand raised, and eyes that gleamed dark fire, and fronting the green night he cried, For bear, for by my sword excalibur I swear. Whatever thou be, thou shalt not carry hence, unscathed the memory of thine insolence. Such jests as thine, please not, yet even so, I take thine axe, kneel thou, and take my blow. Across the green night's features there was seen, to pass a fleeting shade of deeper green, whether of disappointment or resentment none new. But straightest mile of bright contentment followed. As through the throng of dazed beholders, he saw Sir Gawain thrust his sturdy shoulders. The stranger winked at Ofenheart once more, well-pleased, and Gawain knelt down on the floor. Abun, he cried, Abun, my lord and king, if ever yet in any little thing these hands of serve thee, hear my last request, let me adventure this mad monster's jest. King Arthur shook his head in dumb denial, loth to withdraw his own hand from the trial, and leave the vengeance that himself had vowed. But all the people called to him loud, Sir Gawain, let Sir Gawain strike the blow. And Gwinevere the queen besought him low, to leave this venture to the lesser man. He yielded, and the merry jest began. The visitor dismounting made a bow, to Arthur, then to all the court. And now, said he to Gawain, wheresoever thou choose, to strike your blow, strike on, I'll not refuse. Head, shoulders, jest, or waist, my little wreck, where shall it be? Quoth Gawain in the neck. So Gawain took the axe, the stranger knelt, before him on the hearth, and loosed his belt, and threw back his green cassock and his hood, to give his foe the fairest mark he could. Then thus to Gawain, ready, but remember, to come the twenty-fifth of next December, and take from me the self-same stroke again. And where, asked Gawain, may I find you then? We'll speak of that, please, when you've struck your blow. For if I can't speak, then you needn't go. He chuckled softly to himself, then turned, and waited for the blow, all unconcerned. Not so the knights and ladies of the court, they pushed and craned their necks to see the sport, not from the lust of blood, for few expected, to see blood shed, or the green night dissected, but knowing that some marvel was in store, unparalleled in all Arthurian lore, and fairly filled with wide-eyed wonderment, but Lady Elfenhardt stayed not, she went. Into the alcove where he saw her first, and laid her sweet face in her arms, and burst, into, but none could tell, unless by peeping, whether she shook with laughter, or with weeping. And Gawain rubbed his arms, his chest he beat, then grasped the battle-axe and braced his feet, and swung the ponderous weapon high in air, and brought it down like lightning, fair and square, upon the stranger's neck. The axe flashed through, cutting the green night cleanly right in two, and split the hard stone floor like kindling wood. The head dropped off, outgushed the thick hot blood, like, I can't find the simile I want, but let us say a flood of, frame to month. And then the warriors standing round about, sent up from fifty-throats a mighty shout, as when o'er blood sprint fields the long cheers roll, cacophonous for him who kicks a goal. O Gawain, well done, Gawain, they all cried, but straight the tumult and the shouting died. And deadly pallor overspread each face, for the night's body stood up in its place, and stepping nimbly forward seized the head, that lay still on the hard stone, seeming dead. Then vaulted lightly, with the carol's air, back to the saddle of his grass-green mare. He held his head up, and behold, it spoke. My best congratulations on that stroke. So, Gawain, it was delicately done. Our merry little jest is well begun. But look, you fail me not this day next year, at the green chapel by the murmuring mere. I will await you when the sun sinks low, and pay you back full measure, blow for blow. He wheeled about, the doors flew wide once more, the mare's hoof struck green sparkles from the floor, and with a whirring flash of emerald light, both horse and rider vanished in the night, that all the lords and ladies rubbed their eyes, and slowly roused themselves from dumb surprise. The great hall echoed once more with the clatter, of laughing men's and frightened women's chatter. But Gawain, with the axe in hand, stood still, heedless of what was passing, with no will, for life or death, for all that made life dear, was fled like summer, when the leaves fall sear. And Arthur spoke, misreading Gawain's thought. Heaven's end we have not all too dearly bought, our evening's pastime, Gawain. You have done as fits a fearless knight, and nobly won, our thanks in equal measure with all praise. Be both remembered in the after-days. So spoke the king, and to confirm his word, from far away in the deep night was heard. Once more the fairy horn call, clear and shrill. It died upon the wind, and all was still. The hour was late. King Arthur Rising said, good night to all his court, and went to bed. End of Canto I. Recording by Jerome Lawson March 2008 Canto II of Gawain in the Green Night This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jerome Lawson March 2008 Gawain in the Green Night A Fairy Tale by Charlton Minor Lewis Canto II Elphinheart In Canto I I followed the old rule. We learned from Horus when we went to school, and took a headlong plunge in medius rees, as Mero did, and blind meanities. And now, still following the ancient mode, I come to the time-honored episode. Retrace my ways some twenty years or more, and tell you what I should have told before. It seems an awkward method, but it's art. Besides, it brings us back to Elphinheart. In those dark days before King Arthur came, when Britain was laid waste with sword and flame, when cutthroats lurked behind the blossoming thorn, and young maids cursed the day when they were born. A lady, widowed in one hideous night, fled over Heathen Hill and in her flight, came to the magic willow woods that stand, beside the murmuring mirror in Fairyland, and there, untimely, by the forest side, clasping her infant in her arms, she died. Yet not all friendless, for such mortal throes, past not unpitied, though no mortal knows. The spirits that infest the clearer air looked down upon the innocent lady there, while troops of fairies smoothed their mossy bed, and with sweet balsam pillowed her fair head. Her dim eyes could not see them, but she guessed, whose gentle ministrations thus had blessed, her travail, and when pitying fairies laid. Upon her heart the child, a blue-eyed maid, ere yet her troubled spirit might depart. With one last word she named her, Elphinheart. So with new quick and love the fairy elves took the forlorn child maiden to themselves, and reared her in the wild wood, where no jar of alien discord, echoing from afar, broke the sweet forest murmur long years round. Her ears attuned to every woodland sound, translated to her soul the great world's voice, and the world's spirit made her heart rejoice, and love was hers, perennial, intense, the love that wells from joy and innocence, and sanctifies the coistered heart of youth, the love of love, of beauty, and of truth. So Elphinheart grew up, each passing year, a forest life beside the murmuring mirror, enriched tenfold the natural dour of grace that shone from the pure spirit interface. I cannot tell why each revolving season enhanced her beauty thus. Some say the reason was in the stars. I think those luminaries had less to do with it than had the fairies. The more they found of grace in her, the more their silent influence added to her store, for they were always with her, they and she, still bore each other loving company. And yet one further virtue, not the least, of those that make life lovable, increased, in Elphinheart's sweet nature from her birth, by fairy Tudelich, and that was mirth. For fairy natures are compounded all, of whimsies and of freaks fantastical. And what the best of fairies loves the best, except your kindness, is an artless jest. And so wise men have argued, on the whole, that the misguided creatures have no soul. But as for me, if the bright fairy elf has none, I'll get along without myself. These fairies laughed and danced and sang sweet songs, and did all else that to their craft belongs. All tricks and pranks of whole soul jollity, that make life merry, meet the greenwood tree. The youngest of them childishly beguiled, the time when Elphinheart was still a child. They pinched her fingers, and they pulled her ears, or sometimes when her blue eyes dreamed of tears, half smothered her with flowers of four leafed clover, then fled for refuge to some sweet fern cover. But she pursued them through their tangled lair, and caught them, and put fireflies in their hair. And then they all joined hands, and round and round they danced to Morris on the moonlit ground. The years went by, and Elphinheart outgrew, the madcap antics of the younger crew. For fairies age but slowly, don't forget, that at two hundred they are children yet. But still she frolicked with them, though scarce of them, and learned each year more tenderly to love them. But most of all she loved with all her heart, on quiet summer nights to walk apart, and hold close converse with the fairies queen. A radiant maiden princess who had seen some twenty centuries of revolving suns, pass over fairyland, all golden ones. Sometimes they sat in the mild moon's light, where chestnut blooms made sweet the breath of night, and talked of the great world beyond the wood, of death, or sin, or sorrow, understood of neither, till the twinkling stars were gone, and bustling Shanna Clear proclaimed the dawn. And Elphinheart grew wise in fairy learning, but by degrees a half unconscious yearning, for humankind stirred in her gentle heart, and woke a deep desire to bear her part, of love and sorrow in the larger life, as sister, helper, nay, perhaps as wife. For such vague instincts after all, are human, and Elphinheart herself was but a woman. And yet for all this new desire, I doubt, if Elphinheart would ever have spoken out, and told the fairies of her wish to leave them, a wish her conscious heart well knew would grieve them. If in the ripening of her silent thought, a still voice had not whispered that she ought to leave that world of love and mirth and beauty, to share man's burden in the world of duty, there's anti-climax for you, most provoking, just when you thought that I was only joking. Or idly fingering the poet's laurel, to find my story threatens to be moral. But as for morals, though inverse we scout them, in life we somehow can't get on without them. So if I don't insert a moral dystic, once in a while, I can't be realistic. And in this tale, I saw only a ver, my one wish is to tell things as they were. But not all things. Time flies, and art is long, and I must hurry onward with my song. How Elphinheart at last told what she wanted, and what the fairies said, please take for granted. She prayed, they yielded, Elphinheart full loathe, to leave as they let her go, but both agreeing that this bitter thing must be, for they were fairies and a mortal she. But ere they yielded, they made in position, of what then seemed to her a light condition, to as done in kindness, be it understood, with very foresight for the maiden's good. The off-queens spoke for all, Dear Elphinheart, we bind you to one promise, ere we part, we're fair not from men's malice, hate or wrath, and every evil thing will shun your path, and sunshine will go with you when you move, the only danger that we dread is love. If in the after-days, when suiters woo you, your heart makes choice of one as dearest to you, before you put your hand in his, and own, the sacred trust reserved for him alone, let us make trial of him, and approve his virtue, his manhood, and his love. Send him to us, and if he bears the test, and if we find him worthy to be blessed, with love like yours, be sure we will befriend him, and may a lifelong happiness attend him. But if he prove a traitor, or faint-hearted, or if his love and he are lightly parted, in the deep willow woods he shall remain, and never look upon your face again. The maiden, fancy-free, was well content, and with light laughter gave her full consent. For when maids think of love, as maidens do, it seems a far-off thing, and well she knew, her lover, if she loved, would be both brave and true. Not long thereafter came an errant band, riding along the edge of fairyland, stout-men at arms, without reproach or spot, and in the lead the bold sir lancelot. He, riding on a head, silent, alone, was stomped by a beseeching ancient crone, who hobbled to his side, as if in pain, and clutched with palsied fingers at his reign. And there behind her, from the leafage green, the sweetest eyes his eyes had ever seen, were gazing at him with wide wonderment, not bold nor fearful, innocence unshent, shone from their blue depths, and old dreams awoke, in lancelot's breast, while thus the bell-dame spoke. A boon, a boon, silent sloth of the lake, I pray you of your courtesy to take, this damsel to the king, where enemies, I spoiled her of her birthright, and she flees, an innocent outcast from her wasted lands, to lay her life and fortune in his hands. She spoke, and vanished in the woodland shade. Then lancelot, leaning over, helped the maid, to mount behind, and at an easy trot, they and the troop rode on to Camelot. He asked no questions, for some fairy spell made light his heart, and told him always well. And as these two rode through the land together, by dappled greenwood shade and sunlit heather, her soft voice in his ears, the innocent charm of her light steady touch upon his arm, wrought magic in his soul, that day, I weaned, sir lancelot, well might forgot his queen. An elven heart, you knew those eyes were hers, laughed with the silvery jingle of his spurs, and from her heart the new world's rapture drove, all thought of fairyland, accepting love. And so to high-tower Camelot they came, the golden city, now a shadowy name. For overheath clad hills the wild winds blow, where Arthur's halls, a thousand years ago, bright with all far-fetched gems of curious art, shone brighter with the eyes of elven heart. She came to Camelot, the king receives her, and there for five glad years my story leaves her. Five glad years, and this episode is done, and we are back again at canto one. I write of merry jest in greenwood shade, but tales of chivalry are not my trade. So if you wish to read that five-year story of lady love, romance, and martial glory, the mighty feats of arms that Gawain did, the ever-ripening love that Gawain hid, five long years in his breast, biting his time, go seek it in some abler poet's rhyme. My tale begins with the young knight's brave soul, all elven hearts. She thinks herself heart whole. But at that Christmas feast, in Arthur's hall, with night's soft mantle folded over all, the magic influence of the evening tide stole on their two hearts beating side by side, and Gawain talked of troubles long ago, when each man's neighbor was his dearest foe, and of the trials he himself had passed. And the high purpose that from first to last had been his stay in spur, he scarce knew how, since on Excalibur he took the vow. He told of his own hopes for future days, and how he wrought and fought not for men's praise. Though like all good men, Gawain held that dear, yet trusting when men laid him on his beer. They might remember, as they gathered round it. He left this good world better than he found it. He talked as true men seldom talk, unless swayed utterly by some pure passion's stress, and ever gently, though with heart on fire, still hovered nearer to his soul's desire. An elven heart in great silence listened, but her sweet heart beat high, her blue eyes glistened. For as he bared his soul to her she dreamed, a daydream strange and new, wherein it seemed, that in that soul's clear depth she saw her own, and his most secret thought, till then unknown, seemed hers eternally. He spoke of death, and then her heart shrank, and she drew deep breath. Suddenly, ere she understood at all what new life dawned before her came the call of fairy horns, and so the green night burst upon the scene, as told in Canto 1st. One jarring note, the tuneful chords among, may make mad discord of the sweetest song, even so with this in it clamor through the breast, of Gawain rang the green night's merry jest. But what wild meaning must it not impart, to the vague feuds of gentle elven heart? For she had heard in the first trumpet blast, a signal to her from the far gone past. And now, of all the things that had been, her half-forgotten compact with the queen, flushed through her memory, and a swift thought came, like sudden fear, a thought without a name, an unvoiced question, and a blind alarm, and in sheer helplessness she reached an arm, toward Gawain scarcely knowing what she would, her eyes beheld him, and she understood. And is it Gawain, he? Yes, elven heart. The hour has come, and you must play your part. So now it's all explained, and I intend, to go straight onward to the story's end. Sir Gawain had cut off the green night's head, and Arthur and his court had gone to bed. In the great hall the dying embers shone, with a faint ghostly gleam, and there, alone, while all the rest of Camelot was sleeping, in the dark alcove, elven heart lay weeping. But as she lay there, all about her head, there fell a checkered beam of moonlight, shed, through the barred casement, as she faintly stirred, for in her troubled soul it seemed she heard, vague music from some region far away. She raised her head, and turning where she lay, saw in the silver moonlight the serene, and tranquil beauty of the fairy queen. We sent before you called us elven heart, for love lent keyna magic to our art, and warned us of the thoughts that in your breast awoke new rapture, trembling and confessed. An elven heart moved closer to her knees, and hit her face in the white draperies, that veiled the fairy form, till nestling there, her heart recovered from that blank despair, and whispered her that whatsoever befell, love ruled the world, and all would yet be well. The good fairy stroked the maiden's head, and kissed her tear-starred eyes, and smiling said, Fie on you women's hearts. Consistency hides a shamed head where mortal women be. True love breeds faith and trust, it makes hearts strong. The heart's anointed king can do no wrong, and yet you weep as if you fear to prove him. Upon my word I don't believe you love him. An elven heart replied, Love if you will, my queen, but let me be a woman still. You fairy's love, where love is wise and just. We mortal women love because we must. And if I fear to prove him, I confess. I fear I still must love him nonetheless. She paused, for once again her eyes grew dim. Think you I love his virtues? I love him. But yet you judge men wrongly, for believe me. And then laugh once again, and so forgive me. If at the first I feared what you might do, my doubts were not of Gawain, but of you. And so both waft, and for a little space, folded each other in a glad embrace. For fairies, bathed the whole year round in bliss, may yet be gladdened by a fair maid's kiss. An elven heart spoke on, Do what you will. I trust you with my all, and fair no ill. I tell my friend to wait for long, long year. To keep my heart in silence, not to hear. The words my whole soul hungers for, nor to say. One syllable to brighten his dark day. Must it be so, my queen? And how long shall I? School eyes and lips to arc this year-long lie. From the dear teacher guardian of my youth, the only ways I learned, or ways of truth. I tried my skill this night, and learned to know, that there are deeps below the deeps of woe. The hearts may be bruised and broken, yet still live. The wounds that kill us are the wounds we give. And so these two talked on, until the night began to shiver with the great on's light. And in the deep-dyed casement they might see, new life flushed through old dreams of chivalry. And then they parted, what the queen had said. I know not, but the lady, comforted, bade farewell with calm voice and tranquil eyes, and saw with newborn strength the new sun rise. Perhaps in fairyland their chance to be, for them that grieve some sovereign alchemy, to turn the worst to best, and the good queen, applied this soothing balm. Such things have been. But yet I doubt if any fairy art was needed in the case of Ofenheart, the medicine that charmed away her dull, nature had planted in her own sweet soul. Of all sure things, this thing I'm surest of. That the best cure for love's own ills is love. End of Canto II. Recording by Jerome Lawson March 2008 Canto III of Gawain in the Green Night This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jerome Lawson April 2008 Gawain in the Green Night A Fairy Tale by Charlton Miner Lewis Canto III Gawain O Muse, but no! Heaven knows I need a Muse. But which of all the nine, pray, should I choose? Thalia, Cleo, and Melpomani. I love them all, but none, alas, loves me. For if you want a Muse to take your part, you must be solely hers with all your heart. And I have mingled since my earliest youth, my smiles and tears, my fictions and my truth. Nay, in this very tale, scarce yet half done, I've courted all the nine, and so one none. Not for me, therefore, the Parnassian liar, or winged war-horse shod with heavenly fire. Harsh numbers flow from throats whose thirst is being. A whole life long, unslaked of hypocrene. But I will even go on as best I can, and let this story end as it begin. A plain, straightforward man's unvarnished word, part sad, part sweet, and part of it absurd. A year passed by, as years are want to do, winter and spring, summer and autumn too, till mid-December's flaw-blown flakes of snow, warned Gawain that the time was come to go, to the green chapel by the murmuring mirror, and take again the blow he gave last year. In the great court his chargers stamped the ground, while knights and weeping ladies thronged around, to arm him, as the custom was of yore, and bid him sad farewell for evermore. One face alone in all that bustling throng, our hero's eyes sought eagerly and long. Sought vainly, for the lady Elfenheart, debating with herself, stood yet apart. But as Gawain gathered up his reins, and bade the drawbridge warden loose the chains, suddenly Elfenheart stood by his side. Her fair face flushed with love and joy and pride. She plucked a spig of holly from her gown, and looked up, questioning, as he leaned down. And so she placed it in his helm, no word. Might Gawain's lips then utter, but he heard, the voice that was his music, and could feel, the touch of gentle fingers through the steel. Where this, sir Gawain, for a loyal friend, whose hopes and prayers go with you to the end. And staying not for answer, she withdrew, and in the throng was lost to Gawain's view. He roused himself, and waving high his hand, struck spur, and so rode off toward Fairyland. Long time he traveled by an unknown way, unhoused at night, companionless by day. The cold sleet stung him through his shirt of mail, but underneath his stout heart would not fail. But beat full measure through the fiercest storm, and kept his head clear, and his brave soul warm. No need to tell the perils that he passed. He conquered all, and came unscathed at last, to where a high embattled castle stood, deep in the heart of a dense willow wood. And Gawain called aloud, and to the gate, a smiling porter came, who opened straight, and bade him enter in and take his rest. And Gawain entered, and the people pressed, about him with fair speeches, and he laid, his armor off, and gave it to them, and prayed, that they would take his message to their Lord. Prayer for friendly shelter, bed, and board. He told them whence he was, his birth, and name, and the bold barren of the castle came. A mighty man, huge limbed, with flashing eyes, and welcomed him with old-time courtesies. For manners in those days were held of worth, and gentle breeding went with gentle birth. He heartily was glad his guest had come, and made Sir Gawain feel himself at home. And as they walked in, side by side each knew, the other for an honest man and true. That night our hero and the barren ate, a sumptuous dinner in the Hall of State. And all the household, ranged along the board, made good cheer with Sir Gawain and their Lord, and passed the brimming bowl right merrily, with friendly banter, and quick repartee. And Gawain asked if they had chance to hear of a green chapel by a murmuring mirror. And straightway all grew grave, within his breast, Sir Gawain felt a tremor of unrest. But told his story with a gay outside, and asked for some good man to be his guide. To find his foe, I promise him, said he, no golden girdon, his reward shall be, the consciousness that unto him was given, to show a parting soul the way to heaven. Up jumped his host, my friend, I like your attitude, and know no sure way to win heaven's gratitude. Then sending Vither, just such men as you, I'll be your guide, but since you are not due, at the green chapel till three nights from now, and since the way is short, I'll tell you how. The interim may be disposed of best. In short, let me propose a merry jest. At this Sir Gawain gave a sudden start. For some old memory seemed to clutch his heart, and in the barren's eyes he seemed to see, a twinkling gleam of green benignity. Not wholly strange, but like a flash was gone. Gawain sank back, and his good host went on. Two days you sojourn here, and while I take, my daily hunting in the wood you make, my house and castle yours, and then each night, we'll meet together here at Cundlelight. And all my winnings in the wood and all that comes to you at home, whatever before, we'll give each other in exchange, in fine. My fortune shall be yours, and yours be mine. To Gawain this seemed generous indeed, and with most cordial laughter he agreed. They clasped hands over the bargain with good zest, and then all said good night, and went to rest. Next morning Gawain was awakened early, from a deep slumber by the hurly burly, of footmen, horsemen, seneshall, and groom, bursting beneath the windows of his room. He rose and looked out, just in time to see, the barren and a goodly company, of huntsmen armed with crossbow, axe, and spear, ride through the castle gate and disappear. And then, while Gawain dressed, there came a knock upon his chamber door. He threw the lock, and a boy-page brought robes of ermine fur, and tarsic silk, black, white, and lavender, for his array, and with them a kind message, which the good night received with no ill-pressage. Will brave sir Gawain spare an idle hour, for quiet converse in my lady's bower? The boy led on, and Gawain followed him, through crooked corridors and archways dim, along low galleries, echoing from afar. And down a winding stair, then, here we are! The page cried cheerily, and paused before, the massive carvings of an antique door. This he swung open, and the night passed through, into a garden, fresh with summer dew. A lady's bower in fairyland, what pen, could make that strange enchantment live again? Not he who drew a craziest bower of bliss. And Fidra's happy isle could picture this, that sweet soul Puritan discerned too well, the serpent's coil behind the witch's spell. And he who saw, when the dark veil was torn, the rose of paradise without the thorn, sublimest prophet, whose immortal verse, lent mightier thunders to the primal curse. Even he too sternly, in the soul's defense, repressed the still importunate cries of sense. Bid me not, therefore, task my feebler pen, with dreams beyond the limits of their ken. The phantom conjurings of the magic hour, the Gawain passed in that enchanted bower, must be from mortal eyes forever hid. But yet some part of what he felt and did, these lines must needs disclose. As he stood there, breathing soft odours from the mellow air, all hopes, all aims of nighthood seemed, like the dim yesterdays of one who dreamed, in starless caves of memory, sung in deep, and like lost music, folded in strange sleep. How long, O mortal man, wilt thou give heed, to the world's phantom voices, the hour's speed, and fame and fortune yield to moth and rust, and good and evil crumble into dust? Even now the sands are running in the glass. Set not your heart upon vain things that pass. Ambitions, honours, toils, are but the snare, where lurks for eye, the blind old world's despair. Nay, quiet the bootless striving in your breast, and let your tired heart here at last find rest. In vain have joy, love, beauty struck deep root. In your heart's heart, unless you pluck the fruit, then put away the cheating souls pretense, heap high the press, fill full the cup of scents, shatter the idols of blind yesterday, and let love, joy, and beauty reign all way. Such thoughts as these, confused and unexpressed, flooded the silence in Sir Gawain's breast. Meanwhile a brazier filled the scented air, with wreaths of magic mist, and he was where, that the mist drew together like a shroud. And then the veil was rent, and in the cloud stood one who seemed, in features, form and dress, the perfect image of all loveliness. The wonders of that vision none could tell, save one whose heart had felt the mystic spell. Once and once only, in the golden days, when youth made melody for love's sweet lays. In two dark eyes, yet oh, how bright, how bright! I saw the wakening rapture of love's light, and in the hush of that still dawning herd, from two sweet trembling lips, love's whispered word. The twilight deepens when the sun is set, in memory golden glories linger yet, but these avail not, though my soul lay bare, with all those memories sanctuary there. That spell was human, but the unseen power that wove the witchery of this very bower. In Gawain's heart such subtle magic wrought, that past and future were well-knife forgot, and all that earth holds else, or heaven above, seem not worth keeping, save this dream of love. And now, as the strange cloud of incense broke, the vision, if it were a vision, spoke. If it were speech that filled the quivering air, with low harmonious music, let no one dare. In the rude jargons of this world the fashion, that sweet wild anthem of unearthly passion. Could I, from the broad billowing ocean borrow, of Tristan's love, and of his old sorrow, the flood of those world-darkening surges wrought, with thoughts that lie beyond the reach of thought, might bring me succor where weak words must fail. But Gawain saw unheard, and passion pale, shrank back, and made a darkness of his face. As though the unplumbed depths of starless space could quench those lustrous eyes, or close his ears, to the eternal music of love's spheres. But the voice changed, and Gawain, listening there, heard now a heart's low cry of wild despair. He turned again, and lo, the vision knelt, and drew a jeweled poneyard from her belt, to arm herself against her own dear life. But as she bared her white breast in the knife, he started quickly forward, and he grasped. The hand that held the hilt, and then she clasped, her soft arms round his neck, and as their lips met in the shadowing fold of love's eclipse, all earth, all heaven, all nightly hopes of grace, died in the darkness of one blind embrace. Died? Nay, for Gawain ere the moment passed, broke from the arms that strove to bind him fast, and turned away once more, and as he pressed, a trembling hand against his throbbing breast, his aimless fingers touched a treasured part of the green holly branch of Elfenhard, laid in his breast when he put off his arms. What perils now are left in fairy charms? For poets fable when they call love blind, love's habitation is the purer mind. Once with his keen eyes he may penetrate, all mists and fogs that baser spells create. Love? What is love? Not the wild feverish thrill, when heart to heart the thronging pulses fill, and lips that close in parching kisses find, no speech but those, the best remains behind. The tranquil spirit, the divine assurance, that this life seemings have a high endurance, thoughts that allay this restless striving, calm, the passionate heart, and fill the old wounds with balm, these are the choirs invisible that move, in white processionals of the aisles of love. Such love was Gawain's, love that sanctifies the heart's most secret altar, and his eyes, their old true rhythm, and so the strife was o'er, and all the perilous wiles of magic art were foiled by Gawain, and by Elfenhard. But time flies, and tortidious to delay, my song for all the trials of that day, light summer breezes scurrying over the deep, ripple in foam and flash, then sink to sleep. But underneath, serene and changing never, the mighty heart of ocean beats forever, and his deep streams renew from pole to pole, the living world's indomitable soul, even then of the spells that vexed the brain, of Gawain, love and knighthood made all vain. And in the afternoon, when Gawain learned that his good host, the Baron, had returned, he met him in the hall at Candlelight, according to his promise of last night, and then the Baron motioned to a page, and straightway six tall men of lusty age, and mighty sinews entered the great door, bearing the carcass of a huge wild boar, in all its uncouth ugliness complete, and dropped it quivering at our hero's feet. What do you say to that, Ser Gawain? cried the Baron, swelling with true sportsman's pride. But come, your promise now of yester eve, it is blesseder to give than to receive. Though I'll be sworn you'll find it hard to pay, full value for the winnings of this day. Not so, said Gawain. You will rest my debtor. Your gift is good, but mine will be far better. And then he strode with solemn steps along, the echoing hall, and through the listening throng, and with the words, my noble lord, take this. He gave the Baron a resounding kiss. The Baron jumped up in ecstatic glee. Now, by my great crownsire's beard, quathi, better than all dead boars and christened them, is one sweet loving kiss. Whence did it come? Nay there, Ser Gawain said, you step beyond, the terms we stipulated in our bond. Take you my kiss in peace, as are your boar. Be glad, give thanks, and seek to know no more. Loud laughter made the Baron's eyes grow bright, and glitter with green sparkles of delight. And then he chuckled, Sir, I'm proud of you. I'll drink all best of health. I think you'll do. And now the board was laid and dressed, and all, sat down to dinner at the Baron's call. And Gawain looked along the room ascance, seeking the lady, and he caught one glance, of laughing eyes, then looked away in haste. But turned again, and wondered why his taste had erred so strangely, for the lady seemed not fairer now than others. Had he dreamed? He rubbed his eyes and pondered, though ensued, without one glimmering presage of the truth, till all passed lightly from his puzzled mind, leaving contentment and good cheer behind. So all the company feasted well, and sped, the flying hours, till it was time for bed. One whole day longer must our hero rest, with indoors, to fulfill the merry jest. So when next morning Gawain once more heard, the hunts up in the court he never stirred. But let the merry horseman ride away, while he slept soundly well into the day. Later he rose, and strolled from room to room, through vaulted twilight of ancestral gloom, until, descending a long stair he found, the dim lit castle crypt, deep underground, where sculpture to effigies forever kept, their long last marble silence as they slept, and iron sentinels on bended knees held eyeless vigil in old panoplies. Sir Gawain, wandering on in aimless mood, pondered the tombstone legends, quaint and rude, wherein the pensive dreamer might divine, a tragic history in every line. For so does fate, with bitterest irony, epitomize fame's immortality, perpetuating for all after days mute lamentations and unnoted praise. And Gawain, reading here and there the story, of fame obscure and unremembered glory, found on a tablet these words, where he lies, the gray wave breaks, and the wild sea-mule flies. If any be that loved him, seek not here, but in the hills by the murmuring mirror, a nameless cenotaph, perhaps of one, like Gawain's self-deluded and undone, by the green stranger, and the legend brought, a tide of passion flooding Gawain's thought. A flood tide, not of fear, for Gawain's breast, shrank never at the perilous behest, of noble knighthood, but the love of life, compassion, and soul-sickness of the strife. If any be that loved him, oh, to die, far from green-sworded camelot and lie, among these bleak and barren hills alone, his end unwept for, and his grave unknown, never again to see the sunrise, that brightened all his world in those dear eyes. Half suffocating in the charnaled air of that low vault, he staggered up the stair, out of the dim, lit halls of silent death, into the living light, and drew quick breath, where, through a casement arch of ivied stone, bright from the clear blue sky, the warm sun shone, the whole of life's glad rapture thrilled his heart, till a quick step behind him made him start. And there, deep veiled, in muffling cloken hood, once more the lady of the castle stood. Low voiced, she spoke, as if with studied care, weighing the syllables of her parting prayer. Gawain, nay, I pray you, ten not yet, but hear me, though my heart may not forget, that once, for one sweet moment you are kind, I come not to recall that to your mind. Between us two, beloved words, I unspoken. Yet ere you go, I pray you, leave some token, that in a long, long years may comfort me, for the dear face I never more shall see. Nay, lady, said the night, I have no gifts, to give you, errant knighthood ever drifts, from shore to shore, by wandering breezes blown, with not save its good name to call its own. In friendship then, I pray you keep for me, my name untarnished in your memory. Ah, sir, she said, my memory bears that name, burnt in with characters of living flame. But though you give me not, I pray you take, this girdle from me, wear it for my sake. Nay, but refuse me not, you little know, its magic power, I had it long ago, from Fairyland, and its encircling charm. Keep skateless him who wears it from all harm. No evil thing can touch him, gird it on, if but to ease my heart when you are gone. She held a plain green girdle in her hand, in outward seeming just a narrow band, of silk, with silver clasps, but in those days, the strangest things were wrought in simplest ways. As Gawain knew full well, and he could see, that all the lady said was verity. He took the girdle, held it, fingered it, then clasped it round his waist to try the fit. Irresolutely dallying with temptation, till conscience grew too weak for inclination. For at the last he threw one wandering glance, out of the casement, and the merry dance, of sparkling sunbeams on the fields of snow, wrought havoc in his wavering heart, and so, repeating to himself one word, life, life, he took the token from the Baron's wife. That evening, when the Baron and our knight met to exchange their gifts at Candlelight, the Baron, looking graver than before, said, Sir, my luck has left me, not a bore. Did we get wind of all this blessed day? I come with empty hands, only to pray. Your pardon? What fortune do you bring? And Gawain answered firmly, not a thing. End of Canto III. Canto IV. Conclusion By noon the next day, Gawain and his host rode side by side along the perilous coast of the grey mirror, from whose unquiet sleep, reverberating murmurs of the deep, startled the still-december's listening air. The Baron, shuddering, pointed seaward. There, he said, yer in, yer out, these voices haunt, that fearful water, heaven knows what they want. Men tell me, and I have no doubt it's true, they are knight's errant whom the green knight slew, who owe unto him the over-bold who dares, adventure near that uncouth monster snares. Quath Gawain, how have you escaped the net? The Baron answered, I, we never met. When I'm about, he seems to shun the place, and where he is, I never show my face. But if we did meet, it would be safe to say, not more than one of us would get away. And then the Baron told tales by the score, about the green knight's quenchless thirst for gore, and kept repeating that no magic charm was proof against the prowess of his arm. At his first blow each vain defense must fall, for he was arch-magician over all. And as from tale to tale the Baron ran, Ser Gawain, had he been another man, would certainly have felt his heart's blood curdle, despite his secret wearing of the girdle. But when the Baron finally suggested, abandoning the venture, and protested, that the whole monstrous business was absurd, Ser Gawain simply said, I gave my word. And when the Baron saw he would not bend, he seemed to lose all patience. Well, my friend, I'll go no further with you, on your head. Shall be your own mad blood when you are dead. Yonder your two-roads fork. Pause there, I pray, and ponder well before you choose your way. One takes the hills, one winds along the way. To come lot this, the other to your grave. Choose the high road, Ser Gawain, shun the danger. Say you were misdirected by a stranger. I swab by all its sacred, I'll not tell. One syllable to a soul. And so farewell. He galloped off without another word, and vanished where the road turned. Gawain heard, long after he had disappeared, the sound, of iron hoofbeats on the frozen ground. Till all died in silence, save those drearer, and hollow voices from the murmuring mirror. But Gawain chose the lower road, and passed. Along the desolate shore, the die was cast. The western skies, as the red sun sank low, cast purple shades across the drifted snow. And Gawain knew that the dread hour had come, for the fulfillment of his martyrdom. And now, from just beyond a jutting hill, came hideous sounds, as of a giant mill, that hisses, roars, and sputters, clicks and clacks. It was the green night, sharpening his axe. And Gawain, coming past the corner, found him, with ghastly, moldering skulls and bones strewn round him, in joyous fury urging the king's steel, against the surface of his grinding wheel. The place was a wild hollow, circled round, with barren hills, and on the bottom ground, stood the green chapel, moss grown, solitary. In sooth, it seemed a devil's mortuary. The green night's back was turned, and he stirred not. Till Gawain hailed him sharply, then he shot. One glance, as when, or head, a living wire, startles the night with flashes of green fire. Then hurried forward, bland as bland could be, and greeted Gawain with green courtesy. Dear sir, I ask a thousand pardons. Pray, forgive me, you are punctual to the day. That's good. Of course I knew you would not fail. How do you do? You look a trifle pale. I trust, with all my heart, you are not ill. Just the cold air. It does blow rather chill. What can I do to cheer you? Let me see. Suppose I brew a cup of hot green tea. You'd rather not? You're pressed for time? Of course. I understand. Then just get off your horse. And all do all I can to expedite. Our little business for you. There. That's right. And know your helmet. Thanks. And if you please, perhaps you'll kindly kneel down on your knees, as I did when I came to Camelot. So, are you all ready? Will you bind the blow? And Gawain said, I will, in such soft notes, as happy bridegrooms utter when their throats are paralyzed with blessed anticipation. What Gawain looked for was decapitation, and then the green knight swung his axe in air. With a loud whir, and Gawain, kneeling there, shrank back an inch, and the green giant stayed, his threatening hand, and with a cold sneer said, You shrink, sir, from the axe. I can't hit true, unless you hold still, as I did for you. You're pardoned, Gawain said, with bated breath. This time I swear to hold still as death. He did so, and the green knight swung again, his axe, and whirled it round his head, and then, pausing a second time, said, Very good. You're holding quite still now. I knew you would. Gawain in anger said, Just if you like, after the blow, tarry no longer, strike. So once again the ponderous axe was raised, but this time down it came, and lightly grazed, sir Gawain's neck. He felt the hot blood flow, and saw red drops that sank deep in the snow. And then he jumped up, faced his foe, and cried, Enough. You owed me one blow, though I died. But be you man, or beast, or devil abhorred, I yield no further. With my mortal sword I do defy you, and if mortal man may hope against, but the green knight began. A low melodious laugh, like running brooks, whose pebbly babble fills the shadowy nooks. Of green-isled woodlands, when the winds are still, my friend, we bear each other no ill will. When first I swung my axe, you showed some fear. I owed you that much for your blow last year. The second time I swung, yet spared your life, that paid you for the kiss you gave my wife. Your wife? My wife, Sir Gawain, t'was my word. And when I swung my weapon for the third, and last time, then I made the red blood spurt, for that green girdle underneath your shirt. You played me false, my friend. And Gawain knelt, once more, and casting off the magic belt. In bitter broken words confessed his shame, and begged the green knight to avenge the name. Of injured knighthood, and with one last blow, to end his guilty life. Nay, nay, not so. The other softly said, be of good cheer. Your fault was small, for all men heard life there. We tempted you, my friend, with all our might, and proved you in good sooth a noble knight. A valetral Joseph, sir, you are. Quath Gawain dryly. Thanks, Lord Patefa. But may I ask you why you play this part? The other said, ask Lady Elfenhardt. He smiled, and from his smile a genial glow, of green midsummer seemed to overflow. Filling with furdeur all that barren place, the warm red blood rushed to Sir Gawain's face. He caught his breath, and in his eager eyes, there shone a sudden flash of dark surmise. And then he stood a long while pondering. But in his breast his heart began to sing. The old, old music, who still echo his role, forever voiceless through the listening soul. He said farewell to his good fairy friend, as in a dream, were real an unreal blend. In phantom unison, and with the light of love to lead him home, rode through the night. Beside the tranquil murmurs of the mirror, and through the silence of the passing year, an earth and sea and starlit sky took part, in the still exaltation of his heart. While all but love and wonder was forgot, until he came to high-towered Camelot. To Camelot he came, and there he found, the good King Arthur and his table round, awaiting his return in anxious doubt. But ere he passed the gates, a mighty shout, rose from the watchman on the outward wall, and bore the tidings to the inmost hall. From every window flaunting flags were flung. From the high battlements brass trumpets sung. And great bells chiming in the topmost tower, peeled salutation to the joyous hour. As Gawain, writing through the callous port, faced the glad throng that filled the palace court, and with this tribute paid to nightly glory, it seems most fitting to conclude my story, and treat me not, dear reader, to impart, further of Gawain, or of Elfenhardt. Let your own fancy round the story out. Whatever way you please, I cannot doubt this equal. But when I, in silent thought, had brought Sir Gawain back to her, and sought, with hand profane to lift the veil behind, whose secret shelter their two hearts enshrined, the mutual covenant of love's mystery, that pure fain would not desecrate it be. But this alone I know, the power that wove, through human lives the warp and woof of love, wrought not in darkness, nor with hand unsure, his fabric must forevermore endure. And hence I doubt not that these two were blessed, as none may be save they who have confessed, allegiance to that mighty spirit's law, and trod his holy ground with reverent awe.