Part 3

All day long and every day, Till his madness pass'd away, I watch'd Ozana as he lay Within the gilded screen.

All my singing moved him not; As I sung my heart grew hot, With the thought of Launcelot Far away, I ween.

So I went a little space From out the chapel, bathed my face In the stream that runs apace By the churchyard wall.

There I pluck'd a faint wild rose, Hard by where the linden grows, Sighing over silver rows Of the lilies tall.

I laid the flower across his mouth; The sparkling drops seem'd good for drouth; He smiled, turn'd round towards the south. Held up a golden tress.

The light smote on it from the west; He drew the covering from his breast, Against his heart that hair he prest; Death him soon will bless.

SIR BORS.

I enter'd by the western door; I saw a knight's helm lying there: I raised my eyes from off the floor, And caught the gleaming of his hair.

I stept full softly up to him; I laid my chin upon his head; I felt him smile; my eyes did swim, I was so glad he was not dead.

I heard Ozana murmur low, 'There comes no sleep nor any love.' But Galahad stoop'd and kiss'd his brow: He shiver'd; I saw his pale lips move.

SIR OZANA.

There comes no sleep nor any love; Ah me! I shiver with delight. I am so weak I cannot move; God move me to thee, dear, to-night! Christ help! I have but little wit: My life went wrong; I see it writ,

'Ozana of the hardy heart, Knight of the Table Round, Pray for his soul, lords, on your part; A good knight he was found.'

Now I begin to fathom it. [_He dies._

SIR BORS.

Galahad sits dreamily; What strange things may his eyes see, Great blue eyes fix'd full on me? On his soul, Lord, have mercy.

SIR GALAHAD.

Ozana, shall I pray for thee? Her cheek is laid to thine; No long time hence, also I see Thy wasted fingers twine

Within the tresses of her hair That shineth gloriously, Thinly outspread in the clear air Against the jasper sea.

SIR PETER HARPDON'S END

SIR PETER HARPDON'S END

_In an English Castle in Poictou._

Sir Peter Harpdon, _a Gascon knight in the English service, and_ John Curzon, _his lieutenant_.

JOHN CURZON.

Of those three prisoners, that before you came We took down at St. John's hard by the mill, Two are good masons; we have tools enough, And you have skill to set them working.

SIR PETER.

So: What are their names?

JOHN CURZON.

Why, Jacques Aquadent, And Peter Plombiere, but,

SIR PETER.

What colour'd hair Has Peter now? has Jacques got bow legs?

JOHN CURZON.

Why, sir, you jest: what matters Jacques' hair, Or Peter's legs to us?

SIR PETER.

O! John, John, John! Throw all your mason's tools down the deep well, Hang Peter up and Jacques; They're no good, We shall not build, man.

JOHN CURZON (_going_).

Shall I call the guard To hang them, sir? and yet, sir, for the tools, We'd better keep them still; sir, fare you well. [_Muttering as he goes._ What have I done that he should jape at me? And why not build? the walls are weak enough, And we've two masons and a heap of tools. [_Goes, still muttering._

SIR PETER.

To think a man should have a lump like that For his lieutenant! I must call him back, Or else, as surely as St. George is dead, He'll hang our friends the masons: here, John! John!

JOHN CURZON.

At your good service, sir.

SIR PETER.

Come now, and talk This weighty matter out; there, we've no stone To mend our walls with, neither brick nor stone.

JOHN CURZON.

There is a quarry, sir, some ten miles off.

SIR PETER.

We are not strong enough to send ten men Ten miles to fetch us stone enough to build. In three hours' time they would be taken or slain, The cursed Frenchmen ride abroad so thick.

JOHN CURZON.

But we can send some villaynes to get stone.

SIR PETER.

Alas! John, that we cannot bring them back, They would go off to Clisson or Sanxere, And tell them we were weak in walls and men, Then down go we; for, look you, times are changed, And now no longer does the country shake At sound of English names; our captains fade From off our muster-rolls. At Lusac bridge I daresay you may even yet see the hole That Chandos beat in dying; far in Spain Pembroke is prisoner; Phelton prisoner here; Manny lies buried in the Charterhouse; Oliver Clisson turn'd these years agone; The Captal died in prison; and, over all, Edward the prince lies underneath the ground, Edward the king is dead, at Westminster The carvers smooth the curls of his long beard. Everything goes to rack--eh! and we too. Now, Curzon, listen; if they come, these French, Whom have I got to lean on here, but you? A man can die but once, will you die then, Your brave sword in your hand, thoughts in your heart Of all the deeds we have done here in France-- And yet may do? So God will have your soul, Whoever has your body.

JOHN CURZON.

Why, sir, I Will fight till the last moment, until then Will do whate'er you tell me. Now I see We must e'en leave the walls; well, well, perhaps They're stronger than I think for; pity, though! For some few tons of stone, if Guesclin comes.

SIR PETER.

Farewell, John, pray you watch the Gascons well, I doubt them.

JOHN CURZON.

Truly, sir, I will watch well. [_Goes._

SIR PETER.

Farewell, good lump! and yet, when all is said, 'Tis a good lump. Why then, if Guesclin comes; Some dozen stones from his petrariae, And, under shelter of his crossbows, just An hour's steady work with pickaxes, Then a great noise--some dozen swords and glaives A-playing on my basnet all at once, And little more cross purposes on earth For me. Now this is hard: a month ago, And a few minutes' talk had set things right 'Twixt me and Alice; if she had a doubt, As, may Heaven bless her! I scarce think she had, 'Twas but their hammer, hammer in her ears, Of how Sir Peter fail'd at Lusac Bridge: And how he was grown moody of late days; And how Sir Lambert, think now! his dear friend, His sweet, dear cousin, could not but confess That Peter's talk tended towards the French, Which he, for instance Lambert, was glad of, Being, Lambert, you see, on the French side. Well, If I could but have seen her on that day, Then, when they sent me off! I like to think, Although it hurts me, makes my head twist, what, If I had seen her, what I should have said, What she, my darling, would have said and done. As thus perchance. To find her sitting there, In the window-seat, not looking well at all, Crying perhaps, and I say quietly: Alice! she looks up, chokes a sob, looks grave, Changes from pale to red, but, ere she speaks, Straightway I kneel down there on both my knees, And say: O lady, have I sinn'd, your knight? That still you ever let me walk alone In the rose garden, that you sing no songs When I am by, that ever in the dance You quietly walk away when I come near? Now that I have you, will you go, think you?

Ere she could answer I would speak again, Still kneeling there. What! they have frighted you, By hanging burs, and clumsily carven puppets, Round my good name; but afterwards, my love, I will say what this means; this moment, see! Do I kneel here, and can you doubt me? Yea: For she would put her hands upon my face: Yea, that is best, yea feel, love, am I changed? And she would say: Good knight, come, kiss my lips! And afterwards as I sat there would say:

Please a poor silly girl by telling me What all those things they talk of really were, For it is true you did not help Chandos, And true, poor love! you could not come to me When I was in such peril. I should say: I am like Balen, all things turn to blame. I did not come to you? At Bergerath The constable had held us close shut up, If from the barriers I had made three steps, I should have been but slain; at Lusac, too, We struggled in a marish half the day, And came too late at last: you know, my love, How heavy men and horses are all arm'd. All that Sir Lambert said was pure, unmix'd, Quite groundless lies; as you can think, sweet love.

She, holding tight my hand as we sat there, Started a little at Sir Lambert's name, But otherwise she listen'd scarce at all To what I said. Then with moist, weeping eyes, And quivering lips, that scarcely let her speak, She said: I love you. Other words were few, The remnant of that hour; her hand smooth'd down My foolish head; she kiss'd me all about My face, and through the tangles of my beard Her little fingers crept!

O God, my Alice, Not this good way: my lord but sent and said That Lambert's sayings were taken at their worth, Therefore that day I was to start, and keep This hold against the French; and I am here: [_Looks out of the window._ A sprawling lonely garde with rotten walls, And no one to bring aid if Guesclin comes, Or any other. There's a pennon now! At last. But not the constable's: whose arms, I wonder, does it bear? Three golden rings On a red ground; my cousin's by the rood! Well, I should like to kill him, certainly, But to be kill'd by him: [_A trumpet sounds._ That's for a herald; I doubt this does not mean assaulting yet.

_Enter_ John Curzon.

What says the herald of our cousin, sir?

JOHN CURZON.

So please you, sir, concerning your estate, He has good will to talk with you.

SIR PETER.

Outside, I'll talk with him, close by the gate St. Ives. Is he unarm'd?

JOHN CURZON.

Yea, sir, in a long gown.

SIR PETER.

Then bid them bring me hither my furr'd gown With the long sleeves, and under it I'll wear, By Lambert's leave, a secret coat of mail; And will you lend me, John, your little axe? I mean the one with Paul wrought on the blade? And I will carry it inside my sleeve, Good to be ready always; you, John, go And bid them set up many suits of arms, Bows, archgays, lances, in the base-court, and Yourself, from the south postern setting out, With twenty men, be ready to break through Their unguarded rear when I cry out, St. George!

JOHN CURZON.

How, sir! will you attack him unawares, And slay him unarm'd?

SIR PETER.

Trust me, John, I know The reason why he comes here with sleeved gown, Fit to hide axes up. So, let us go. [_They go._

_Outside the castle by the great gate;_ Sir Lambert _and_ Sir Peter _seated; guards attending each, the rest of_ Sir Lambert's _men drawn up about a furlong off._

SIR PETER.

And if I choose to take the losing side Still, does it hurt you?

SIR LAMBERT.

O! no hurt to me; I see you sneering, Why take trouble then, Seeing you love me not? Look you, our house (Which, taken altogether, I love much) Had better be upon the right side now, If, once for all, it wishes to bear rule As such a house should: cousin, you're too wise To feed your hope up fat, that this fair France Will ever draw two ways again; this side The French, wrong-headed, all a-jar With envious longings; and the other side The order'd English, orderly led on By those two Edwards through all wrong and right, And muddling right and wrong to a thick broth With that long stick, their strength. This is all changed, The true French win, on either side you have Cool-headed men, good at a tilting match, And good at setting battles in array, And good at squeezing taxes at due time; Therefore by nature we French being here Upon our own big land: [_Sir Peter laughs aloud._ Well, Peter! well! What makes you laugh?

SIR PETER.

Hearing you sweat to prove All this I know so well; but you have read The siege of Troy?

SIR LAMBERT.

O! yea, I know it well.

SIR PETER.

There! they were wrong, as wrong as men could be For, as I think, they found it such delight To see fair Helen going through their town; Yea, any little common thing she did (As stooping to pick a flower) seem'd so strange, So new in its great beauty, that they said: Here we will keep her living in this town, Till all burns up together. And so, fought, In a mad whirl of knowing they were wrong; Yea, they fought well, and ever, like a man That hangs legs off the ground by both his hands, Over some great height, did they struggle sore, Quite sure to slip at last; wherefore, take note How almost all men, reading that sad siege, Hold for the Trojans; as I did at least, Thought Hector the best knight a long way: Now Why should I not do this thing that I think; For even when I come to count the gains, I have them my side: men will talk, you know (We talk of Hector, dead so long agone,) When I am dead, of how this Peter clung To what he thought the right; of how he died, Perchance, at last, doing some desperate deed Few men would care do now, and this is gain To me, as ease and money is to you. Moreover, too, I like the straining game Of striving well to hold up things that fall; So one becomes great. See you! in good times All men live well together, and you, too, Live dull and happy: happy? not so quick, Suppose sharp thoughts begin to burn you up? Why then, but just to fight as I do now, A halter round my neck, would be great bliss. O! I am well off. [_Aside._ Talk, and talk, and talk, I know this man has come to murder me, And yet I talk still.

SIR LAMBERT.

If your side were right, You might be, though you lost; but if I said, 'You are a traitor, being, as you are, Born Frenchman.' What are Edwards unto you, Or Richards?

SIR PETER.

Nay, hold there, my Lambert, hold! For fear your zeal should bring you to some harm, Don't call me traitor.

SIR LAMBERT.

Furthermore, my knight, Men call you slippery on your losing side, When at Bordeaux I was ambassador, I heard them say so, and could scarce say: Nay. [_He takes hold of something in his sleeve, and rises._

SIR PETER, _rising_.

They lied: and you lie, not for the first time. What have you got there, fumbling up your sleeve, A stolen purse?

SIR LAMBERT.

Nay, liar in your teeth! Dead liar too; St. Denis and St. Lambert! [_Strikes at_ Sir Peter _with a dagger_.

SIR PETER, _striking him flatlings with his axe_.

How thief! thief! thief! so there, fair thief, so there, St. George Guienne! glaives for the castellan! You French, you are but dead, unless you lay Your spears upon the earth. St. George Guienne!

Well done, John Curzon, how he has them now.

_In the Castle._

JOHN CURZON.

What shall we do with all these prisoners, sir?

SIR PETER.

Why, put them all to ransom, those that can Pay anything, but not too light though, John, Seeing we have them on the hip: for those That have no money, that being certified, Why, turn them out of doors before they spy; But bring Sir Lambert guarded unto me.

JOHN CURZON.

I will, fair sir. [_He goes._

SIR PETER.

I do not wish to kill him, Although I think I ought; he shall go mark'd, By all the saints, though! _Enter_ Lambert _guarded_. Now, Sir Lambert, now! What sort of death do you expect to get, Being taken this way?

SIR LAMBERT.

Cousin! cousin! think! I am your own blood; may God pardon me! I am not fit to die; if you knew all, All I have done since I was young and good. O! you would give me yet another chance, As God would, that I might wash all clear out, By serving you and Him. Let me go now! And I will pay you down more golden crowns Of ransom than the king would!

SIR PETER.

Well, stand back, And do not touch me! No, you shall not die, Nor yet pay ransom. You, John Curzon, cause Some carpenters to build a scaffold, high, Outside the gate; when it is built, sound out To all good folks, 'Come, see a traitor punish'd!' Take me my knight, and set him up thereon, And let the hangman shave his head quite clean, And cut his ears off close up to the head; And cause the minstrels all the while to play Soft music, and good singing; for this day Is my high day of triumph; is it not, Sir Lambert?

SIR LAMBERT.

Ah! on your own blood, Own name, you heap this foul disgrace? you dare, With hands and fame thus sullied, to go back And take the lady Alice?

SIR PETER.

Say her name Again, and you are dead, slain here by me. Why should I talk with you? I'm master here, And do not want your schooling; is it not My mercy that you are not dangling dead There in the gateway with a broken neck?

SIR LAMBERT.

Such mercy! why not kill me then outright? To die is nothing; but to live that all May point their fingers! yea, I'd rather die.

JOHN CURZON.

Why, will it make you any uglier man To lose your ears? they're much too big for you, You ugly Judas!

SIR PETER.

Hold, John! [_To_ Lambert. That's your choice, To die, mind! Then you shall die: Lambert mine, I thank you now for choosing this so well, It saves me much perplexity and doubt; Perchance an ill deed too, for half I count This sparing traitors is an ill deed. Well, Lambert, die bravely, and we're almost friends.

SIR LAMBERT, _grovelling_.

O God! this is a fiend and not a man; Will some one save me from him? help, help, help! I will not die.

SIR PETER.

Why, what is this I see? A man who is a knight, and bandied words So well just now with me, is lying down, Gone mad for fear like this! So, so, you thought You knew the worst, and might say what you pleased. I should have guess'd this from a man like you. Eh! righteous Job would give up skin for skin, Yea, all a man can have for simple life, And we talk fine, yea, even a hound like this, Who needs must know that when he dies, deep hell Will hold him fast for ever, so fine we talk, 'Would rather die,' all that. Now sir, get up! And choose again: shall it be head sans ears, Or trunk sans head? John Curzon, pull him up! What, life then? go and build the scaffold, John. Lambert, I hope that never on this earth We meet again; that you'll turn out a monk, And mend the life I give you, so farewell, I'm sorry you're a rascal. John, despatch.

_In the French camp before the Castle._

Sir Peter _prisoner_, Guesclin, Clisson, Sir Lambert.

SIR PETER.

So now is come the ending of my life; If I could clear this sickening lump away That sticks in my dry throat, and say a word, Guesclin might listen.

GUESCLIN.

Tell me, fair sir knight, If you have been clean liver before God, And then you need not fear much; as for me, I cannot say I hate you, yet my oath, And cousin Lambert's ears here clench the thing.

SIR PETER.

I knew you could not hate me, therefore I Am bold to pray for life; 'twill harm your cause To hang knights of good name, harms here in France I have small doubt, at any rate hereafter Men will remember you another way Than I should care to be remember'd, ah! Although hot lead runs through me for my blood, All this falls cold as though I said, Sweet lords, Give back my falcon! See how young I am, Do you care altogether more for France, Say rather one French faction, than for all The state of Christendom? a gallant knight, As (yea, by God!) I have been, is more worth Than many castles; will you bring this death, For a mere act of justice, on my head?

Think how it ends all, death! all other things Can somehow be retrieved, yea, send me forth Naked and maimed, rather than slay me here; Then somehow will I get me other clothes, And somehow will I get me some poor horse, And, somehow clad in poor old rusty arms, Will ride and smite among the serried glaives, Fear not death so; for I can tilt right well, Let me not say I could; I know all tricks, That sway the sharp sword cunningly; ah you, You, my Lord Clisson, in the other days Have seen me learning these, yea, call to mind, How in the trodden corn by Chartres town, When you were nearly swooning from the back Of your black horse, those three blades slid at once From off my sword's edge; pray for me, my lord!

CLISSON.

Nay, this is pitiful, to see him die. My Lord the Constable, I pray you note That you are losing some few thousand crowns By slaying this man; also think: his lands Along the Garonne river lie for leagues, And are right rich, a many mills he has, Three abbeys of grey monks do hold of him: Though wishing well for Clement, as we do, I know the next heir, his old uncle, well, Who does not care two deniers for the knight As things go now, but slay him, and then see, How he will bristle up like any perch, With curves of spears. What! do not doubt, my lord, You'll get the money, this man saved my life, And I will buy him for two thousand crowns; Well, five then: eh! what! No again? well then, Ten thousand crowns?

GUESCLIN.

My sweet lord, much I grieve I cannot please you, yea, good sooth, I grieve This knight must die, as verily he must; For I have sworn it, so men take him out, Use him not roughly.

SIR LAMBERT, _coming forward_.