And there against them riding came Fleet as the lightning’s laugh and flame The invisible evil, even the same They sought and might not curse by name As hell’s foul child on earth set free, And smote the strange knight through, and fled, And left the mourners by the dead. “Alas, again,” Sir Balen said, “This wrong he hath done to me.”
And there they laid their dead to sleep Royally, lying where wild winds keep Keen watch and wail more soft and deep Than where men’s choirs bid music weep And song like incense heave and swell. And forth again they rode, and found Before them, dire in sight and sound, A castle girt about and bound With sorrow like a spell.
Above it seemed the sun at noon Sad as a wintry withering moon That shudders while the waste wind’s tune Craves ever none may guess what boon, But all may know the boon for dire. And evening on its darkness fell More dark than very death’s farewell, And night about it hung like hell, Whose fume the dawn made fire.
And Balen lighted down and passed Within the gateway, whence no blast Rang as the sheer portcullis, cast Suddenly down, fell, and made fast The gate behind him, whence he spied A sudden rage of men without And ravin of a murderous rout That girt the maiden hard about With death on either side.
And seeing that shame and peril, fear Bade wrath and grief awake and hear What shame should say in fame’s wide ear If she, by sorrow sealed more dear Than joy might make her, so should die: And up the tower’s curled stair he sprang As one that flies death’s deadliest fang, And leapt right out amid their gang As fire from heaven on high.
And they thereunder seeing the knight Unhurt among their press alight And bare his sword for chance of fight Stood from him, loth to strive or smite, And bade him hear their woful word, That not the maiden’s death they sought; But there through years too dire for thought Had lain their lady stricken, and nought Might heal her: and he heard.
For there a maiden clean and whole In virgin body and virgin soul, Whose name was writ on royal roll, That would but stain a silver bowl With offering of her stainless blood, Therewith might heal her: so they stayed For hope’s sad sake each blameless maid There journeying in that dolorous shade Whose bloom was bright in bud.