Then anger in the good King's gloomy eye Glowed, instant-embered, as one oft may see A star blaze up in heaven, then cease to be. Slow from his visage he his visor raised, And on the dying knight a moment gazed; Then grimly said, "Look on me, Accolon! I am thy King!" He, with an awful groan, Blade-battered as he was, beheld and knew; Strained to his tottering knees; and, gasping, drew Up full his armored height and hoarsely cried, "The King!" and at his mailed feet crashed and died.
Then came a world of anxious faces, pressed About King Arthur; who, though sore distressed, Bespake that multitude: "While breath and power Remain, judge we these brothers: This hard hour Hath given to Damas all this rich estate: So it is his; allotted his by fate And force of arms. So let it be to him. For, stood our oath on knighthood not so slim But that it hath this strong conclusiön. This much by us as errant knight is done.-- Now our decree, as King of Britain, hear: We do command Earl Damas to appear No more upon our shores, or any isles Of farthest Britain in its many miles. One week be his, no more! then will we come, Even with an iron host, to seal his doom: If he be not departed overseas, With all his men and all his outlawries, From his own towers, around which sea-birds clang, Alive and naked shall he starve and hang And rot! vile food for kites and carrion crows. Thus much for him!... But all our favor goes Toward Sir Ontzlake, whom it likes the King To take into his knightly following Of the Round Table. Bear to him our word. But I am over weary. Take my sword.-- Unharness me, for more and more I tire; And all my wounds are so much aching fire. Yea; help me hence. To-morrow I would fain To Glastonbury and with me the slain." So bore they then the wounded King away, The dead behind, as closed the autumn day.
But when, within that abbey, he waxed strong, The King, remembering the marauder wrong Which Damas had inflicted on that land, Commanded Lionell, with a stanch band, To stamp this weed out if still rooted there. He, riding thither to that robber lair, Led Arthur's hopefulest helms, when, thorn on thorn, Reddened an hundred spears one winter morn: And found--a ruin of fire-blackened rock, Of tottering towers, that shook to every shock Of the wild waves; and loomed above the bents Turrets and cloudy-clustered battlements, Wailing with wind that swept those clamorous lands: Above the foam, that climbed with haling hands, Desolate and gaunt; reflected in the flats; Hollow and huge, the haunt of owls and bats.