"May God deliver you in mercy, sirs, And help us all!" said Arthur. At which word Straightway a groaning sound of iron was heard, Of chains rushed loose and bolts jarred rusty back, And hoarse the gate croaked open; and the black Of that rank cell astonished was with light, That danced fantastic with the frantic night. One high torch, sidewise worried by the gust, Sunned that dark den of hunger, death and dust; And one tall damsel, vaguely vestured, fair, With shadowy hair, poised on the rocky stair: And laughing on the King, "What cheer?" said she. "God's life! the keep stinks vilely! And to see Such noble knights endungeoned, starving here, Doth pain me sore with pity. But, what cheer?" "Thou mockest us. For me, the sorriest Since I was suckled; and of any quest This is the most imperiling and strange.-- But what wouldst thou?" said Arthur. She, "A change I offer thee; through thee to these with thee, If thou wilt promise, in love's courtesy, To fight for Damas and his brotherhood. And if thou wilt not--look! behold this brood Of lean and dwindled bellies, spectre-eyed,-- Keen knights once,--who refused me. So decide." Then thought the King of the sweet sky, the breeze That blew delirious over waves and trees; Thick fields of grasses and the sunny Earth, Whose beating heat filled the high heart with mirth, And made the world one sovereign pleasure-house Where king and serf might revel and carouse: Then of the hunt on autumn-plaintive hills; Lone forest lodges by their radiant rills; His palace at Caerleon upon Usk, And Camelot's loud halls that through the dusk Blazed far and bloomed, a rose of revelry; Or, in the misty morning, shadowy Loomed, grave with audience. And then he thought Of his Round Table, and the Grael wide sought In haunted holds by many a haunted shore. Then marveled of what wars would rise and roar With dragon heads unconquered and devour This realm of Britain and crush out that flower Of chivalry whence ripened his renown: And then the reign of some besotted crown, Some bandit king of lust, idolatry-- And with that thought for tears he could not see.-- Then of his best-loved champions, King Ban's son, And Galahad and Tristram, Accolon: And then, ah God! of his loved Guenevere: And with that thought--to starve 'mid horrors here!-- For, being unfriend to Arthur and his Court, Well knew he this grim Earl would bless that sport Of fortune which had fortuned him so well As t' have his King to starve within a cell, In the entombing rock beside the deep.-- And all the life, large in his limbs, did leap Through eager veins and sinews, fierce and red, Stung on to action; and he rose and said: "That which thou askest is right hard, but, lo! To rot here, harder. I will fight his foe. But, mark, I have no weapons and no mail; No steed against that other to avail."