GUINEVERE. QUEEN GUINEVERE had fled the court, and sat There in the holy house at Almesbury Weeping, none with her save a little maid, A novice one low light betwixt them burn'd Blurr'd by the creeping mist, for all abroad, Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full, The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face, Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still. For hither had she fled, her cause of flight Sir Modred; he the nearest to the King, Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne, Q He chill'd the popular praises of the King With silent smiles of slow disparagement; And tamper'd with the Lords of the White Horse, Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds For thus it chanced one morn when all the court, Green-suited, but with plumes that mock'd the may, Had been, their wont, a-maying and return'd, That Modred still in green, all ear and eye, Climb'd to the high top of the garden-wall To spy some secret scandal if he might, And saw the Queen who sat betwixt her best Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court The wiliest and the worst; and more than this He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by Spied where he couch'd, and as the gardener's hand Picks from the colewort a green caterpillar, So from the high wall and the flowering grove Of grasses Lancelot pluck'd him by the heel, And cast him as a worm upon the way; But when he knew the Prince tho' marr'd with dust, Full knightly without scorn; for in those days By those whom God had made full-limb'd and tall, And he was answer'd softly by the King And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp To raise the Prince who rising, twice or thrice Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, and went : But, ever after, the small violence done Rankled in him and ruffled all his heart, As the sharp wind that ruffles all day long A little bitter pool about a stone On the bare coast. But when Sir Lancelot told This matter to the Queen, at first she laugh'd Henceforward rarely could she front in Hall, Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eye : Henceforward too, the Powers that tend the soul, To help it from the death that cannot die, And save it even in extremes, began To vex and plague her. Many a time for hours, Beside the placid breathings of the King, In the dead night, grim faces came and went Before her, or a vague spiritual fear— Like to some doubtful noise of creaking doors, And from the sun there swiftly made at her When lo! her own, that broadening from her feet, Became her bane; and at the last she said, 'O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine own land, For if thou tarry we shall meet again, And if we meet again, some evil chance Will make the smouldering scandal break and blaze |