"Yea," said the king, "too high of heart To stand before a king thou art;Yet irks it me to bid thee part And take thy penance for thy part, That God may put upon thy pride."
Then Balen took the severed head And toward his hostry turned and sped As one that knew not quick from dead Nor good from evil tide.
He bade his squire before him stand And take that sanguine spoil in hand And bear it far by shore and strand Till all in glad Northumberland That loved him, seeing it, all might know His deadliest foe was dead, and hear How free from prison as from fear He dwelt in trust of the answering year To bring him weal for woe.
"And tell them, now I take my way To meet in battle, if I may, King Ryons of North Wales, and slay That king of kernes whose fiery sway Doth all the marches dire despite That serve King Arthur: so shall he Again be gracious lord to me, And I that leave thee meet with thee Once more in Arthur's sight."
So spake he ere they parted, nor Took shame or fear to counsellor, As one whom none laid ambush for;And wist not how Sir Launceor, The wild king's son of Ireland, hot And high in wrath to know that one Stood higher in fame before the sun, Even Balen, since the sword was won, Drew nigh from Camelot.
For thence, in heat of hate and pride, As one that man might bid not bide, He craved the high king's grace to ride On quest of Balen far and wide And wreak the wrong his wrath had wrought.
"Yea," Arthur said, "for such despite Was done me never in my sight As this thine hand shall now requite If trust avail us aught."
But ere he passed, in eager mood To feed his hate with bitter food, Before the king's face Merlin stood And heard his tale of ill and good, Of Balen, and the sword achieved, And whence it smote as heaven's red ire That direful dame of doom as dire;And how the king's wrath turned to fire The grief wherewith he grieved.
And darkening as he gave it ear, The still face of the sacred seer Waxed wan with wrath and not with fear, And ever changed its cloudier cheer Till all his face was very night.
"This damosel that brought the sword,"
He said, "before the king my lord, And all these knights about his board, Hath done them all despite.
"The falsest damosel she is That works men ill on earth, I wis, And all her mind is toward but this, To kill as with a lying kiss Truth, and the life of noble trust.
A brother hath she,--see but now The flame of shame that brands her brow! -A true man, pure as faith's own vow, Whose honour knows not rust.
"This good knight found within her bower A felon and her paramour, And slew him in his shameful hour, As right gave might and righteous power To hands that wreaked so foul a wrong.
Then, for the hate her heart put on, She sought by ways where death had gone The lady Lyle of Avalon, Whose crafts are strange and strong.
"The sorceress, one with her in thought, Gave her that sword of magic, wrought By charms whereof sweet heaven sees nought, That hither girt on her she brought To be by doom her brother's bane.
And grief it is to think how he That won it, being of heart so free And perfect found in chivalry, Shall by that sword lie slain.
Great pity it is and strange despite That one whose eyes are stars to light Honour, and shine as heaven's own height, Should perish, being the goodliest knight That even the all-glorious north has borne.
Nor shall my lord the king behold A lordlier friend of mightier mould Than Balen, though his tale be told Ere noon fulfil his morn."
