Out went the knight, more puzzled than before;42
And out, unsprinkled, flew the Stygian bird;
The bishop rose, and doubly lock'd the door;
His pen he mended, and his fire he stirr'd;
Then solved that problem—"Pons Diaconorum,"
White equals black, plus x y botherorum.
So through the postern stole the troubled knight;43
Still as he rode, from forest, mount, and vale,
Rung lively horns, and in the morning light
Flash'd the sheen banderoll, and the pomp of mail,
The welcome guests of War's blithe festival,
Keen for the feast, and summon'd to the hall.
Curt answer gave the knight to greeting gay,44
And none to taunt from scurril churl unkind,
Oft asking, "if he did mistake the way?"—
Or hinting, "war was what he left behind;"
As noon came on, such sights and comments cease,
Lone through the pastures rides the knight in peace.
Grave as a funeral mourner rode Gawaine—45
The bird went first in most indecent glee,
Now lost to sight, now gamb'ling back again—
Now munch'd a beetle, and now chaced a bee—
Now pluck'd the wool from meditative lamb,
Now pick'd a quarrel with a lusty ram.
Sharp through his visor, Gawaine watch'd the thing,46
With dire misgivings at that impish mirth:
Day wax'd—day waned—and still the dusky wing
Seem'd not to find one resting-place on earth.
"Saints," groan'd Gawaine, "have mercy on a sinner,
And move that devil—just to stop for dinner!"
The bird turn'd round, as if it understood.47
Halted the wing, and seem'd awhile to muse;
Then dives at once into a dismal wood,
And grumbling much, the hungry knight pursues,
To hear (and hearing, hope once more revives),
Sweet-clinking horns, and gently-clashing knives.
An opening glade a pleasant group displays;48
Ladies and knights amidst the woodland feast;
Around them, reinless, steed and palfrey graze;
To earth leaps Gawaine—"I shall dine at least."
His casque he doffs—"Good knights and ladies fair,
Vouchsafe a famish'd man your feast to share."
Loud laugh'd a big, broad-shoulder'd, burly host;49
"On two conditions, eat thy fill," quoth he;
"Before one dines, 'tis well to know the cost—
Thou'lt wed my daughter, and thou'lt fight with me."
"Sir Host," said Gawaine, as he stretch'd his platter,
"I'll first the pie discuss, and then—the matter."
The ladies look'd upon the comely knight50
His arch bright eye provoked the smile it found;
The men admired that vasty appetite,
Meet to do honour to the Table Round;
The host, reseated, sent the guest his horn,
Brimm'd with pure drinks distill'd from barley corn.
Drinks rare in Cymri, true to milder mead,51
But long familiar to Milesian lays,
So huge that draught, it had dispatch'd with speed
Ten Irish chiefs in these degenerate days:
Sir Gawaine drain'd it, and Sir Gawaine laugh'd,
"Cool is your drink, though scanty is the draught;