The soul-light from life's cups, thine eyes! thou art—
What art thou, speak!"
He answered slow and short
With tortured breathing: "I?—one, Accolon
Of Gaul, a knight of Arthur's court—at dawn—
God wot what now I am for love so slain!"
Then seemed the victor spasmed with keen pain,
Covered with mailéd hands his visored face;
"Thou Accolon? art Accolon?" a space
Exclaimed and conned him: then asked softly, "Say,