"The chance was hard and strange, sir king,"
Quoth Ryons, bowed in thanksgiving.
"Who won you?" Arthur said: "the thing Is worth a warrior's ear."
The wild king flushed with pride and shame, Answering: "I know not either name Of those that there against us came And withered all our strength like flame:
The knight that bears two swords is one, And one his brother: not on earth May men meet men of knightlier worth Nor mightier born of mortal birth That hail the sovereign sun."
And Arthur said: "I know them not But much am I for this, God wet, Beholden to them: Launcelot Nor Tristram, when the war waxed hot Along the marches east and west, Wrought ever nobler work than this."
"Ah," Merlin said, "sore pity it is And strange mischance of doom, I wis, That death should mar their quest.
"Balen, the perfect knight that won The sword whose name is malison, And made his deed his doom, is one:
Nor hath his brother Balan done Less royal service: not on earth Lives there a nobler knight, more strong Of soul to win men's praise in song, Albeit the light abide not long That lightened round his birth.
"Yea, and of all sad things I know The heaviest and the highest in woe Is this, the doom whose date brings low Too soon in timeless overthrow A head so high, a hope so sure.
The greatest moan for any knight That ever won fair fame in fight Shall be for Balen, seeing his might Must now not long endure."
"Alas," King Arthur said, "he hath shown Such love to me-ward that the moan Made of him should be mine alone Above all other, knowing it known I have ill deserved it of him." "Nay,"
Said Merlin, "he shall do for you Much more, when time shall be anew, Than time hath given him chance to do Or hope may think to say.
"But now must be your powers purveyed To meet, ere noon of morn be made To-morrow, all the host arrayed Of this wild foe's wild brother, laid Around against you: see to it well, For now I part from you." And soon, When sundawn slew the withering moon, Two hosts were met to win the boon Whose tale is death's to tell.
A lordly tale of knights and lords For death to tell by count of swords When war's wild harp in all its chords Rang royal triumph, and the hordes Of hurtling foemen rocked and reeled As waves wind-thwarted on the sea, Was told of all that there might be, Till scarce might battle hear or see The fortune of the field.
And many a knight won fame that day When even the serpent soul of Kay Was kindled toward the fiery play As might a lion's be for prey, And won him fame that might not die With passing of his rancorous breath But clung about his life and death As fire that speaks in cloud, and saith What strong men hear and fly.
And glorious works were Arthur's there, That lit the battle-darkened air:
But when they saw before them fare Like stars of storm the knight that bare Two swords about him girt for fray, Balen, and Balan with him, then Strong wonder smote the souls of men If heaven's own host or hell's deep den Had sent them forth to slay.
So keen they rode across the fight, So sharp they smote to left and right, And made of hurtling darkness light With lightning of their swords, till flight And fear before them flew like flame, That Arthur's self had never known, He said, since first his blast was blown, Such lords of war as these alone That whence he knew not came.
But while the fire of war waxed hot The wild king hearkened, hearing not, Through storm of spears and arrow-shot, For succour toward him from King Lot And all his host of sea-born men, Strong as the strong storm-baffling bird Whose cry round Orkney's headlands heard Is as the sea's own sovereign word That mocks our mortal ken.
For Merlin's craft of prophecy, Who wist that one of twain must die, Put might in him to say thereby Which head should lose its crown, and lie Stricken, though loth he were to know That either life should wane and fail;Yet most might Arthur's love avail, And still with subtly tempered tale His wile held fast the foe.
