The youth bears the "costrel" full of "good purchased mead" (the ruined Earl not brewing for himself), and Enid carries the manchet bread in her veil, "old, and beginning to be worn out." All Tennyson's own is the beautiful passage -"And while he waited in the castle court, The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang Clear thro' the open casement of the hall, Singing; and as the sweet voice of a bird, Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, Moves him to think what kind of bird it is That sings so delicately clear, and make Conjecture of the plumage and the form;So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint;And made him like a man abroad at morn When first the liquid note beloved of men Comes flying over many a windy wave To Britain, and in April suddenly Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with green and red, And he suspends his converse with a friend, Or it may be the labour of his hands, To think or say, 'There is the nightingale';So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said, 'Here, by God's grace, is the one voice for me.'"Yniol frankly admits in the tale that he was in the wrong in the quarrel with his nephew. The poet, however, gives him the right, as is natural. The combat is exactly followed in the Idyll, as is Geraint's insistence in carrying his bride to Court in her faded silks. Geraint, however, leaves Court with Enid, not because of the scandal about Lancelot, but to do his duty in his own country. He becomes indolent and uxorious, and Enid deplores his weakness, and awakes his suspicions, thus:-And one morning in the summer time they were upon their couch, and Geraint lay upon the edge of it. And Enid was without sleep in the apartment which had windows of glass. And the sun shone upon the couch. And the clothes had slipped from off his arms and his breast, and he was asleep. Then she gazed upon the marvellous beauty of his appearance, and she said, "Alas, and am I the cause that these arms and this breast have lost their glory and the warlike fame which they once so richly enjoyed!" And as she said this, the tears dropped from her eyes, and they fell upon his breast. And the tears she shed, and the words she had spoken, awoke him; and another thing contributed to awaken him, and that was the idea that it was not in thinking of him that she spoke thus, but that it was because she loved some other man more than him, and that she wished for other society, and thereupon Geraint was troubled in his mind, and he called his squire; and when he came to him, "Go quickly," said he, "and prepare my horse and my arms, and make them ready. And do thou arise," said he to Enid, "and apparel thyself; and cause thy horse to be accoutred, and clothe thee in the worst riding-dress that thou hast in thy possession. And evil betide me," said he, "if thou returnest here until thou knowest whether I have lost my strength so completely as thou didst say. And if it be so, it will then be easy for thee to seek the society thou didst wish for of him of whom thou wast thinking." So she arose, and clothed herself in her meanest garments. "I know nothing, Lord," said she, "of thy meaning.""Neither wilt thou know at this time," said he.
"At last, it chanced that on a summer morn (They sleeping each by either) the new sun Beat thro' the blindless casement of the room, And heated the strong warrior in his dreams;Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside, And bared the knotted column of his throat, The massive square of his heroic breast, And arms on which the standing muscle sloped, As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone, Running too vehemently to break upon it.
And Enid woke and sat beside the couch, Admiring him, and thought within herself, Was ever man so grandly made as he?
Then, like a shadow, past the people's talk And accusation of uxoriousness Across her mind, and bowing over him, Low to her own heart piteously she said:
'O noble breast and all-puissant arms, Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men Reproach you, saying all your force is gone?
I AM the cause, because I dare not speak And tell him what I think and what they say.
And yet I hate that he should linger here;I cannot love my lord and not his name.
Far liefer had I gird his harness on him, And ride with him to battle and stand by, And watch his mightful hand striking great blows At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world.
Far better were I laid in the dark earth, Not hearing any more his noble voice, Not to be folded more in these dear arms, And darken'd from the high light in his eyes, Than that my lord thro' me should suffer shame.
Am I so bold, and could I so stand by, And see my dear lord wounded in the strife, Or maybe pierced to death before mine eyes, And yet not dare to tell him what I think, And how men slur him, saying all his force Is melted into mere effeminacy?
O me, I fear that I am no true wife.'
Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke, And the strong passion in her made her weep True tears upon his broad and naked breast, And these awoke him, and by great mischance He heard but fragments of her later words, And that she fear'd she was not a true wife.
And then he thought, 'In spite of all my care, For all my pains, poor man, for all my pains, She is not faithful to me, and I see her Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur's hall.'
Then tho' he loved and reverenced her too much To dream she could be guilty of foul act, Right thro' his manful breast darted the pang That makes a man, in the sweet face of her Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable.
At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out of bed, And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried, 'My charger and her palfrey'; then to her, 'I will ride forth into the wilderness;For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to win, I have not fall'n so low as some would wish.
And thou, put on thy worst and meanest dress And ride with me.' And Enid ask'd, amazed, 'If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault.'
But he, 'I charge thee, ask not, but obey.'
