“In this poor gown my dear lord found me first,
  And loved me serving in my father’s hall: 
  In this poor gown I rode with him to court,
  And there the Queen array’d me like the sun: 
  In this poor gown he bade me clothe myself,
  When now we rode upon this fatal quest
  Of honor, where no honor can be gain’d: 
  And this poor gown I will not cast aside
  Until himself arise a living man,
  And bid me cast it.  I have griefs enough: 
  Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be: 
  I never loved, can never love but him: 
  Yea, God, I pray you of your gentleness,
  He being as he is, to let me be.”

    Then strode the brute Earl up and down his hall,
  And took his russet beard between his teeth;
  Last, coming up quite close, and in his mood
  Crying, “I count it of no more avail,
  Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you;
  Take my salute,” unknightly with flat hand,
  However, lightly, smote her on the cheek.

    Then Enid, in her utter helplessness,
  And since she thought, “He had not dared to do it,
  Except he surely knew my lord was dead,”
  Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry,
  As of a wild thing taken in the trap,
  Which sees the trapper coming thro’ the wood.

    This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword,
  (It lay beside him in the hollow shield),
  Made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it
  Shore thro’ the swarthy neck, and like a ball
  The russet-bearded head roll’d on the floor. 
  So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead. 
  And all the men and women in the hall
  Rose when they saw the dead man rise, and fled
  Yelling as from a spectre, and the two
  Were left alone together, and he said: 
  “Enid, I have used you worse than that dead man;
  Done you more wrong:  we both have undergone
  That trouble which has left me thrice your own: 
  Henceforward I will rather die than doubt. 
  And here I lay this penance on myself,
  Not, tho’ mine own ears heard you yestermorn—­
  You thought me sleeping, but I heard you say,
  I heard you say, that you were no true wife: 
  I swear I will not ask your meaning in it: 
  I do believe yourself against yourself,
  And will henceforward rather die than doubt.”

    And Enid could not say one tender word,
  She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart: 
  She only pray’d him, “Fly, they will return
  And slay you; fly, your charger is without,
  My palfrey lost.”  “Then, Enid, shall you ride
  Behind me.”  “Yea,” said Enid, “let us go.” 
  And moving out they found the stately horse,
  Who now no more a vassal to the thief,
  But free to stretch his limbs in lawful fight,
  Neigh’d with all gladness as they came, and stoop’d
  With a low whinny toward the pair:  and she
  Kiss’d the white star upon his noble